Yours Until Dawn (2 page)

The butler and housekeeper exchanged a guilty glance.

The earl wheeled back around. “I suppose they neglected to mention your predecessors. Let’s see, first there was old Cora Gringott. She was nearly as deaf as I was blind. We made a fine pair, we did. I spent most of the time groping for her ear trumpet so I could bellow into it. If memory serves me, I believe she lasted less than a fortnight.”

He began to pace back and forth in front of Samantha—his long strides carrying him precisely four steps forward, four steps back. It was only too easy to imagine him pacing the deck of a ship with such effortless command, his golden hair blowing in the wind, his penetrating gaze fixed on the distant horizon. “Then came that chit from Lancashire. She was a rather timid creature from the start. Barely spoke above a whisper. She didn’t even bother to collect her wages or pack her belongings when she left. Just fled screaming into the night as if some madman had taken after her.”

“Imagine that,” Samantha murmured.

He paused briefly, then continued pacing. “And only last week we lost the dear widow Hawkins. She seemed to possess a sturdier constitution and quicker wit than the others. Before she went huffing out of here, she recommended that Beckwith hire not a nurse, but a zookeeper, since his master obviously belonged in a cage.”

Samantha was almost glad he couldn’t see her lips twitch.

“So you see, Miss Wickersham, I am beyond any assistance, especially yours. So you might as well trot yourself back to the schoolroom or the nursery or wherever it was you came from. There’s no need to waste any more of your precious time. Or mine.”

“Really, my lord!” Beckwith protested. “It’s hardly necessary to be rude to the young lady.”

“Young lady? Ha!” The earl threw out a hand, nearly decapitating a potted ficus tree that looked as if it hadn’t been watered in over a decade. “I can tell from her voice that she’s a tart, vinegary creature without an ounce of womanly softness about her. If you were going to hire me another woman, you could have probably found one down on Fleet Street who would have suited me far better. I don’t need a nurse! What I need is a good—”

“My lord!” Mrs. Philpot shouted.

Her master might be blind, but he wasn’t deaf. The woman’s scandalized plea silenced him more effectively than a blow. With the ghost of a charm that must have once come second nature to him, he pivoted on one heel and bowed to the wing chair just to the left of where Samantha was standing. “I pray you’ll forgive me my
childish outburst,
miss. I bid you a good day. And a good life.”

Reorienting himself in the general direction of the parlor doors, he charged forward, refusing to break stride or feel his way along. He might have achieved his destination if his knee hadn’t slammed into the corner of a low-slung mahogany table with enough force to make Samantha wince in sympathy. Grunting out an oath, he gave the table a savage kick, sending it smashing against the far wall. It took him three tries to find the ivory doorknobs, but he finally managed to slam the doors behind him with an impressive bang.

As he retreated deeper into the house, the sporadic crashing and swearing eventually faded into silence.

Mrs. Philpot gently closed the French window, then returned to the cart and poured herself a cup of tea. She perched on the edge of the sofa as if she were a guest herself, her cup rattling violently against the saucer.

Mr. Beckwith sank down heavily beside her. Drawing a starched handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, he mopped at his damp brow before shooting Samantha a contrite look. “I’m afraid we owe you an apology, Miss Wickersham. We weren’t entirely forthcoming.”

Samantha settled herself into the wing chair and folded her gloved hands in her lap, surprised to discover that she, too, was trembling. Thankful for the refuge the shadows provided, she said, “Well, the earl is not quite the gentle invalid you described in your advertisement.”

“He hasn’t been himself since he returned from that wretched battle. If you only could have known the dear lad before…” Mrs. Philpot swallowed, her gray eyes glistening with tears.

Beckwith handed her his handkerchief. “Lavinia is right. He was a gentleman cut from the finest cloth, a true prince among men. Sometimes I fear the blow that blinded him may have addled his mind as well.”

“Or at least his manners,” Samantha noted dryly. “His wit doesn’t seem to have suffered unduly.”

