In short, he missed Althea. He loathed the very thought of such a thing, and hated even more that he was going to give in to it, but the marquess knew that sooner rather than later, he was going to head off to his own properties in Cambridgeshire, taking the route that went by way of Stansted and Kennington Park.
When Ibthorp finally received the orders to pack for a trip to the country, the valet was not in the least surprised. “Thought he was looking a bit down pin lately,” he muttered under his breath as he carefully laid his master’s cravats in the valise. “For a time there, he were looking merrier than a grig, happier than I have ever seen him. Then something happened. It is not his mother; irritating as she is, she don’t affect him that way, and she has left off sending him notes. But it
is
a woman; of that I am certain.” And to Ibthorp’s knowledge, there was only one woman he could ever remember his master having relations with that were not purely physical.
Oddly enough, the servant was somewhat pleased by such distraction on the part of a man who heretofore had kept his emotions under the iron control of his intellect to such a degree that it had at times seemed almost unnatural. Furthermore, Ibthorp, who ordinarily left all the gambling to his master, was willing to wager a large sum in this case that the lady in question was somehow to be located along the way to Harwood. Once the marquess put his mind to a thing, he went after it, and it was clear enough to Ibthorp, at least, that the Marquess of Harwood’s mind, whether consciously or not, had been set on this young woman for quite some time. So it was that Ibthorp found himself on the road to Cambridgeshire to prepare Harwood for his master’s imminent arrival.
Setting out from London in his curricle the following day, Gareth felt his spirits lift the moment he cleared the city. It was a glorious spring morning, his team was eager, and he was leaving behind scenes that had become too much connected to a certain incomparable with defiant blue eyes and an amazing capacity for card games of any sort.
Once free of the traffic, he gave the horses their heads and, reveling in the speed, the smoothness of an excellent road, and the joys of a well-sprung carriage, he allowed himself to indulge in the hope that his uncharacteristic interest in Lady Althea Beauchamp had been nothing more than a diversion created unconsciously by himself to distract his attention as much as possible from his mother’s irksome presence.
This optimistic fancy enjoyed all too brief an existence, however, for the moment he saw the signpost for Stanstead, the quickening of his pulses told Gareth that his preoccupation with the young woman had nothing to do with the Marchioness of Harwood and everything to with his unwanted but undeniable attraction to Althea.
He slowed as he reached the village and, hating himself for it, pulled in at the yard of the George and Dragon to ask directions to Kennington.
“It is just a few miles along the Cambridge road, that way, my lord. You cannot miss it,” the ostler assured him.
“Thank you.” Gareth tossed a coin to the lad whose eyes were hungrily taking in every detail of his equipage so that he could report back in the stables that a regular Corinthian, real top-of-the-trees, had stopped to ask the way to Kennington.
Just as the ostler had directed, three miles beyond the village and off to the right, Gareth saw neat fences and a gravel drive stretching between rich green pastures to end in the courtyard of a small but beautifully proportioned manor house, its cream-colored stone golden in the afternoon sunlight.
So this was Kennington. The place was perfect for her—elegant, with plenty of fertile-looking land that should support the place very well if it did not do so already. Here was an estate big enough to offer her a challenge, but not too big for a capable woman. A slow smile swept across Gareth’s face. She had gotten what she wanted after all.
Cursing himself for being no better than some smitten schoolboy, Gareth strained to catch sight of her as he passed by. Suddenly, he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and barely had time to recognize a fleeing rabbit before he became aware of the spotted mongrel chasing it.
“Damn and blast.” Hauling on the reins with all his might, Gareth fought his team as he tried to swerve to avoid hitting the animal. His heart in his mouth, he struggled to bring the powerful bays to a halt. It almost seemed as though he was going to be successful when the wheel hit a rut. “Damn fool,” he cursed again as he flew off the seat and tumbled into darkness.
Chapter 24
“My lady. My lady, there has been an accident, a dreadful accident. A man, a gentleman ...” The sturdy laborer who had been repairing some of the fences Gareth had admired came panting up to the stables just as Althea was dismounting after a satisfying gallop across the fields, her fields.
“Accident? What sort of accident, Tim?”
