Redeeming a Rake (14 page)

As he waited for his carriage he had a
strange feeling he should call on his friend. Taking out his pocket
watch he sighed in disappointment. It was gone twelve o’clock. If
he appeared on her doorstep after midnight, she’d think him a randy
rake-hell wanting to climb into her bed. The sensible thing was to
call in the morning with a special license in his pocket, but the
compulsion griped him like a fist. He pulled on his hat and took
his sword stick from the footman. He’d call on his friend and tell
her he loved. He wouldn’t enter the house. He’d speak to her at the
door. She wouldn’t be able to think ill of him if he refused to
enter. He’d decided to risk her censure, but as his carriage
lumbered to a stop he changed his mind. He couldn’t gamble her
friendship on an irrational feeling. He climbed into his carriage
tormented by thoughts of losing his angel. He’d call on his friend
first thing in the morning and tell her she was his treasure. She’d
be more obliging if he showed up at her breakfast table. His heart
would be safe. If only he’d had one more minute he’d have told her
he wanted his name at the top of her list.

As the horses came to a stop outside his
door, the carriage lamps cut two triangles of light out of the
darkness. As Geoffrey stepped down he had the odd sensation he was
being watched. He ignored it and wrapped on the door with his sword
stick and against his better judgement waived the carriage off to
the mews with the footman hanging off the back. Howard was probably
asleep in a chair on the other side of the door. As the light
turned the corner darkness wrapped around his throat like a rope.
Hearing footsteps nearby he instinctively turned his back to the
door. He was drawing his swordstick when something long, hard and
heavy smashed against his chest knocking the wind from his lungs.
Another blow and his weapon fell from his throbbing hand. Filling
his lungs he called for help. He tried to keep his back to the
door, but the unseen club smashed hard into his lower legs knocking
him onto his face. A sudden light made him blink in pain as a lamp
was uncovered outlining several pairs of legs. “Pick up the devil
and pummel his face.” It was a familiar woman’s voice. “Hold him
up.”

Dragged up by his coat collar Geoffrey could
see the outline of a woman’s skirt. Fear squeezed Geoffrey’s heart
to bursting. If he died he’d never get to tell his angel that he
loved her. “Don’t kill me…” He was silenced by a large fist
smashing his face. “Sunshine!” He tried to fight free, but he was
quickly dragged to the ground and rolled onto his back where he was
held down by a boot on his groin. He moaned in impotent rage as the
smell of jasmine filled his nostrils; the woman was leaning over
him laughing in glee. One of his victims was going to eat his
heart.

“Remember me Lyndhurst? No? I’ll give you a
clue; you ruined me…treated me like a whore and for what? A whim? A
laugh? Desperation? Couldn’t you find a real whore drunk enough to
endure your disgusting touch? I’m pleased to say after all these
years I’ve finally found the perfect revenge. I’m going to tell
that Spencer woman what you did to me. I’m going to make sure the
woman you love never speaks to you again. Don’t worry, I’m not
going to kill you; I want you to suffer.”

“Someone’s opening the door.”

“Hold your breath!”

“Lady Penelope…”

“Remember this as you beg for Grace from the
woman you love.” Geoffrey could hear rustling silk skirts as she
stood up and then there was a sharp pain in his head. And then
running footsteps faded into blackness.

Tolerance was wide-awake walking in circles
around her drawing room hoping for a reply from her note. She’d
sent two servants with a message to Geoffrey inviting him to call
on her in the morning. Would he think her impertinent? Would he
think her forward? Would he bother to send an immediate reply? How
would she be able to sleep not knowing if he’d come? What was
taking her servants so long? The hands of the clock froze as
someone tapped on the door. “Come!” She whirled around as they
stepped inside and felt her stomach drop; their faces were ashen,
their grey livery smeared with awful rust coloured stains.

“Oh Madam…”

“What’s happend?”

“His Grace…”

“Tell me!”

“His Grace was attacked on his door step. We
arrived in time to help carry him to his bed. He’s in a bad way
Madam. We fetched the doctor for the old butler and waited for
news. The doctor says it’s hopeless.”

Tolerance stood staring at her servants in
numb disbelief. Her friend was dying? There was no time to consider
consequences. She clenched her icy hands and ran out into the hall
screaming out her orders; “Bring my carriage and my cloak. Load my
pistols. Fetch my nursing basket and tell Mrs Potter…tell her I may
need her help. Hurry!”

