Carla Kelly (5 page)

He had a close call at the corner of Fleet and Barkham, turning away and staring at the colorful message on a beer wagon as a high-perch phaeton bearing two of his best friends careened down the street, scattering pedestrians. He turned to watch after they passed, watched them take their careless way from one side of the street to the other. He thought about following them, calling to them to pull over and make room. He knew the inns they would frequent, the liquor they would drink, the lies they would tell to each other and anyone who would listen. The temptation to catch up with them made him clutch tighter at the reins.

But he had promised Eustace. Even worse than that, he had promised Luster. He smiled in spite of himself and said out loud, “If a man can’t keep a promise to his butler . . .”

He turned the gig toward the Dover road.

The duke arrived at Rumleigh after dark, just shy of the county line, but too tired to drive any farther. His head pounded until he could almost hear it, and he had a raging thirst.

He drove slowly down High Street, remembering an inn from one of his earlier visits, where the ale was a mythical color and strength. As he peered at each overhead sign in the gathering gloom, he began to shake, so badly did he want a drink. Surprised, he held his hand up close to his face, watching the fine tremor that had seized him and wondering if he was coming down with something.

The thought cheered him. If he fell sick, truly sick, then Luster would surely take him back. Eustace would be breathing deep of Brighton’s sea air and need never know that Benedict Nesbitt had gotten no farther than Rumleigh. He felt his forehead, and it was disappointingly cool. He shrugged, tightened his grip on the reins to stop the tremor, and reined in at the nearest inn.

It was not the place he remembered, but there was a taproom. He sank down in a chair and ordered, snatching the cup from the barmaid’s tray when she brought it, and drinking deep.

“Some victuals, sir?” she asked.

He shook his head and held out the cup. With a slight frown, the barmaid disappeared behind the counter and returned with another glass, which he drank more slowly this time, rolling the flavor of it around his mouth, and wondered why it didn’t taste as good as he remembered.

When Nesbitt finally dragged himself up to his room, he sank down on the floor by the bed and rested his head against the counterpane, which reeked of tobacco. He closed his eyes and tried to think of a prayer, but there wasn’t anything in his mind.

Nez crawled into bed and slept then, slipping immediately into a pit, maws gaping wide, that swallowed him whole. He fell and fell, all the time wishing that he would hit bottom and there would be nothing else.

When Benedict awoke, the sun was up and the cleaning woman was rattling the doorknob.

“Another ten minutes and I charge you for another day,” she bellowed through the keyhole as the duke groaned and tried to smother her voice with the pillow.

The pain in his head was a vise slowly tightening, inch by inch. He finished off the bottle he had brought upstairs the night before, lurched to his feet, and found himself face to face with his reflection in the cracked mirror over the bureau.

He didn’t recognize the hollow-eyed man with the grim mouth who stared back at him. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder in the hopes of seeing himself.

With hands that shook, Benedict shaved, changed clothes, and was stumbling down the stairs when the maid came out of the room across the hall, mop and pail in hand. She sniffed as he passed and drew her skirts aside.

The taproom was closed and locked and he nearly wept as he leaned against the door. He settled instead for a pot of scalding tea bullied down him by the landlord’s wife, who appeared more than usually eager to have him off the premises. She offered him hard bread and then eggs and bacon, but he could only shake his head and turn away, nauseated.

His modest horse was already hitched to the gig, and Copley’s precious sample case was right where he had left it last night in his rush to get into the taproom. Remorse stabbed him as he remembered Copley’s admonitions to take care of the case. He opened all the little drawers and was relieved to find the chocolate undisturbed, each piece solid and glossy in its compartment.

Benedict asked the ostler for directions to Holyoke, and then Holyoke Green, the Ames estate. The man answered him in some detail, but he might have spoken in tongues, for all the sense Nez could glean from the conversation. Finally the man drew a map, which he tucked in the duke’s pocket as he kindly advised that he would not be able to miss the place.

