Hope's Betrayal (16 page)

"I couldn’t
rest, even if we did stop. Being so damn sore makes me poor company, take no
notice. The sooner we get to The Grange the better."

George slumped
back against the seat, exhausted by this speech. His eyes closed on the pain
and so he missed seeing the concern on Charles' usually unruffled features.

"Too bloody
stubborn for your own good."

"That's
me." George replied, and passed out.

In a pain-induced
nightmare where he traveled forever and yet got nowhere, George lost track of
time. He lapsed in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he woke in daylight,
other times in darkness, but always the coach bumping and grinding onward on
the home journey. In his own way, Charles was a comfort, regaling George's more
lucid hours with gossip from the ton, tales of who was bedding whom and who had
gambled away an inheritance. For the most part George listened through a haze,
focusing on his brother's voice and trying not to faint.

From his hair
roots to his toenails, every inch of Huntley's body hurt. His colleagues feted
him a hero for shielding Adams, but given the location of his injuries, Huntley
didn’t feel heroic—more like humiliated. Worse still, as if the indignity
wasn’t enough, with every bump in the road, the searing pain in his shattered
buttock and thigh made it difficult to sit.

At long last
there was a subtle change in the air, a freshness sweeping in off the sea.
Overhead, gulls screeched as they wheeled higher and higher on the currents.
The light changed, becoming somehow brighter, almost blue-tinged and more
dazzling. Through the haze of discomfort, George roused himself to look out of
the window. He saw the sweep of a familiar hill, dotted with sheep. He gripped
the ledge, wondering if he might make it home after all, watching with
impatience as the hills subsided and became open fields.

"Not far to
go now." Charles exuded suave boredom. "Ready to face Mother?"

George grimaced.
"I'd rather tackle the damned smugglers."

Charles examined
his fingernails. "Well, there are compensations."

"Such
as?"

"The
delightful Miss Tyler. No wonder you kept quiet about her. She's a gem, and
placated Mother wonderfully when news of your condition broke."

George shifted
uncomfortably. The mention of Miss Tyler's name sent an unwanted excitement
fizzing through his guts. When first injured, in a laudanum induced haze,
dreams of her as an angelic vision had haunted him. As he resisted death's
pull, it was Hope he wanted by his bedside, to hold her hand and feel her
soothing touch on his forehead. In his darkest hour, he had believed one word
of comfort from her and he would die at peace.

But he hadn’t
died, and as the days passed, he had plenty of time to consider Miss Tyler's
roll in events. From the moment he'd chased her on the beach, fate had been set
in motion. If she didn’t smuggle, he wouldn’t have caught her. If she hadn’t
wormed her way into his affections, then he wouldn’t have been reposted—and he
wouldn’t have organised that particular patrol, he wouldn’t have shot and
killed a man—and been shot in return. There was little doubt in his mind that
Hope was the author of his downfall.

A glance through
the window revealed the tree-lined driveway on the approach to The Grange. The
carriage slowed and shuddered to a halt outside the porticoed main entrance.

 “No avoiding
her now, old boy, we've arrived.”

Disorientated,
George wondered if Charles referred to his mother or Hope.

“I’ll go first,
old chap. Prepare the ground with the matriarch.”

George threw his
brother a grateful glance. “Thanks.”

He stared at The
Grange. In truth, there were times recently when he hadn’t expected to see it
again—the ten months he'd been away felt like a lifetime. So much had changed,
and yet the ivy-clad exterior was a familiar sight, like an old friend.

 George sighed.
Reminiscence was all very well, but there was his mother. This return reminded
him of the time he'd been suspended from school, waiting outside his father's
study to be reprimanded. He shook his head. Anger he could stomach, it was pity
he dreaded.

"Let me
help you down." Charles held out a hand.

George growled.
"Over my dead body."

"Very well
then, be pig-headed and see how far you get."

Charles stood
back and rolled his eyes at his brother's mutterings. Despite his assertions,
it rapidly became apparent George couldn’t stand unaided. With a subtle flick
of the wrist Charles summoned two burly footmen to assist. Eventually, with an
arm draped over each of their shoulders, George got out of the carriage to drag
his near-useless leg up the portico steps. His thigh and buttock felt like the
devil was tattooing them with hot coals, and it was all he could do to bite his
tongue on a string of curses. In truth, despite putting on a brave face, George
longed for nothing more than to lie face down on a soft bed and drift into the
bliss of laudanum-induced sleep.

"Stop,
stop. Let me catch my breath."

They halted in
the hall while George waited for the threat of a faint to pass. Head low,
panting heavily, he composed himself to continue.

The patter of
light feet, the swish of skirts and a soft feminine gasp made him freeze.
Goosebumps prickled his skin as he sensed Hope's presence. Slowly, his eyes
skimmed over the marble floor to see a pair of periwinkle blue slippers peeking
out from beneath the hem of a matching gown. His eyes travelled higher, up the
dimity skirts, over the low-cut bodice to the pale throat, and onward to start
stare into the depths of Miss Tyler's opaline eyes. A lump formed in his
throat, as the carefully nurtured hatred of the past few days evaporated in a
heartbeat. How could he dislike her, when she was on the point of tears, her
upper lip trembling? He smiled wanly.

"So Miss
Tyler, as you see, I am more or less in one piece."

She stifled a
cry and dropped a curtsy.

"Lady
Ryevale is dressing. She didn’t know when to expect your arrival and as it
happens, was resting."

"Mother is
well?"

"Yes, thank
you."

There was so
much else he wanted to say to Miss Tyler, but leaning on two footman's
shoulders, now was not the place. Besides, he was beginning to feel
light-headed again, the hall walls swaying as if made from gelatine, something
they never used to do.