“Carriage, my lady. The gentleman appears to be alive. I checked and he is breathing, but he is dead to the world.”
Althea turned to her groom. “Jem, fetch the wagon and something from the lumber room to make a litter. I shall grab some bandages. Where is he, Tim?”
“Just beyond the turning into the drive. The horses seemed unhurt, but they did not want me tying them up.”
“Very well. You stay to help Jim and I shall go on ahead.” Althea ran to find the bag of salve and bandages she kept for emergencies and then hurried off down the drive while the other two went to find something to make a litter and hitch the horse to the wagon.
As Tim had reported, the horses were standing quietly enough in their traces not far from a yellow curricle that was tilted at an awkward angle on the edge of the road. A few feet beyond lay an inert form, one leg twisted unnaturally beneath it, and a curly beaver, tumbled some yards away.
Althea approached carefully, not wanting to startle an injured person who might just be regaining consciousness. As she looked down at the white-faced stranger her knees threatened to buckle under her. It was the Marquess of Harwood, no stranger at all, and yet he looked like one.
Lying hurt and unconscious, the marquess bore little resemblance to the Bachelor Marquess, the bold card player, the scourge of matchmaking mamas, and the hard-hearted gambler who deprived young men of their family estates. She reached out a gentle hand to stroke his brow, then carefully lifted one wrist to feel the pulse that was weak but steady.
The pale face, robbed of all expression except the finely drawn lines around his mouth and at the edges of his eyes, looked weary. Why had she never seen that before? Carefully, she ran her fingers through his thick dark hair, fighting the overwhelming urge to cradle his head in her lap, to hold him close and smooth the wrinkle:; between his straight dark brows.
“We came as quick as ever we could, my lady. And we brung us a litter of sorts.” Carefully Tim and Jem laid an old door padded with blankets next to the injured man. “And we also brought a walking stick to tie his leg to as Tim said his leg was probably broke.”
“Very clever, both of you. Now let us tie that stick carefully to the leg and get him on the litter.” Althea struggled to distance herself from the limp figure on the grass. There was no time to reflect on the riot of emotions warring inside of her. The situation called for action and decisiveness, the cool, unruffled Lady Althea Beau-champ who could calmly survey her hand of cards while a fortune hung in the balance, not this weak-kneed stranger whose heart had leaped into her mouth the moment she discovered the identity of the injured man.
“Now you, Jem, manage the legs. Tim, take his shoulders while I hold his head and we will all lift together on the count of three. One, two, three.”
They slid the marquess onto the door so smoothly that his eyelids did not even flutter. Althea sighed with relief, then frowned. The lack of response could mean that they had managed to avoid injuring him further, or it could also mean that the bump she had felt on the back of his head was severe—no way to know that until a surgeon had been summoned, and for that she would have to consult the Crowders.
Mrs. Crowder was able to assure her that Mr. War-boys, who enjoyed the highest reputation in all of Essex, did not live more than a few miles further along down the Cambridge road, and it would take Jem no time at alt to fetch him, for he was always ready to come to the scene of an accident or a patient’s bedside at a moment’s notice.
Meanwhile, Althea could do nothing but sit by the marquess’s bedside, taking in every detail of the finely shaped hands resting on the coverlet or the chest and shoulders that, freed from the exquisitely fitted coat, looked so broad and powerful she could not take her eyes from them. She had never paid much attention to men before. At Clarendon she had led a quiet life separated from the local gentry by her exalted position and closeted with her governess and a succession of instructors—dancing masters, music masters, drawing masters— all the requisite shapers of a young woman expected to take her place in the
ton
as the beautifully finished representative of one of the country’s most illustrious families. With such a program of instruction to fill her days she had had little time for gaiety or socializing of any kind.
When she had arrived in town, the exquisite product of such exacting preparations, Althea had been stared at, commented upon, and gossiped about to such an extent that she had done her best to avoid even looking at men, afraid that one glance would give rise to a host of unwelcome speculation on the part of the
ton,
or equally unwelcome presumption on the part of the man.