Nesbitt clucked to his horse and started down the road, only to be whistled back by the ostler. He sucked in his breath, clutched at his temples, and turned slowly around, careful to keep his throbbing head level.

“Nay, then, sir, do ye not recall anything I said, think on? That road over there, as I live and breathe.”

Benedict turned his horse and gig about, ignoring the catcalls of little boys who shouted to him and jabbed their fingers in all directions for his benefit, pointing this way and that, directing him back to London, north to Essex, south to Sussex.

He drove with his eyes half-closed until he was accustomed to the brightness of the summer morning. The birds that flew about and admonished him from the trees seemed swollen to enormous size, and he ducked in terror several times until they went away.

He sniffed cautiously at the easy puffs of wind that circulated, bringing with them the heady smell of flowers. He squinted in the sunlight, breathing deeper finally and feeling a measure of enjoyment that had eluded him for many more mornings than he could remember. If only his head didn’t ache so!

He came to Holyoke before noon, but could not discover the estate. He paid closer attention to the directions he got from a member of the farming fraternity who was broadcasting seed in a newly turned field.

“Back the way ye came, sor,” the man was telling him. “I don’t know how ye missed it. It’s one half mile to the turnoff. You’ll see the house set back in the trees, sor, indeed ye will.”

And there it was, a pleasant brick edifice of two and more stories, relentlessly old-fashioned and covered with vines, a far cry from the magnificence of his own ancestral estate in Yorkshire, but filled with a quiet prosperity that he could recognize from the road. Thoughtfully, he spoke to the horse and passed in front of the house, down a long slope that likely led to a river. He turned and came back, looking about and seeing no one. He noticed a large black horse in front of the house, but no rider. People were moving about in distant fields.

He walked the horse down the road again and planned the accident. It would be a simple matter to stop the horse by those trees that hid it from the house, and upend the gig. He would lie down by the gig. He could be sitting up and clutching his head when someone came to help. It would be a simple matter to clutch his head, which had not stopped throbbing all day.

The inmates of Holyoke Green would take him in; he could look over Eustace’s intended and beat a retreat to Brighton with a full report. When the issue was settled with Eustace, he would find an inn on the coast where both the sheets and the ale were dry, pause there, and regroup while Augusta got over her fury and Lady Fanny Whoever had retired for the summer to the serenity of one watering hole or another.

He made one last jaunter up the slope. The horse looked back at him as if to question him. “Don’t stare at me like that,” he snapped at the animal. “Blame it on Eustace and his squeamishness.”

He took a deep breath and had started down the slope one last time, moving faster, when it happened. A rabbit exploded out of the hedgerow and darted into the road. The horse, city-bred and familiar only with pigeons, shied, reared and began to gather speed as it raced down the slope.

Swearing a mighty oath learned from a sea captain and saved for such a moment as this, Benedict Nesbitt pulled back on the reins. Nothing. The horse only went faster. He tugged again, wondering if his arms would part from their sockets. “Wait until I see you again, Eustace,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

And then there was no more time for threats or oaths. The horse lost its footing on a patch of gravel and spun the gig around. The last thing Nez remembered was a pop in his shoulder and a mouthful of Kent.

4

AT the sound of someone running up the steps, Libby turned to the doorway. Joseph threw himself into the entrance, his eyes wide.

“Libby! You must come quickly! There has been an accident on the road!”

Libby could only stare at her brother, but Dr. Cook had no hesitations. He took Joseph by the arm and turned him around.

“Where, Joseph?” he asked, the voice distinct. “Tell me quickly.”

“Just a quarter-mile down the road toward your place. I could see it happen from the hayloft.” He scratched his head and began to tug at his earlobe. “It was the strangest thing, Libby. He went back and forth several times over the same little bit of road, and then went really fast and tried to stop. I wonder he did not see the gravel. I would have seen the gravel.”

“I am sure you would have,” the doctor agreed. “Well, Joseph, are you up to a footrace?”

“Sir?”

“We’d better see if there is anything to salvage on the road.”

