Authors: Jillian Hart
“I'm fine,” he assured her with a smile. “The physician wrapped my ribs as a precaution, and I imagine I'll have a bruise or two, but nothing was broken.”
Ruby breathed out a sigh. “Thank the Lord!”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “I only regret that I gave you and my other guests such a scare.”
“No harm done,” her father declared, rising, as well. “The others have already decamped for the Lodge. I suggest we do likewise.” He turned to Lord Hascot. “Would you be willing to loan us a carriage, my lord? I didn't come prepared to ride, which I tell you I regret, for there could be nothing finer than to be astride one of your marvelous mounts.”
As usual, her father's flattery won the day, and the horse lord provided them with a fine carriage to return them to the Lodge.
Ruby watched Whit as he took his seat opposite her and her father on the leather-covered benches. She thought he was trying to be brave, but his mouth quirked as he sat, and he kept shifting as if searching for a comfortable position. His injury pained him more than he cared for her to know.
“You realize this is the perfect excuse to rid yourself of your guests,” she told him as the carriage started off for the bridge, a groom riding Whit's horse. “Tell them the physician ordered you to rest.”
“But he didn't,” he replied with a smile that ought to have held more regret in Ruby's opinion. “Besides, I do little at the Lodge but rest, even with guests.”
“Not these guests,” Ruby insisted, edging forward on her seat to make her point. “They demand your time, your attention. They will be satisfied with nothing less.”
He inclined his head. “I will, of course, do my duty.”
Ruby shoved herself back into the seat in disgust. “Duty! Your duty, sir, is to yourself. You did not ask for this house partyâyou told me so. It would seem with your injury you will be hard-pressed to continue playing host. Send us all packing!”
Her father patted her hand where it lay on the bench. “Now, then, you heard his lordship. He is a gentleman, and he'll face his duty with honor.”
Ruby pulled away. “You make it sound so noble. This isn't a war or some disaster. He has rights as well, you know.”
“Thank you, Ruby,” Whit interrupted. “Never have I had a more gallant defender.”
Ruby's gaze snapped to his, but her frustration melted at the look in his purple-blue eyes. He wasn't being sarcastic. He truly admired the way she was trying to protect him. Heat flushed up her, and she dropped her gaze. She was being forward; she knew it. He was an intelligent, capable fellow, and if he said he could persevere, she should do what she could to support him.
But she would not confess she was glad he wasn't going to send them off. For something told her that if she never saw Whit Calder again, her life would be poorer for it.
* * *
Whit's chest ached. There was no way around it. He was thankful the injury wasn't serious, that the Lord had seen fit to protect him. He'd refused the dose of laudanum the physician had offered, knowing it would impede his abilities to return to the Lodge and interact with his guests. Yet he couldn't help thinking that the best medicine was sitting across from him, gazing at him with green eyes that were somehow as fiery as her hair.
How fiercely she championed him! He couldn't remember ever having a champion. In his life of privilege growing up, he'd never needed one. At Eton, he'd been one of the tallest and most athletic lads, and one of the smartest. He and Quimby had been a force to be reckoned with. And when his father had died, everyone had expected Whit to be the champion. Even the three men who had served as trustees and guardians until he reached his majority had believed that allowing him to make decisions would help him become the earl he needed to be to carry on after his father.
They would none of them have advised him to neglect his duty now for the sake of something as insignificant as his own comfort.
“I thank you both for your concern,” he said, leaning against the seat back to lessen the tension on his ribs. “I cannot return your kindness by sending you and the others away.”
Ruby puffed out a sigh and turned her gaze out the window, where they were passing through the village. Whit felt for her. She truly didn't want to be here. If he was the gentleman he claimed to be, he would give her leave to return to London. Yet the very fact that she was such an ardent supporter made him wish for her to stay.
“Wise fellow,” her father said with a nod of approval, though his gaze rested on his daughter's head, and his smile faded as Ruby steadfastly said nothing.
Time to turn the conversation to other matters. “I see the rain followed us,” Whit tried. “Perhaps it will be better tomorrow.”