"How are
you, Captain?" The tip of her nose went red.

In that moment,
George glimpsed the anguish his injuries had caused to those who cared about
him. He swallowed hard. Hope cared. The thought almost knocked him off his
feet. To cover this startling revelation, he joked. 

 “Didn’t Charles
tell you? I’m indestructible. It takes more than lead shot to finish me off.”

"Well, he
did say something of the sort."

"You look
well. Filled out."

Hope coloured.
Indeed, in the months since he'd last seen her, Miss Tyler had blossomed into a
young woman and the transformation stole his breath away. The elegant creature
before him was still recognisable as the scrawny chit who had passed for a lad,
but the bony angles and gaunt features were replaced by a new, lush ripeness
with curves in all the right places. Huntley couldn’t help but notice her
bosom, which now filled the fashionable low-cut bodice in a most enchanting
manner. And the face which had once been pretty was now beautiful; the snub
nose and pointed chin made delectable by apple-plump cheeks which dimpled when
she smiled. And what in the name of merciful heaven had she done to her hair?
The luxurious abundance of thick chestnut hair magically piled about her head,
framing those lucid green eyes.

Huntley decided
these strange emotions which made his breath lock, were down to pain. Indeed,
not only were the walls, but the floor was swaying. For the first and last time
in his life, George used his injuries as an excuse and barked at the footmen.

"Well,
don’t just stand there, let's keep going. I need to lie down. And someone
summon Jenkins..."

Leaning heavily
on the footmen, to preserve his sanity he decided to distance himself from the
distracting Miss Foster.

"Can I
help?" She met his gaze.

His voice
deepened to a growl. “I don’t need your help—go and find a sick person to
pity.”

“Tis not pity.”
She stood her ground.

“What then?”

 Color shot to
her cheeks as she hesitated, plaiting her fingers and narrowing her eyes.

“Nothing. You
wouldn’t understand.”

With her pointed
chin held regally high she flounced away, leaving the Captain with the strange
sensation it wasn't only his leg which needed healing, but his heart.

*****

Several days
later Hope was reading in the parlor, when the sound of carriage wheels on
gravel made her look up.

"Hope,
dear, do go and see." Lady Ryevale said. "Is that the physician from London?"

Hope laid aside
the book and peered through the window.

The Huntley's
barouche pulled up. An arrogant looking man peered out of the carriage window
to squint up at the house, appraising the façade as if calculating its worth.
Evidently he seemed satisfied, as he nodded officiously to the footman to open
the door. Hope shrank behind the curtain. Even at this distance this man
unsettled her.

Lady Ryevale
spoke. "Doctor Lansbury's reputation is second to none, I do hope he can
help George. Tell me, what does he look like?"

"He's tall
and distinguished, with grey hair poking out beneath his hat." Hope pulled
a face as the doctor cuffed the footman with his stick. "He has a certain
air of… authority about him."

"That's
good." Lady Ryevale brightened, "George needs a firm hand. He's
inclined not to listen, you know."

"I had
noticed."

Jenkins showed
in a tall, well-fed man, his belly wrapped in a waistcoat embroidered with gold
thread.

"Doctor
Lansbury, Your Ladyship."

"Thank you,
Jenkins. If you would be so good as to have tea sent up."

Doctor Lansbury
focused his unctuous attention on Her Ladyship and ignored Hope.

"Lady
Ryevale, how delightful. An honor to receive your request."

"I'm so
grateful you accepted. You can’t imagine how much this means to me."

 "My
pleasure. Is the patient to join us?"

"Oh, no. I
thought I made it plain in my letter. My son is bedridden."

"Poor soul.
A Navy man, isn’t he?" The doctor reached across and helped himself to a
bon-bon from a silver dish. "May I?"

"Yes of
course." Lady Ryevale watched mesmerised as he slipped another bon-bon
into his mouth. "Captain Huntley is a man of action. For him, riding and
sailing are everything—and if he is unable to walk, I fear for his
wellbeing."

"I see.
What of his treatment to date?"

Lady Ryevale
spoke in a small voice. "The surgeon wanted to amputate, but my son
refused."  Hope crossed the room to her mistress, and placed a comforting
hand on her shoulder.

"Hmm, I
see. So this young man needs either to walk again, or come to terms with his
new situation."

"Well, with
your reputation as a medical man, I was hoping for the best."

Doctor Lansbury
smiled indulgently. "Believe me Your Ladyship, if the limb can be salvaged
I am your man. But likewise, I shall not shrink from giving an honest appraisal
of the patient's condition." His eyes wandered back to the silver bowl.
"I must say, these bon-bons are absolutely delicious. You must let me have
the name of your supplier."

"My
pleasure." Lady Ryevale said, weakly. "Perhaps you would like to meet
George?"

"In due
course."

Hope frowned. It
was not her place but she'd had enough of the doctor's offhand manner. She
fixed the doctor with as steely stare. "There's no time like the
present."

Lansbury glared
at her. "Of course. But perhaps a little refreshment first?"

A considerable
quantity of tea and biscuits later and at last Dr. Lansbury  was ready. Lady
Ryevale escorted him personally to George's chamber and then returned to the
parlor. The two women exchanged glances. Hope picked up her book but the words
were a meaningless jumble and she closed it again. Her Ladyship sat on the edge
of her seat, staring into the distance, lost in thought.

The mantle clock
struck the quarter-hour as Hope glanced at it for the umpteenth time. She looked
up sharply just as Dr. Lansbury spilled through the door, his expression grim.
Lady Ryevale rose to greet him.

"Well?"

Dr. Lansbury
narrowed his piggy eyes. "Madam, your son is an impossible patient."

"In what
way, sir?" Her voice trembled.