Joseph grinned and the troubled look left his face. “I can beat you, Dr. Cook,” he exclaimed.

“You can try, lad,” said the doctor.

To Libby’s openmouthed surprise, Dr. Cook shoved his spectacles into his pocket and took off after Joseph. She watched them run down the road, Joseph well in the lead but Dr. Cook coming up surprising fast for one so big.

“Lydia will be sorry she missed this sight,” Libby murmured to herself, looked about, picked up her skirts, and chased after them.

Her side was aching before she reached the scene of the accident. Joseph had already untangled the horse from the traces and had tied the animal to a tree across the road. He was standing nose to nose with the trembling horse, talking to it, as Libby hurried up, gasping for breath.

The doctor knelt over the lone figure in the road. Libby took a deep breath and came closer until she was peering over the doctor’s broad shoulder.

A man about thirty lay stretched out on the gravel, his face skinned and already starting to swell, blood dripping from a cut over his right eye. His shoulder was oddly twisted under him and his pant leg below his right knee was torn. Libby gulped and rested her hand on the doctor’s shoulder to steady herself.

Dr. Cook looked over his shoulder and touched her hand. “You’ll be all right, Miss Ames,” he said.

Libby nodded and knelt beside the doctor. “We’re not the branch of the Ames family that faints,” she said, her voice thin, but determined in a way that made Anthony Cook smile at her, despite the concern in his eyes.

“I didn’t think you were. Move around here, Libby,” he said, calling her by her name for the first time. “Let’s rest his head in your lap.”

She did as she was told. Gently the doctor rested the unconscious man’s head against her legs. She hesitated only a moment before she dabbed at the cut over his eye with her apron. In a moment, the bleeding had stopped.

“It’s not as bad as I thought,” she said.

“It rarely is,” the doctor replied. From the deep recesses of his coat pocket, he extracted a pair of scissors and began to cut up the man’s sleeve. “Seems a shame to do this,” he said out loud. “Good material. I wonder . . .” He glanced at Libby. “Feel around in his breast pocket. See if he has any identification.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Libby said.

“Of course you can,” the doctor said.

“If you’re sure he won’t mind,” she said finally, and reached toward the man’s coat.

“Libby, how will he ever know?” Dr. Cook asked, his voice alive with amusement.

Slowly, carefully, as if she expected the unconscious man to reach up and seize her, Libby slid her hand down his chest and into his coat. She felt about, noting how well-muscled his chest was, but did not turn up a wallet.

“Try his pants pockets,” said the doctor as he resumed snipping away at the coat.

“I will not,” she declared. “It’s improper.”

Dr. Cook sighed, and there was a touch of asperity in his voice. “Don’t be a goose, Libby. I’d like to know who this is.”

“I shouldn’t, you know,” Libby said. “Mama would never approve.” After another moment’s hesitation, Libby slid her hand into the man’s pocket and pulled out a wallet.

She held it between thumb and forefinger and then opened it. It was stuffed with bank notes. She pulled out a card and held it out so Dr. Cook could see it, too.

“‘Nesbitt Duke,’” she read. “‘Merchant to Copley Chocolatier, by appointment to His Majesty George III.’”

“We seem to have a candy merchant here,” said the doctor as he finished cutting around the sleeve. “He must be a good one. I wish I could afford a suit of this quality. Copley’s, eh? I’ve bought a few pounds from them before.”

“You and everyone in England,” Libby said.

She watched as the doctor cut the last of the fabric and gently lifted the sleeve from the oddly twisted arm. “What are you going to do?” she asked finally, and would have preferred that he not answer, because she thought she knew, and the prospect was not pleasing.

The doctor didn’t answer for a moment, so intent was he on cutting through the shirt and exposing the man’s arm and chest. He sat back on his heels.

“It is as I thought,” he said to Libby, who stared, wide-eyed, at the dislocation. “Dear me, how I dislike these presentations.” He touched the man’s forehead and smoothed back the merchant’s rumpled hair with that same gentle gesture that so intrigued Libby. “Why could you not have done this in someone else’s backyard?”