“No doubt,” Ruby's father agreed, nodding with far more enthusiasm than the subject warranted.
Ruby sighed once more.
“And what of Hollyoak Farm?” Whit tried again. “Did you notice a horse that particularly interested you, Ruby?”
“After seeing what happened to you?” Ruby told the view. “No.”
Oh, but her back was up. He glanced at her father, who shrugged as if to disavow all ability to sway her. Then he leaned closer, and Whit saw a decided twinkle in his gray eyes.
“Not much of a horse man myself, my lord,” he confided. “I prefer the pleasures of the town. And I appreciate a fellow who helps make that town better. As such, I must thank you.”
Whit frowned, but Ruby turned from the window to eye her father, as well.
“Oh, indeed, indeed,” Hollingsford assured him. “Weren't you behind the recent renovations at the orphan asylum?”
Ruby looked to Whit, eyes widening. “
You
engineered the new wing?”
He refused to preen under her admiration. “I was one of several concerned about the state of the building,” he replied. “It required little work on my part.”
Ruby cocked her head as if trying to determine the truth of that statement, but her father shook his finger at Whit. “That's not what I heard. Gossip had it you were there twice a week, confirming that everything was going as planned, encouraging the children and the staff. Didn't the little ones throw you a party at the end?”
“They deserved a celebration,” Whit said, smiling in memory of the beaming faces, the little hands reaching to shake his. “For all they've been through, they are still children.”
Ruby's mouth twitched, as if she were fighting a smile. Her father must have noticed, for he nudged her knee with his own. “Ruby's quite fond of children, too. Tell his lordship about your school, my girl.”
She shifted away from him as if uncomfortable with his insistence, but she met Whit's gaze. “I am attempting to bring a free school to Wapping.”
The height of her chin and the tension in her tone told him she expected him to argue with her. Some of the poorest of London's poor lived in Wapping, eking out a living along the Thames. He'd heard more than one lord complain that the area was a blight on the city and should be leveled. Few people were willing to take action to help the poor souls who lived there.
Whit applauded her, gloves thudding. “A bold venture, but one that will give those children opportunities for a better life.” He dropped his hands. “I have supported the Thames police, headquartered in Wapping. If you have need for a Parliamentary bill for the school, I'd be happy to sponsor it.”
Her smile curved, and he felt a constriction in his chest that had nothing to do with the wrapping on his ribs.
“You see?” her father all but crowed. “I told you you'd find support if you asked. Lord Danning even had something to say about the old sailor's home, from what I hear.”
The fellow would have him a saint in a moment! He could not take such credit. He knew how often he struggled to manage the requests put upon his time.
“Interesting how well informed you are about my activities, sir,” he said.
Ruby narrowed her eyes at her father, but Hollingsford chuckled. “Oh, I try to keep up with the doings of my clients,” he said with an easy smile. “Never know when some bauble might be needed to commemorate an occasion, say a wedding.” He winked at his daughter.
Ruby scowled at him. “Lord Danning isn't a client, from what I can tell. You both claim never to have met.” She glanced at Whit for confirmation, and he inclined his head in agreement.
Her father smiled. “We never met before this visit, although I did undertake a commission, through your cousin, my lord.”
The way he looked at Whit said he thought Whit would remember the occasion. But Whit had no idea what he was talking about.
“So that's how you know Mr. Calder,” Ruby said, eyes gleaming in challenge. “Just what commission was this?”
“Now, then, you know I never betray client privilege,” he said, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest as if to put up a barricade to additional questions.
Ruby turned to Whit again. “As you were the client, you have every right to make him confess. What did you have your cousin do about a piece of jewelry?”
Whit shook his head. “I am unaware of any such commission. I fear you must be mistaken, Hollingsford.”
Her father nodded, but he didn't drop his hands. “I beg your pardon, then. I only know that your efforts are laudable, my lord. I admire a fellow who tries to leave the world a little better than when he entered it.”
“Only doing my duty,” Whit assured him.