The housekeeper dabbed at her narrow nose. “He was always such a bright boy. Ever so quick with a quip or a sum. I rarely saw him without a book tucked under his arm. When he was small, I used to have to take his candle away at bedtime for fear he would sneak a book into his bed and set his blankets afire.”

Samantha was shaken to realize he had been deprived of even that pleasure. It was difficult to imagine a life without the solace books could provide.

Beckwith nodded fondly, his eyes glazed with memories of better times. “He was always his parents’ pride and joy. When he took that absurd notion to join the Royal Navy, his mama and his sisters went into hysterics and begged him not to go, and his papa, the marquess, threatened to disown him. But when it came time for him to sail, they all gathered at the dock to shout their blessings and wave their handkerchiefs at him.”

Samantha plucked at the back of her gloves. “It’s rather uncommon for a nobleman, especially a firstborn son, to seek a naval career, is it not? I thought the Army attracted the wealthy and the titled, while the Royal Navy was the refuge of the poor and the ambitious.”

“He would never explain his choice,” Mrs. Philpot interjected. “He just said he had to follow his heart wherever it would lead him. He refused to buy his way up the ranks as most men did, but insisted on arriving there on his own merits. When they received word that he had been promoted to lieutenant aboard the HMS
Victory
, his mama wept tears of joy and his papa was so proud he nearly busted the buttons right off his waistcoat.”

“The
Victory
,” Samantha murmured. The ship’s name had proved to be prophetic. With the help of her sister ships, she had routed Napoleon’s navy at Trafalgar, destroying the emperor’s dream of ruling the seas. But the cost of victory had been high. Admiral Nelson had won the battle, but lost his life, as had many of the young men who had fought so valiantly at his side.

Their debts were paid in full, but Gabriel Fairchild would go on paying for the rest of his life.

She felt a surge of anger. “If his family is so devoted to him, where are they now?”

“Traveling abroad.”

“Staying at their London residence.”

The servants blurted out their answers in unison, then exchanged a sheepish glance. Mrs. Philpot sighed. “The earl spent most of his youth at Fairchild Park. Of all his father’s properties, it was always his favorite. He has his own town house in London, of course, but given the cruel nature of his injuries, his family thought it might be easier for him to recuperate at his childhood home, away from society’s prying eyes.”

“Easier for who? For him? Or for them?”

Beckwith averted his eyes. “In their defense, the last time they came calling, he all but chased them off the estate. For a minute there, I feared he was actually going to order the groundskeeper to set the hounds on them.”

“I doubt they were that difficult to discourage.” Samantha closed her eyes briefly, struggling to regain her composure. It wasn’t as if she had any right to judge his family for their lack of loyalty. “It’s been well over five months since he was injured. Has his physician offered any hope that his sight might someday be restored?”

The butler shook his head sadly. “Very little. There have only been one or two documented cases in which such a loss has reversed itself.”

Samantha bowed her head.

Mr. Beckwith rose, his fleshy cheeks and drooping countenance making him look like a melancholy bulldog. “I do hope you’ll forgive us for squandering your time, Miss Wickersham. I realize you had to hire a hack to bring you out here. I’ll be more than happy to pay for your return to the city out of my own pocket.”

Samantha stood. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Beckwith. I won’t be returning to London at the moment.”

The butler exchanged a baffled glance with Mrs. Philpot. “Excuse me?”

Samantha moved to the chair she had originally occupied and scooped up her portmanteau. “I’ll be staying right here. I’m accepting the position as the earl’s nurse. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to have one of the footmen fetch my trunk from the carriage and show me to my room, I’ll prepare to commence my duties.”

He could still smell her.

