Kaleidoscope: A Regency Novella (2 page)

Sanjeet’s teeth flashed brightly in his dark face. “And then the money will flow.”

Caro smiled back at her manager. “Yes, and then all our bills can be paid.” That would be a relief. The East Indiaman
Laughing Miss
had been due last month, and the ship’s eventual arrival had lifted a burden from Caro’s shoulders. Building and equipping a new East Indiaman put financial stress on even the consistently lucrative Rydell Shipping. At this time, the loss of
Laughing Miss
, fully loaded with expensive cargo, would have been disastrous.

Caro swept into the office to gather the rest of her retinue. Her maid Amala dozed in a chair, while the footmen, flushing with embarrassment, leaped up from a table on which sat dice and coins. The footmen provided protection; only a fool would come to the East London docks without muscle at her back.

“We’re for home,” she said, setting everything in motion. “Peter, inform John Coachman that we’re on our way.” Her elderly coachman would also be embarrassed if he were discovered napping inside the carriage, which was undoubtedly the case.

When she left the building, the breeze coming off the river felt almost cold, as if London was loath to throw off winter. In Calcutta, April would be hot and dusty. The heat was one aspect of her former home that Caro didn’t miss. She inhaled the cool air, not minding the smells of rot, tar, and damp, since they accompanied the beauty of the hazy moon’s reflection on the water.

She stopped abruptly when she saw what appeared to be a body nudging against the water stairs. The white of a man’s shirt flickered in the moonlight. She pointed. “Sanjeet. There. Someone’s in the water.”

Without further direction, the small man, trailed by two bulky footmen, hurried to the water stairs and gingerly made his way down the slippery steps.

“Missy Caro, a body in the river should stay there,” Amala said, her eyes huge.

“This is not the Ganges,” Caro replied. “This is not a burial, but more likely murder or misadventure.” She watched as her men dragged the body from the water onto the stair landing.

Sanjeet, kneeling next to the drowned man, called up to her, “He’s still alive.”

“Bring him,” Caro called back.

“Forever you bring home injured pye-dogs,” Amala grumbled. “Have you not learned that they will bite?”

“This is a man and not a feral dog,” Caro said. “I think my hands will be safe.

 
  

Lord Lucien Harlington realized he was in hell. His arrival had long been predicted. Flames licked his body while demons, conversing in unknown tongues, poked and prodded at him, bringing breath-stealing pain.

Curious as always, he tried to open his eyes to see the horror that his choices in life had wrought. His body would not follow his commands, however. Perhaps part of hell’s torments was that his questing mind would forever be without answers. He struggled against this constriction but was unsuccessful, until suddenly everything faded away again.

The next time Luke became conscious, he felt much cooler and was pleased to discover that his eyes now worked. He could see a canopy above him. A canopy? What was a ruffled canopy doing in hell? Was this a reminder that hell was his punishment for gazing up at too many different ladies’ bed canopies in the past?

Then a face appeared in his view—a beautiful face with sharp cheekbones and dark, vaguely tilted eyes. “
Houri
,” he said, reaching for her. He must have been whisked to the Muslim’s heaven. How odd. He was familiar with the basic tenets from his study at university, but he definitely wasn’t a believer. He didn’t understand his good fortune, but the reward that any religion offered was better than the alternative. He wanted to ask the breathtaking woman how this had happened, but darkness again descended.

 
  

Caro watched the unknown man slide into unconsciousness, confident it wasn’t a precursor to death now that his fever had broken. The doctor had been right. Her inadvertent guest was now on the mend. His breathing was that of normal sleep.

“Pye-dog,” Amala said at her shoulder. “I knew he would show himself to be a misbegotten cur. After saving him, he calls you a whore.”

Caro smiled. Amala had been her defender since she was a child. “No, he said
houri
. I think he imagines that I’m something like an Islamic angel. Not a bad thing to be compared to.”

But she suspected if there were an angel in the room, it was more probably the man on the bed. Even his battered face—the nose still swollen and the bruises now fading to a bilious yellow—could not detract from his underlying male beauty. And it was beauty more than standard handsomeness, despite his seeming to have dropped a half a stone in weight during his illness.

The sleeping man could have been the model for a sculptor, his proportions were so balanced and pleasing. Corded muscle defined his chest and abdomen. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist. His legs were long and straight, his thighs powerful. And what lay between his thighs.…Caro had been married for eight years but hadn’t seen her husband’s naked body until his last illness. Neither her husband Charles nor the Indian boys swimming in the river had prepared her for what she’d observed.