Now, she was unable to take her eyes off this one. Recalling the first time she had seen him, casting a scornful gaze over Lady St. John’s guests, Althea admitted to herself that she had always been uncomfortably aware of the attraction of Gareth de Vere’s lean, intelligent face, observant gray eyes, and cynically smiling mouth. She had eventually responded to that attraction by opening up to him as she never had to anyone else. Althea had thought that her fury at his betrayal had wiped that all away, but, looking at him now as he lay injured and helpless, she knew that somewhere, in a place too deep and too private to acknowledge, no matter how much he had hurt her, she had missed him a great deal.
Anxiously Althea watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest and fought the urge to lie down beside him, to wrap her arms around him in a desperate attempt to bring him back to consciousness and health, to the sharp-eyed cynical observer, the daring gambler, not this exhausted man who was unable to respond to her solicitous caress, unable to do anything at all except lie there still as death.
“I have brought you Mr. Warboys, my lady.” The housekeeper’s voice broke into Althea’s reverie.
“It is a great pleasure to meet the ‘Angel of the Stable.’ “ The doctor’s bright blue eyes twinkled at Althea’s patent astonishment. “Come now, my lady. Surely you knew that that is what they call you. Any new resident in the district is naturally the subject of a great deal of speculation and gossip. But when the new resident is a landowner, a young lady, and something of a miracle worker where sick horses are concerned, word travels like wildfire. Actually, I did happen to hear about your skills firsthand from Farmer Tubbs. That lad of his fell from an apple tree a few days ago and dislocated his shoulder, which I was called in to remedy. And now I hear that you have a patient for me.”
“Yes. Thank you for coming so quickly. The Marquess of Harwood had an accident in his curricle. I believe that his leg is broken and that he is suffering from a concussion. We have immobilized the leg, but it is obvious that it needs to be set. I do not know what to do about the concussion except keep him quiet.”
“The Marquess of Harwood. Hmm.” Observing the delicate flush that rose in the lady’s cheeks, the surgeon refrained from further comment, but the twinkle in his eyes grew even more pronounced.
He was not the only one drawing interesting conclusions. Hovering in the background with Mrs. Crowder, the Dowager Duchess of Clarendon was indulging in a riot of speculation. Not only was her granddaughter’s reaction to the marquess’s presence encouraging, but unconscious though he might be, the marquess’s presence in this particular neighborhood was most encouraging indeed. In the dowager’s experience, sophisticated gentlemen of the marquess’s stamp, especially gambling gentlemen, did not leave London in the height of the Season without a very good reason. Since his name had never been mentioned in the discussion of nearby property owners, his appearance in the vicinity could only be owing to one thing—her granddaughter’s recent removal to Kennington was the reason behind the marquess’s appearance in this particular spot of the country, on this particular stretch of road, at this particular time. At least there were grounds for hope.
“Your diagnosis is entirely correct, my lady.” The surgeon, who had been carefully examining the inert body on the bed, straightened and nodded approvingly. “It is best to set the leg now while he is still unconscious. If you would be willing to assist me, we can begin without further ado. Fortunately it is a simple fracture, and if you were to hold the foot, so, and then pull, I can guide the bone into line.”
Too surprised to speak, and too gratified by his trust in her capabilities to doubt herself, Althea nodded and moved to replace his hands with her own. Biting her lip, she waited for the surgeon’s command.
“Now, pull gently but firmly. Do not worry. I believe he is too deeply unconscious to feel any pain. That is it. Slowly, slowly ... There. We have done the trick. Good girl.” He strode over to give her a steadying pat on the shoulder. “The worst thing about being a surgeon, or practicing medicine of any sort, is that sometimes one must cause pain in order to alleviate it.” Expertly, he rebound the leg to the walking stick. “If this is kept immobile for several weeks, and if he keeps off it for several more, he should heal as good as new. As to the concussion, it is difficult to say. Keep him warm and comfortable and apply cold compresses to the bump on his head to reduce the swelling. I shall check back tomorrow to see how he is doing, but he appears to have a strong constitution and, as there are no other obvious injuries, I expect he will come around soon. It was a pleasure meeting you, my lady.” The surgeon cast a final appraising glance at the patient, smiled at Althea, nodded encouragingly to the dowager and Mrs. Crowder, and hastened out in the same energetic manner that he had burst in.