***

The ancient narrow house was outlined
against the darkness as light burst from windows on both the ground
floor and the first floor. Tolerance didn’t knock, she opened the
door and stepped inside her aching heart pierced by the sound of
servant’s wailing. A housemaid with tear filled eyes stared at her
as if cloaked women wandered in at will every night. “Take me to
him!” The maid took one incredulous look at Tolerance and burst
into sobs. “Is he alive?” The maid sobbed harder. Tolerance stepped
past the maid and motioned for her footman to follow. “Geoffrey?”
Her panicked voice rang through the house bringing wet curious eyes
into the cheerful apple green entry hall. Seeing reddish brown
stains on the well worn stairs, she picked up her skirts and
followed the blood up to the landing, down the short hall and
through an open door past an old man in livery. She stopped and
inhaled in horror. The doctor was bending over a crumpled body on
the bed. “Is he alive?”

The doctor turned tired eyes in her
direction. “I doubt he’ll last the night.”

“His injuries?” Her voice died to a whisper
as her heart cracked.

“His hands and ribs may be broken. I can’t
tell. He’ll be black and blue by morning, but his head…it looks
like someone kicked him. He may live, he may die. Who’s to
say?”

“There must be something you can do! Have
you stopped the bleeding? Have you made him comfortable?”

“Shall I leave you some drops? You sound
hysterical.”

Tolerance dropped her basket and pushed past
the doctor and gently picked up Geoffrey’s limp swollen hand.
Kissing it lightly she carefully returned it to the bed. It was
warm. Feeling his neck she found a faint throbbing. He was alive.
“Tell the maid to bring me a pile of clean towels and a bowl of
cold water and then go home and fetch Mrs Potter. Tell her what’s
happened and have her bring anything she thinks we might need…Go!”
The Doctor shrugged his shoulders. It wasn’t his problem if a plain
woman wanted to lose a good night’s sleep for the corpse of a
notorious rake-hell. “You!”, she motioned at the old butler, “bring
me more light and hurry up the maid.” She could see the relief in
his face that someone had taken charge of the dying man. He hurried
away glad to be doing anything other than contemplating an
unemployed future. Tolerance flung off her cape and bent over
Geoffrey to see his face. There were large purple bruises on his
cheeks, his lips were swollen, one of his eyebrows was cut and
bleeding, but it was the blood from his head wound soaking his
pillow that made her eyes water. “Geoffrey, it’s me Tolerance. I’m
going to take care of you. I’m going to stay until you’re better.
Oh please God, let him live. I couldn’t bear to lose him.” Her last
few words were muttered under her breath as the maid stopped at her
elbow.

“The water and…I can’t bear to look at
him.”

“Enough! Fetch me a sharp pair of scissors
and a bowl of warm water, soap and sponge then inform the wailing
women downstairs that there is blood to scrub the off the floor
before it stains the wood.” The room was soon a blaze with candles
and a large fire in the grate illuminating Geoffrey’s injuries.
After the blood from his head wound was staunched she had the old
Butler pull off Geoffrey’s boots as she held his legs and then
cleared the room and closed the door. There was nothing to do but
cut away his clothes, wash him and tuck him under the covers.
Seeing her beloved friend lying helpless in his blood spattered
shirtsleeves and cotton smalls brought tears to her eyes. It wasn’t
supposed to be like this. She wanted to see him in his shirtsleeves
as her husband, sitting on the edge of the bed holding out his arms
with that ‘come hither look’ in his eyes. Forcibly wiping her eyes
she gently picked up his head and replaced the bloody pillow with a
clean one before slowly cutting away the rest of his clothes
revealing large ugly bruises all over his slender muscular body.
The room was strangely quiet, even the large fire seemed still. She
couldn’t hear him breathe as she bent over him, but she could see
his naked chest rise and fall as she ran her hand over his bruised
chest. She had just enough time to give him a gentle sponge bath,
kiss his swollen lips and cover him up before her housekeeper
appeared carrying multiple baskets filled with ointments and
herbs.

“He doesn’t look well Madam. You’d best pray
for a miracle.”

“Don’t talk, help him!” The old woman looked
over his wounds tutting under her breath. Threading a tiny sharp
needle she stitched up the man’s large cuts and inspected his
injuries. After half an hour Tolerance was left alone to rub arnica
ointment over his bruises. Pulling a chair up to the bed she sat
there lightly holding his swollen hand until she nodded off and
found herself outside the familiar wooden gate under blue skies.
“Geoffrey?” She ran into the garden, but she couldn’t see a hint of
white linen. “Where are you?”