After the blood had been washed out, the injured man’s hair was sandy blond, soft and silky. His eyebrows were a shade darker, as were the scattering of hairs across his chest and the surprisingly heavy beard that had formed in the past six days. His eyes, when open, were a deep blue. When closed, thick, tawny lashes lay on his bruised cheeks.

Since she’d insisted on doing the bulk of the nursing duties, Caro knew the man intimately. She knew nothing
about
him, however.

He carried no identification, but his shirt and trousers were of good quality. He had been beaten, stabbed, and doubtlessly robbed. No one had posted a notice for a missing person who resembled him. When notified, the constable had simply shrugged and said he was not his problem unless he died.

And so, her patient remained an enigma. Perhaps this was the reason Caro found the man so fascinating. She spent more hours than necessary watching him sleep. Her excuse was the beef tea she was prepared to pour in his mouth every time he showed a glimmer of consciousness. A rather weak excuse, she though with a smile.

“Missy Caro,” Amala broke her reverie, “Perkins says that Lord Kelton has called. He’s in the drawing room.”

Caro stifled a groan. Meetings with her late husband’s nephew always irritated her. She wondered what his present complaint would be.

 
  

Water trickled between his lips—delicious, sweet water. He sucked at the wondrous elixir and opened his eyes. A hand and face jerked back from him, spilling the liquid on his chest. He followed the movement and focused on a woman. Not the
houri
he remembered. This woman was darker, older.

“Where? What?” he croaked.

The older woman looked surprised. “I’ll get Missy Caro,” she said in a soft, lilting voice, and withdrew from the room.

Left alone, Luke took stock of his situation. He was obviously not dead. He lay in a large bedchamber. Although the room had feminine touches, it lacked the personal accoutrements that he associated with a lady’s bedchamber. A guest room, perhaps? Sunlight streamed through the windows, so he had been unconscious for the past half day.

He remembered walking toward the gambling hell where he was to meet Tremaine around one in the morning. He remembered being attacked. And then his memory became muddled.

A bandage tightly wrapped his torso, but the pain in his side was slight compared to the pounding in his head. He felt weak and lethargic, but since he was aware, he must be getting better.

The door opened, and the beautiful woman entered with the older one following closely behind. The younger woman smiled, making him feel that he was truly alive. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Like I might live.” His voice sounded rusty and worn. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

The woman sat in a chair next to the bed and took his hand in hers. It felt familiar and comfortable, a memory or a dream. “We found you in the water near the East India docks and brought you here, to my house. I’m Carolyn Rydell. And you are?”

“Luke Harlington,” he said, purposely leaving off his courtesy title. He’d never seen this exquisite woman before. He would surely have remembered if he had, and he was, therefore, confident that she didn’t travel in the upper level of society.

He’d heard the older woman call Carolyn Rydell “Missy Caro,” so she was evidently unmarried. For this reason, as well as her startling, slightly exotic looks, and the quality of the furnishings of the room in which he lay, Luke imagined that Carolyn Rydell was some lucky man’s expensive and much cherished mistress.

There was no reason to make such a woman uncomfortable knowing that she had rescued the Marquess of Greyling’s youngest son. He also didn’t want her running to his estranged father with his whereabouts.

As if she’d read his mind, she asked, “Is there anyone we should notify, Mr. Harlington? Someone who would be concerned about your disappearance?”

“There’s no one who will have missed me, but since I’m here, it can’t be said that I’ve disappeared.” He tried to deflect her concern with humor, although it was weak humor, at best. He attempted a winning smile, but his face felt stiff and unresponsive. He raised a hand to his cheek, only to discover he’d grown a short beard. My God, how long had he been here?

“When was I found?” he asked.

“It will be a week tomorrow.”

Heavens, so long! Tremaine would have assumed that Luke had changed his mind and wasn’t interested in looking for the stolen gems any longer. As much as the man traveled, Tremaine might have even left London.

A knock at the door brought Carolyn’s head around, but the older woman answered it. After a brief, indistinct discussion, she came up to Carolyn and said, “Lord Kelton is very disturbed by your absence and requests that you return to the drawing room.”

“Oh, bother,” Carolyn said, then squeezed his hand and said, “I have to go.”

Luke watched her graceful movements as she left the bedchamber. He knew the Earl of Kelton and had always thought the man a prig. He couldn’t imagine that Kelton had been able to become the protector for such an exceptional woman. The thought of the delectable Miss Rydell laboring under such a fop was disgusting.

Kelton had money, however, and that must be the attraction. Not for the first time, Luke wished he hadn’t alienated his father and still had a quarterly allowance.