As if to taunt him by reminding him of what he’d lost, Gabriel’s sense of smell had only sharpened in the past few months. Whenever he rambled past the kitchens, he could tell with a single sniff whether Étienne, the French cook, was preparing fricandeau of veal or a creamy béchamel sauce to tempt his appetite. The faintest whiff of wood smoke would inform him whether the fire in the deserted library had been freshly stoked or was dying to embers. As he collapsed on the bed in the room that had become more lair than bedchamber, he was assailed by the stale smell of his own sweat that clung to the rumpled sheets.

It was here that he returned to nurse his bruises and scrapes, here he tossed his way through nights distinguished from the days only by their suffocating hush. In the still hours between dusk and dawn, he sometimes felt as if he were the only soul left alive in the world.

Gabriel flung the back of his hand over his brow, closing his eyes out of old habit. When he had stormed into the parlor, he had immediately identified the lavender water favored by Mrs. Philpot and the musky hair pomade Beckwith lavished on his few remaining strands. But he hadn’t recognized the crisp, sunlit fragrance of lemons scenting the air. It was an aroma both sweet and tart, delicate and bold.

Miss Wickersham certainly didn’t smell like a nurse. Old Cora Gringott had smelled of mothballs, the widow Hawkins like the bitter almond snuff she was so fond of dipping. Nor did Miss Wickersham smell like the shriveled spinster he envisioned when she spoke. If her withering tones were any indication, her pores should have emitted a poisonous fog of day-old cabbage and grave dust.

As he had drawn near to her, he had made an even more startling discovery. Underlying that cleansing breath of citrus was a scent that maddened him, clouded what little was left of both his senses and his good sense.

She smelled like a woman.

Gabriel groaned through gritted teeth. He hadn’t felt a single stirring of desire since awakening in that London hospital to discover his world had gone dark. Yet the warm, sweet smell of Miss Wickersham’s skin had evoked a dizzying jumble of scarlet-hazed memories—stolen kisses in a moonlit garden, husky murmurs, the heated satin of a woman’s skin beneath his lips. All pleasures he would never know again.

He opened his eyes only to find the world still enveloped by shadows. Perhaps the words he had hurled at Beckwith were true. Perhaps he needed to engage the services of another sort of woman altogether. If he paid her handsomely enough, she might even be able to look upon his ruined face without recoiling. But what would it matter if she did? Gabriel thought, a harsh bark of laughter escaping him. He would never know. Perhaps, while she squeezed her eyes shut and pretended he was the gentleman of her dreams, he could pretend that she was the sort of woman who would sigh his name and whisper promises of eternal devotion.

Promises she had no intention of keeping.

Gabriel shoved himself off the bed. Damn that Wickersham woman! She had no right to taunt him so bitterly, yet smell so sweet. It was fortunate he had ordered Beckwith to send her away. As far as he was concerned, she need never trouble him again.

My dear Miss March,

Despite my reputation, I can assure you that I’m not in the habit of striking up a clandestine correspondence with every lovely young woman who catches my fancy…

A
s Samantha groped her way down the curving staircase that descended into the heart of Fairchild Park the next morning, she almost felt as if she’d been struck blind. Not a single window of the mansion had been left unveiled. It was as if the house, as well as its master, had been cast into some dark realm of eternal night.

A lone torchière burned at the foot of the stairs, casting just enough light for her to see that the fingertips she’d trailed down the banister were furred with dust. Grimacing, she brushed them off on her skirt. Given the drab gray of the kerseymere, she doubted anyone would notice.

Despite the stifling gloom, it was impossible to completely cloak the legendary Fairchild wealth that had made the noble family the envy of the
ton
. Trying not to be intimidated by the centuries of privilege on display, Samantha stepped off the stairs and into the foyer. The house had long since been updated from the dark paneling and Tudor arches of its somber Jacobean roots. Shadows danced over the gleaming expanse of rose-veined Italian marble beneath her feet. Every graceful arch of molding and cornice, every papier-mâché relief scroll of flower or vase adorning the wainscoting, had been bronzed or gilded. Even the modest bed-chamber Mrs. Philpot had assigned Samantha possessed a stained-glass fanlight over the door and walls hung with silk damask.