Ruby's frown didn't ease. But was it his activities or her father's that concerned her?
Chapter Seven
R
uby could barely sit still as the carriage trundled through the village and down toward the bridge that led to the Lodge. Though she couldn't help feeling impressed by all the generous actions her father ascribed to Whit and his humble response to the praise, she felt her temper stirring inside her.
Certainly, she had enough ingredients for a proper stew: her concern for Whit, her frustration about this visit, even the relentless rain that obscured the Derbyshire peaks as they crossed the bridge. If she didn't act soon, something was bound to spill out, and she knew the results would be messy. She simply had to find a way to let off some steam!
The best way to do that, she had always found, was to focus her attentions on something or someone else. That's what she'd done when Lord Milton had proved to be a scoundrel. That's what she did when she was lonely in London. There were always those less fortunate who needed help, a friend who could use cheering up.
And right now, the person in her opinion who needed the most help was Whitfield Calder, Earl of Danning.
He sat across from her, smiling at something her father said as the carriage pulled into the yard in front of the Lodge, but he didn't fool her. She saw the way he held himself, far too stiff in contrast to his usual easy grace. Despite his words, his injury pained him. And dealing with his guests wasn't going to help.
“Thank you again for your kindness,” he told her and her father as the carriage drew to a stop and footmen came running to help them alight. “I appreciate you waiting for me and accompanying me home.”
Did he know he called this place home? His duties, to his other estate and to Parliament, must require him to live many places. Yet this quaint stone cottage was where his heart lay. Ruby's temper bubbled up anew. It wasn't right that these people were spoiling his time here!
“Tell Mr. Quimby his master has been injured and requires his assistance,” she murmured to the footman who helped her from the carriage. The fellow looked startled, but he hurried into the house ahead of them.
She made a point of linking her arm with Whit's, strolling along at half her normal pace to ensure he walked slowly, as well. Though she could hear Lady Wesworth's commanding voice, complaining as usual, even from the entry, she steered Whit toward the stairs.
Mr. Quimby was just descending. His head was high, his step measured, his clothes finer than those of most of the other gentlemen. Though his hairâa nimbus of yellow about his headâalways looked a bit unkempt, it seemed to emphasize his haste in answering her call.
“Quimby,” Whit said with a frown, removing his arm from hers. “Is something wrong?”
“There is an urgent matter requiring your attention upstairs, my lord,” he said.
Good. That meant Whit would have a few moments away from the others, perhaps a chance to rest.
“There appears to be an urgent matter downstairs, as well,” Whit replied, aiming his frown toward the withdrawing room, where Mr. Stokely-Trent's rumble had joined the hubbub.
“I'll see to it,” Ruby promised. “Besides, you'll want to change.”
He turned his frown her way, as if he could not understand what she was about. She returned her hand to his arm. “Please, Whit. Let me help. It will keep me from going mad.”
His smile hitched up at one corner as if he thought her quite mad enough already. “Very well, Ruby. Thank you. I'll be down shortly.”
She met Mr. Quimby's gaze around him. “Take all the time you need. It isn't every day a fellow is kicked by a horse.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing the valet's eyes goggle. But he swiftly recovered and stepped aside to allow Whit to precede him up the stairs.
“See to it that he gets some rest, will you?” Ruby murmured to the valet.
Quimby offered a quick smile. “Not so easy with Lord Danning, I fear. But I'll do what I can. Thank you, Miss Hollingsford.”
Ruby nodded and stepped back.
“That was nicely done, my girl,” her father murmured as the valet followed Whit up the stairs. “What now?”
Someone struck the spinet's keys with excessive force. Ruby winced.
“For now,” she told her father, “keep them from eating their young while I get out of this riding habit, and then send the butler to me. I intend to tame those nobs, once and for all!”
* * *
Whit allowed Quimby to help him off with his coat, sucking in a breath at the pain the movement caused. Even wrapped in linen, his ribs felt as if they were on fire.
“I thought you knew better than to stand behind a horse,” Quimby commented after Whit explained what had happened.