Libby shivered in spite of herself and clutched the unconscious man closer to her. “What are you going to do to him?” she quavered. “Oh, I do not think I like it.”

The doctor grimaced. “Joseph,” he called. “I need you.”

Libby closed her eyes and bowed her head over the merchant, who chose that moment to open his eyes.

“My God, you are beautiful,” he said, his voice faint and faraway. “An angel? Have I died?”

Libby sucked in her breath and scooted closer to the doctor, who leaned over the man and opened his eyes wider with his fingers.

“A pardonable mistake,” he murmured. “She will introduce herself later, sir.” He pulled down the skin below the man’s eyelids and then passed his hand slowly across the merchant’s face. “Ah, excellent, sir. Pupils in equal alignment and movement.”

The doctor took a deep breath and gently manipulated the merchant’s shoulder. Nesbitt Duke sucked in his breath and held it so long that Libby began to fidget. When she was about to cry, he let his breath out slowly and drew a shuddering breath, and another. He shifted his weight and groaned. “My leg . . .”

“. . . will wait,” finished Anthony Cook. “We will worry about it after your arm has rejoined your body.”

In spite of her growing agitation, Libby stole an admiring glance at Dr. Cook. Something had happened to the awkward, formal man in the bookroom. Dr. Cook knew precisely what he was doing. Libby held the candy merchant closer and forgave Anthony Cook the entire mess in the book room.

“Joseph, you are just the man I need,” the doctor was saying. “Take Mr. Duke, is it? Take him by that arm. Gently, gently. When I tell you, start pulling on it slowly and evenly. Can you do that?”

Joseph turned white and started to back away, but Anthony Cook fixed him with a stare that stopped him where he was. Without a word, Joseph took the merchant by the arm. Libby made an inarticulate sound in her throat.

“Just hang on to him,” the doctor said as he rose up on his knees.

“Yes, by all means,” the injured man murmured. He smiled at her. “Libby, is it? I am in the right place, then,” he added, more to himself than to her. He closed his eyes resolutely and set his jaw.

“All right, Joseph, begin,” said the doctor quietly.

Libby braced herself as the injured man cried out. Joseph pulled steadily, even as tears streamed down his cheeks, and Dr. Cook guided the arm back into the shoulder socket. There was an audible click, and the man fainted.

Libby felt remarkably light-headed. She swallowed, shook her head, and made no complaint when Dr. Cook pulled her away from the injured man and without any ceremony pushed her head down between her knees. She stayed that way until her head cleared and the humming went away, and then she raised her head, embarrassed.

Dr. Cook paid her no attention. He had cut away Mr. Duke’s pant leg below the knee and was surveying the ruin. Joseph took one long look and directed his attention to Nesbitt Duke’s horse again.

The man was still unconscious. Libby cleared her throat. “That was foolish of me,” she apologized.

Dr. Cook rubbed his hand across her hair, the gesture careless and comforting at the same time. “Don’t give it a thought. You should have seen me the first time I watched that piece of work. I thought you came through very well.” He smiled. “Although I don’t doubt you wish you had gone to Brighton after all.”

She could only agree silently to herself. Libby forced herself to look at the man’s injured leg. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Carry him to Holyoke Green, if you think that will do,” he said.

“Of course, of course,” Libby said at once. “Your place is a bit closer, but I doubt . . .” She paused, her face red.

“You doubt that my father would be sufficiently interested to nurse a gentleman of the merchant class?” the doctor finished. He laughed at her evident chagrin. “You are entirely right. Mr. Duke of Copley’s will fare better at your place. Let us leave Joseph to see to the horse.”

With scarcely any effort, Dr. Cook lifted the injured man in his arms and started down the road with his burden, cradling him close. Libby snatched up the worn bag that had burst open in the road and stuffed the clothes back inside. She hurried to catch up with the doctor. Libby tugged at the doctor’s sleeve. “You’re not . . . you’re not going to have to amputate, are you?” she whispered.

