An Honest Heart (13 page)

Caddy did not protest when he pressed his own white lawn handkerchief to the wound, nor when he wrapped his arm around her waist and herded her toward the workroom.

“You, there. Get Miss Bainbridge a glass of water and bring some clean muslin. Your mistress is injured.” Oliver’s high-handed manner made Phyllis jump and move faster than Caddy had ever seen.

She might have laughed if she didn’t need to concentrate on keeping her knees from collapsing with each step. She did not want him to accompany her upstairs, but without his assistance, she wasn’t certain she would be able to make it. She motioned him toward the door to the stairwell.

Like Dr. Stradbroke two nights ago, Mr. Carmichael was patience itself as he waited for her to take each step at her own pace. Not blessed with Dr. Stradbroke’s height and bulk, however, Mr. Carmichael did not engender in Caddy the same sense of safety or comfort the doctor’s help had given her.

In the sitting room, Mr. Carmichael supported Caddy under each elbow as she lowered herself onto the settee. She pulled his handkerchief from the cut, and it came away bright red, saturated with blood.

“I am so sorry. I will replace this, I promise.” She pressed the fabric to her head when she felt another trickle beginning.

“Do not fret over it. A handkerchief is nothing in comparison to your injury. What happened?” He perched on the edge of the armchair adjacent to the sofa and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“Someone broke into the shop late Friday night. I heard the noise and went to investigate, thinking a shelf had fallen. The intruder knocked me senseless, resulting in my injury.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“Yes. Dr. Stradbroke . . . attended to me and stitched the wound.” She could not risk anyone finding out he had been here with her alone, and stayed most of that night, even though nothing untoward happened.

“It does not appear he did a very good job. I shall send our family physician to tend to you.”

Before Caddy could argue, Mary edged past Oliver and bent over her. Tilting Caddy’s head back, she sponged gently at the wound, rinsing her rag frequently in the bowl of hot water she’d brought with her.

Oliver sat up, then leaned back against the cushions. “Did your attacker make off with anything?”

“Oh, nothing important.” Caddy spoke through gritted teeth, eyes closed, from the pain of Mary’s ministrations.

Mary snorted. “I wouldn’t call the iron strongbox and all of your money
nothing
.” She pressed a folded cloth to the cut and secured it in place with a clean strip of muslin wrapped around Caddy’s head.

“Including what you were paid at Chawley Abbey for my mother’s gowns?” Oliver jumped to his feet. “You must allow me to make restitution, Miss Bainbridge.”

“I could not accept it, Mr. Carmichael.” Caddy touched the bandage and sighed. So much for not letting Mr. Carmichael know what had happened. She shot Mary an incensed look, then tried to rise to see him out.

Mary pushed her back down on the settee, surprisingly strong for someone so small. “You need to rest, miss.”

Heavy footfalls on the stairs signaled the arrival of the constable. Caddy straightened her skirt and touched her fingertips to the bandage again. She hated the way it called attention to her infirmity.

But instead of the constable, Phyllis rushed into the room, followed closely by Neal Stradbroke.

Caddy closed her eyes and groaned quietly. The last thing she needed was to try to explain in front of Mr. Carmichael why she’d removed her bandage and caused her wound to bleed. But Mr. Carmichael, upon seeing Dr. Stradbroke, regained his seat in the chair nearest her, apparently determined to stay.

She shifted her gaze from gentleman to doctor and back. Never before in her life had she been in such a situation—in a sitting room with two handsome, eligible men.

But rather than enjoy the experience and allow herself to be flattered by the concern in Dr. Stradbroke’s blue eyes or Mr. Carmichael’s protective body language, all Caddy wanted was to go to her room and sleep. And to pretend none of this had ever happened.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

N
eal wasn’t certain who the short, curly-haired fop in the sitting room was. But the way the man hovered over Miss Bainbridge gave rise to a very unpleasant sensation in his gut.