“I thought I knew a great many things I seem to have forgotten,” Whit replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. Just the dip of the mattress set his body to protesting. “Such as how to manage a simple house party. Help me with these boots, will you?”
Quimby straddled his leg and tugged on the right boot. “I will send your excuses to your guests and request cool compresses from the kitchen.”
“You will do neither,” Whit argued, grimacing as the first boot came off and his body recoiled. “I know my duty.”
In answer, Quimby yanked off the second boot and marched them to the dressing room.
Whit bit back a harsh word as he gingerly straightened. Without the tight-fitting coat, it felt easier to breathe. The chair by the fire beckoned, but he could not leave Ruby to the questionable mercy of his quarrelsome guests. Quimby may have invited them all here, but Whit was the host.
His valet returned with a quilted navy satin banyan picked out in gold thread and two cravats.
“Feeling puckish?” Whit teased as he stood and turned to allow Quimby to ease the loose coat up his arms and over his shoulders. “You haven't required more than one try at tying a cravat since we were lads.”
“I have always said that if you cannot manage a decent fold on the first pass,” Quimby agreed, coming around to the front, “cease trying. However, in this case, the second cravat is for your arm.”
Whit frowned as his valet whipped off the wilted cravat, then set about neatly tying the new one around Whit's neck. “My arm isn't injured, Quimby.”
“Are you certain?” Quimby asked, taking a step back and cocking his head. “A sling is accounted quite dashing and heroic, even if you don't need it. So, I've heard, is an eye patch, but I don't have one handy, worse luck.”
Whit chuckled. “No sling and no eye patch. I have no wish to appear heroic before these people. Now, was something awaiting my attention or was that more of your posturing?”
Quimby allowed himself a sigh as he went to the travel desk set on a small table by the bed. “As to its urgency, only you can say. We retrieved the mail from the village while you were out, and you were forwarded several requests.”
Whit sighed, as well. He had tried to hire experienced, capable men as the stewards and bailiffs over his holdings, but they each seemed compelled to defer to his judgment. He was thankful Quimby generally read all his mail and gave him only those which truly required his involvement.
“The steward at your seat in Suffolk is concerned about some recent rains,” Quimby reported now, picking up a sheet of paper as if to refresh his memory. “He wants your permission to open the gates on the drainage ditches.”
“Tell him to open them only if that will cause no damage to our neighbors downstream,” Whit said, stretching a bit to settle the bandage.
“Very good,” Quimby replied with a nod, eyes on the parchment. “And there was a note from your cousin Lucretia asking if she might wear the Danning diamonds to an assembly in Kent in August.”
Odd that Quimby thought such a request required Whit's attention, but perhaps Lucretia was one of those who insisted on only dealing with the earl and would not settle for Quimby's response. He waved a hand, taking a few steps and finding himself steadier than when he'd arrived. “Of course. Though why she wants to deck herself out for a country assembly is beyond me.”
“The Danning diamonds are a magnificent set, my lord,” Quimby reminded him, rather smugly, Whit thought. “No doubt she hopes to impress her friends with her connections.”
“I'm only thankful Charles didn't inherit his sister's pretensions,” Whit said, moving toward the door.
“As you say, my lord.”
The sentence was clipped, beyond precise. Whit paused to eye his friend. “Has Charles done something to offend you, Quimby?”
His valet laid the note back on the travel desk and busied himself with smoothing the bedclothes Whit had disturbed. “Not me personally, my lord.”
Whit strode back into the room. “When the number of
my lords
rivals the number of sentences spoken between us, I know something is wrong. Out with it.”
Quimby offered him a tight-lipped smile. “I am merely concerned for Mr. Calder's finances. He seems acutely interested in marrying one of your ladies, all of whom have funds to spare.”
Whit started laughing, until his ribs protested. “Is that it?” he asked his valet. “You go to all the trouble of setting up a campaign to find me a wife, and you fear Charles will win a wife instead? If God intends me to marry one of these women, I trust Him to see it through.”
Quimby beamed. “I'm very glad to hear you say that. For a while, I was certain you intended to get in the way of your own happiness.”