Anthony Cook looked down at her and smiled as though he were out for a Sunday stroll and had nothing more serious than dinner on his mind. “Lord, no, you goose,” he chided in his good-natured way. “What I do think is that I will be spending a good portion of this day picking out the gravel.”

Libby blinked back her tears. “I’m not very good at this, Dr. Cook,” she said. “He looks dreadful.”

“And so would you, if you had just graded up the road with your body. Hurry on ahead like a good girl and find a room for this poor purveyor of chocolate.”

She did as she was bid. Candlow, never one to succumb to nerves, took one look at the doctor coming up the steps with the man cradled in his arms and led the way upstairs. He looked back once and shook his head, but there was just a tinge of satisfaction in his eyes. “This reminds me of any number of scrapes your father found himself in, Miss Ames,” he said fondly. “Ah, but your uncle is devilish dull.”

“Candlow,” Libby exclaimed. “You have never spoken of my father.”

The butler managed a slight smile in her direction. “I don’t know that we were allowed to speak of him, miss, at least while your grandfather was alive. Indeed, it became a habit, something I have not thought about until the arrival of this person.”

“Perhaps that will change now?” Libby asked, her voice soft.

“It might,” the butler answered, his voice equally quiet. “May you give way now for the doctor, miss.”

Libby hurried ahead and stripped back the bedspread, smoothing out the pillow and then standing aside as Dr. Cook lowered the man carefully to the sheet. He stood silent then, towering over the man on the bed, just regarding him, his lips pursed, the frown line between his eyes quite pronounced.

“Doctor?” Libby asked when he appeared not to be attending to the matter at hand.

He started visibly and then shook his head. “Just wondering where to begin, Libby . . . Miss Ames,” he said, correcting himself. “I don’t suppose your uncle ventured all the way to Brighton without his valet?”

“Oh, no, Doctor. I couldn’t imagine such a thing.”

“Nor I,” he agreed, “but I had hopes. Well, let us summon Candlow again. Miss Ames, I suggest that you find other matters to occupy you.” He started to unbutton the unconscious man’s shirt. “In fact, take his bag into the hall and see if there is a nightshirt within.”

Libby did as she was bid. She opened the bag but could not bring herself to put her hand inside and rifle through the stranger’s belongings. After a moment spent in serious contemplation of the sad fact that she was going to ruin, and Mama scarcely out of sight, Libby plunged in her hand and pulled out a handful of clothes.

She found a nightshirt straight off, a cheerful blue-and-white affair that reminded her of mattress ticking, and a dressing gown that looked more valuable than the Bayeux Tapestry.

Libby fingered the rich material. Chocolate must pay beyond my wildest imaginings, she thought. Robe in hand, she spun a story to herself, imagining that Mr. Nesbitt Duke must be no mere salesman, but part owner at least.

Her speculations were disturbed by steps on the stairs. Joseph was coming slowly up the stairs, hand over hand on the railing like an old man.

“Joseph, are you all right?” she asked as he sat down beside her and wrung his hands together.

“Will he die, Libby?” Joseph asked, his voice a monotone, his eyes suspiciously red.

Libby put her arm around her brother. “Oh, Joseph, I think not!”

He allowed her to hold him, and he clung to her, even when the door opened and the doctor came into the hall.

If Dr. Cook was surprised to see the two of them holding on to each other, he did not show it. Without a word, he put a large friendly hand on Joseph’s head and rested it there until Joseph looked up.

“That’s better, now, Joseph,” the doctor said. “You did a capital job back there on the road. His shoulder is fine. Now if Libby will spare me that nightshirt . . .”

She handed it to the doctor. “Can I help, Dr. Cook?” she asked, half hoping that he would say no. She glanced at her brother, who sat so still beside her. “And Joseph will help too, won’t you, dear?”

He thought a moment, his hand straying to his earlobe. “If you are there, Libby,” he managed at last.

“Then it is settled,” she said decisively, and got to her feet, holding out her hand for Joseph. “You will tell us what you to do, Doctor.”