Ignoring the jealousy and the other man, Neal turned his attention to Miss Bainbridge. Eyes closed, head resting on the high back of the sofa, and a complexion that had turned an alarming shade of gray.

He took the glass of water from Mary before the other man could, then stepped between him and his patient. “Take a sip of this.” Neal bent down to support her head with one hand cupped at her nape. The netting holding her braids felt rough compared to the silky texture of her hair.

His skin tingled—as it had done the night of the robbery every time he’d touched her. Then, he had written it off to knowing his ministrations would cause her additional pain. Now . . . he did not want to think about what it meant.

Miss Bainbridge blinked twice before her eyes focused on him, then realized what he was doing. She leaned forward and took a sip of water, holding her hand under her chin to catch any spillage.

After setting the glass on the side table between the sofa and the chair occupied by the stranger, Neal knelt on the floor in front of Miss Bainbridge. He lifted her left hand and pressed two fingers to the inside of her wrist just under the plain cuff of her long sleeve.

As he timed her pulse, he got a good look at the underside of her hand. Her fingertips and palms bore signs of needle pricks and fine-line scars from scissor cuts. She not only worked hard, she had been doing it for many years.

His admiration for her rose even further. His grandmother had lived independently, taking care of herself for thirty years after his grandfather’s death—including the years after she’d taken Neal in. He helped out however she would allow, but he’d always known she was in charge and not to be questioned or gainsaid. Her business acumen and ability to make a small farm turn a pretty penny had enabled her to send him to Eaton and on to Oxford to study medicine without his having to work to support himself or pay tuition.

It hadn’t been until after she died that he’d learned the true source of the income he’d always thought had come from the farm.

Shaking himself from the upsetting line of thought, he returned his attention to Miss Bainbridge. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“I was in the shop, assisting a customer, when I became dizzy. Mr. Carmichael was kind enough to help me up the stairs.” She gave a wan smile over Neal’s shoulder toward the gentleman in the chair.

A huff behind Neal made him turn. Nurse Mary stood there, arms crossed, incredulity painting her broad features. “She was being vain, Doctor, and I’ve no shame in calling her out on it. You told her to rest, to stay off her feet, as much as possible. You told her to keep the bandage on until you came to remove the stitches. But she didn’t want this here ‘fine gentleman’”—a sneer entered her voice at the epithet—“to see that she was injured. So she took the bandage off. Likely took part of the scabbing off with it too. Had blood dripping down her face, she did.”

“Mary, that is quite enough.”

Neal looked back at Caddy to find that her face had gone from gray to red. She might be embarrassed by Mary’s betrayal, but at least she had some color back in her cheeks. He lifted the edges of the bandage. “It seems to have stopped bleeding. You bandaged her, Mary?”

“I did. And if it happens again, I’ll not only bandage it, I’ll hog-tie her to keep her from repeating the offense.”

While Miss Bainbridge’s expression indicated she was quite put out with her mother’s nurse, the corners of her lips twitched as if she fought a smile. Her full lips looked pillowy soft . . . and he wondered what it would be like to kiss them.

No, no. He couldn’t think things like that about a patient. No matter how pretty and accomplished she was.

“Well, Doctor? What is your prognosis?”

The nasal, masculine voice came from the person Neal had been to this point successfully ignoring.

Neal stood and straightened his plain, brown linen waistcoat. Mr. Carmichael stood also, but his stature fell short of Neal’s by half a foot at the least. “My prognosis is the same as it was when I last saw Miss Bainbridge. She has a wound to the temple brought on by a blow to the head. She is likely concussed in addition to the cut, which will take some time to heal. But if she continues to go against my orders”—he shot her an accusatory glance over his shoulder—“the cut will not heal as quickly, and she will have to wear the bandage much longer.”

Miss Bainbridge had the audacity to smile at him. A faint one, but a smile nonetheless.