Whit frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Quimby shrugged. “You have set inordinately high standards for marriage. You've told me about how your mother and father were so intricately linked that one could barely survive without the other. I've wondered if such a paragon as your mother can exist on this plane.”
Whit stiffened. “I've never implied that my mother was a saint.”
“You've hardly remembered whether she was sinner,” Quimby pointed out good-naturedly. “And I'd be the last person to tell you you can't marry for love, my lad. But does it strike you that perhaps you have excessively high expectations for the emotion?”
“No,” Whit said flatly. “I've had to manage on my own since I was fifteen, doing my duty at any cost. I know my responsibility to father an heir but the least I should expect is to marry a woman of my own choosing.”
“Precisely,” Quimby agreed. “Now all I ask is that you choose her.”
Whit shook his head as he started for the door once more. “From the sound of it, you have the winner all picked out.”
“Not at all!” Quimby protested, following him. “But you can't mind me praying that you'll have the wisdom to know the lady yourself.”
Whit refused to respond as he quit the room. Quimby could pray all he liked. Whit would be the one to decide when he would give his heart. For now, he descended to the ground floor and steeled himself to deal with his guests.
He hadn't heard any shouts or crying coming from the nether regions, but that might only mean his guests were sitting in the withdrawing room glaring gloomily at each other. However, what he found inside the room stunned him, and he could only halt in the doorway, staring.
The space, which admittedly had a martial air to the furnishings, was for once the picture of placid domesticity. The elder Stokely-Trents, Lady Wesworth and Ruby's father were playing whist civilly and calmly. He even spotted a smile curving the marchioness's generally unforgiving lips as she laid down the ace of hearts. Lady Amelia was humming as her fingers ranged along the keyboard in a congenial air, and Henrietta and Charles had a pile of books between them on the sofa and were studiously comparing titles and contents.
Meanwhile, Ruby, now gowned in a russet day dress with puffy tops on the long sleeves and every edge trimmed in double bands of ecru lace, flitted from one group to the other, encouraging, inquiring about needs, offering support. He wasn't sure whether to join them or tiptoe back upstairs and leave them in peace.
But Henrietta spotted him and waved a hand. “Danning! You're among the living!”
His other guests immediately perked up, and he felt as if the temperature was rising in the room. Ruby moved to the center of the space. With the candlelight gleaming in her upswept hair, she commanded attention even before she spoke.
“How good to see you, my lord,” she said, smile bright. “Lady Amelia has been practicing an air just to please you, and Miss Stokely-Trent has chosen a selection of books for you to enjoy while recuperating.”
As if satisfied that their various offspring had been given their due, the parents returned to their game.
“How kind of you both,” Whit said with a nod to either woman. As if that was all they had wanted as well, they, too, returned to their pastimes. He drew closer to Ruby.
A smile was playing about her lovely lips, and for once the light in her green eyes was more sparkle than fire.
“How did you manage this?” he murmured.
She winked at him. “Oh, a lady will do most anything for a little peace, my lord.” She leaned closer. “I advise you to go listen to a song, then comment on the literary offerings. By then, an early dinner should be ready to be served.”
Bemused, Whit did as she bid.
The peace remained unbroken through dinner. Several times he caught his butler or footman looking to Ruby for direction, and a lifting of her brow was all it took to set them back on course. She'd obviously enlisted their assistance in keeping the guests entertained. But Whit would like to have been standing in the kitchen to see how his mercurial chef took the news that the food was to be served a full two hours earlier than usual. Still, he could not fault the ragout of beef, braised asparagus and compote of summer fruit that was brought in for the first course.
He also wondered how his butler, Mr. Hennessy, felt about the change in the seating arrangements. Someone had written out the names of his guests on little pieces of paper, elegant script on parchment, and set them above the plates along the table. Whit was positioned at the head of the table and Lady Wesworth at the foot as if to give them pride of place. Lady Amelia sat on Whit's right, Henrietta at his left, so neither family could complain he was not giving them sufficient attention.