“I’m here Sunshine; behind the tree. I saw
my reflection in the pond. Don’t scream!” She saw him peek at her
from behind a large oak tree and then slowly reveal his battered
features.

She ran into his arms relieved to feel his
arms hold her tight. “I know what you look like, I’m at your
bedside. I’m going to nurse you until you’re well…”

“What do you mean you’re at my bedside?” He
sounded horrified.

“Someone attacked you. I’m not going to
leave you to be nursed by maids who can’t even clean your house
properly. I have to know you’re being cared for. I can’t let you
die.”

“Look at me!” She pulled her wet face from
his shirt and looked up at his adoring pale blue eyes. “There are
things I need to tell you and I don’t have much time. You’re so
lovely; a living ray of sunlight. I was wanted to tell you tonight
that I loved you.”

“Don’t talk in past tense. You’re not dead.
You’re not going to die! I can’t live with my heart in a
crypt.”

“Sunshine, please don’t cry.” His arms
tightened around her as she sobbed into his shoulder. “There was
something important I needed to tell, but I can’t remember. What
was it?” She wrapped her arms tighter around his waist as if she
could win a tug-o-war with death. “Lady Pelham’s revenge…she…Oh I
can’t remember. No, I can’t leave you…” Geoffrey faded from her
arms, leaving her alone in the garden.

***

Tolerance woke with wet eyes to find
Geoffrey clutching her hand as if he was dangling over the side of
a cliff and she was the only thing keeping him from falling to his
death. She sat up with dread and looked at his face. There didn’t
seem to be any change. Her eyes swept down over his chest. It was
rapidly moving up and down. “Geoffrey?” She watched stunned as one
of his eyes flickered half open and then shut again. “I’m here!”
Could he hear her? What did it mean? She gently kissed his bruised
hand and continued her silent prayers.

The next morning her heart almost stopped as
both of his eyes flickered opened as she washed his face. He stared
past her at the ceiling and didn’t reply to her whispered
questions. His only response was to moan every time she touched
him. It was another day and a half before she managed to get his
mouth open so she could press a water logged cloth over his tongue.
His eyes rolled back into head at the wet intrusion and moaned in
pain as she lifted his head and forced more water down his
throat.

The next week felt like a year as Tolerance
sat and watched her beloved friend sleep or silently stare at the
ceiling. Mrs Potter finally convinced her to leave his bedside and
sleep a few hours, but nightmares soon chased her back. Not knowing
what would happen made it impossible to relax.

A few days later while her friend stared
unseeing at the ceiling, Tolerance examined his bedchamber. The
floor needed scrubbing. Surfaces needed dusting, but it was tidy
and the familiar musty smell of her friend hung in the air. She
glanced at her patient; there was no change. Brazenly she opened
the large silver casket on his dressing table. Tucked into the
corner of pale blue velvet was a rolled up well worn pink ribbon.
Blinking away tears, she softly closed the lid and returned to the
bedside. Feeling the need to do something, she picked up the wet
cloth and reached to wipe his lips. She jumped back in shock as
Geoffrey’s sightless gaze shifted to her face. Standing up, her
heart hammered her ribs as she smiled into unemotional eyes.
“Geoffrey? Can you hear me?” She lightly caressed his bruised,
black bristled cheek with the back of her fingers. There was still
no response. “I’ll be right back, don’t move!” If he was sensible
he might eat something. She rushed out of the room and down to the
kitchen too excited to wait for the maid. On returning, he looked
asleep, but opened his eyes as she sat on the edge of his bed. He
opened his mouth at her request after a few minutes and ate the
porridge without a murmur, his eyes never leaving her face.

For two weeks, Tolerance was the sole object
of Geoffrey’s silent gaze. When he wasn’t sleeping he would stare
at her with that detached expression as if there wasn’t anyone
behind the blinking eyes. He was eating every day and drinking
watered down port from a sick cup. It was progress and she could
finally relax. Needing to see her son, Tolerance left a maid at his
bedside one morning and returned home where some of her servants
eyed her with contempt. A virtuous woman didn’t spend weeks at a
rake’s bedside, even if he was half dead. Ignoring them, Tolerance
had a hot bath and spent a few hours with her agitated child before
curling up on her bed to have another nightmare of burying her
friend.