Footfalls on the stairs drew everyone’s attention to the sitting room door. One of Miss Bainbridge’s apprentices showed the constable in.

“Ah, I see we have a full house.” The man crossed the room and extended his hand to Neal. “I thought I might see you here when I heard the whispering downstairs about Miss Bainbridge suddenly taking ill again.” The constable’s mustache twitched as he spoke, the bushy piece hiding his mouth from view.

“Yes, but she will now be following my instructions and resting, so there should be no more incidents like this.” Neal arched a brow at her. “Will there?”

“No, Doctor, there will not. I will be the model patient and follow your orders to the letter.” But the expression on her face—one that indicated a secret pleasure—made him believe otherwise.

“And—Why, you are Mr. Carmichael, heir to the Baron Carmichael of Chawley Abbey, are you not?” The constable gave a shallow bow.

If possible, Mr. Carmichael grew even more imperious. “Yes, my good man. Now, what do you intend to do to find the ruffian who injured Miss Bainbridge?”

The aristocrat’s haughty tone seemed to set the constable ill at ease. “I must get some details from Miss Bainbridge first. Until I know what happened, I will be unable to begin an investigation.”

“Whatever you need, Chawley Abbey’s resources are at your disposal, be it manpower or funds to grease palms.”

The baron’s son unceremoniously shouldered Neal out of his way, then bowed to Caddy, lifted her right hand, and kissed the back of it. “Miss Bainbridge, should you need anything at all, send a message to me at Wakesdown Manor—I am staying there until Sunday.”

The smiles and secretive pleasure Neal had seen in her expression melted away under the aristocrat’s attentions. He couldn’t help but notice how she pulled her hand back from Carmichael’s grasp when he held it overly long.

“Thank you, Mr. Carmichael, but I could not dream of imposing on you in such a manner.” Miss Bainbridge looked uncomfortable with Carmichael hovering over her so.

“I assure you, it would be no imposition.” He backed up a pace, tossing his head so his hair flew about. Neal supposed that must be something women appreciated seeing. Mr. Carmichael took his hat from the table just inside the sitting room door. “Until next time, Miss Bainbridge. Constable—remember, my resources are at your service.” He barely spared Neal a glance. “Doctor.”

Neal inclined his head, but Carmichael’s back was already turned as he exited the room.

The constable turned to Miss Bainbridge. “I am sorry you were taken ill again today. Shall I leave and return later?”

“No, please. I am feeling well enough to answer your questions.” She motioned for him to sit in the chair recently vacated by Carmichael.

The constable gave a sidelong glance toward Mary, who hovered near the door. “Miss Bainbridge, may I request that we speak privately? The doctor may stay to ensure that you do not take ill again.” The constable raised his brows toward Neal, conveying with no words his wish to question Neal as well.

Neal nodded toward Mary, then closed the door behind her after she left. He returned to them and sat in the chair opposite the knee-high tea table from Miss Bainbridge. “Thank you for your discretion, Constable. While nothing untoward happened, if word got out that I was here for hours alone with Miss Bainbridge . . . well, I do not want her reputation to suffer.”

“Yes, as you mentioned at my office.” The constable pulled a leather-bound journal from a pocket inside his coat, and the nub of a pencil from another, and faced Miss Bainbridge. “Rather than trying to fill in the gaps on what you told me Saturday, please start at the beginning and recount everything you can remember from that night.”

Caddy leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “It was late. I had just finished a gown and was about to . . .” Her face heated at the thought of saying
go to bed
in front of Neal Stradbroke, as it called to mind the embarrassing scene from Saturday when she’d awoken to find him hovering over her. “I was about to turn in for the night when I heard a crash from the shop. I was afraid one of the shelves had been overloaded and fallen onto one of the glass display cases, so I went down to investigate. When I entered the shop . . .”

She stopped, fighting against the pain in her head, and opened her eyes. “I am sorry, I cannot recall.”