Mending Him (3 page)

“That shoulder is causing you pain.” Charles was not used to feeling shame, and he wasn’t relishing the weight of it as he recalled how the man’s shoulder had been hurt from Charles toppling onto him like some great oaf.

“It’s much better.” Grayson straightened. “I apologize for not being properly dressed. I was getting ready for bed when I decided someone ought to check on you. I believe I might have heard a thump?”

He’d been getting ready for bed? Charles noticed now the slits of light between the heavy library curtains had vanished. Now the only sources of light were two lamps on the desk that had been shoved into a corner to make room for the cot.

Had Grayson lit them?

Charles had lost hours, and dinnertime as well, which was a pity because his now-empty stomach had begun to grumble.

He awkwardly folded the waistcoat, set it on the floor next to him and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Robbie straightened and looked away. “I’d offer to help, but I think I’d be more likely to get in your way.”

Charles would love to drawl something about how he wouldn’t mind at all if his dear new friend Robbie got in his way. But, of course, he would not. Although he swore he felt a glimmer of…something simmering in the air between them, it was more likely his hopeful sot’s imagination. He would never risk trying to seduce the one man who’d treated him kindly and possibly end up driving him off.

Of course, that driver, Forrester had also been quite kind, sharing the last of his whisky. Charles pulled off his shirt, considering that one change in his new existence that seemed rather freeing. He wasn’t used to thinking of servants as any sort of companion. In the past, he wouldn’t even talk about personal things with someone like McNair. He’d certainly never noticed the in-between people, men like Robbie, who was not a servant yet appeared to act like a butler or major domo in this house.

“I’m eternally grateful to you, Mr. Grayson.” Charles met the translucent gray-green eyes, which seemed to grow sharper even as they examined him.

“You’re feeling more the thing? Less dreadful?” Robbie said.

Charles nodded. If he could imagine touching that caring face, drawing it close for a kiss or two, he definitely felt more like himself. “I’ve rallied, thanks to you.”

Robbie laid his hands on Charles’s shoulders and carefully squatted. Those hands were large for his slender size and obviously strong. Charles examined them. Definitely bitten nails. His gaze traveled again to the bit of hair that showed at the top of Robbie’s unbuttoned shirt. Charles raised his eyes and met the cool gaze. They remained locked together that way for a powerful few moments. Suddenly, the slight Robbie seemed less inconsequential. Charles raised his own hand, intending to cover the warm, strong grip on his shoulder.

“I shall not tell my aunt and uncle about this evening, but the servants know and will likely complain,” Robbie whispered, which showed he believed servants to be listening. “This family is not liberal in its views. There is little tolerance for anything unconventional.” He paused, then added, “Such as overindulgence in drink.”

Charles’s hand froze. He lowered it. There was dark warning in those words. Not a threat, of course, but something hard as steel. A message which curbed his budding desire and let him know in unequivocal terms that there was no place for it to take root and grow.

Charles swallowed his thousandth apology and only said, “Ah.”

Robbie squeezed both shoulders once, fast, then released his grip. “I needed to warn you.” He lurched awkwardly to his feet. Charles reached out to steady him.

“Oh no, I’m quite used to my own clumsiness.” The light, pleasant tone had returned to his voice. “I’ll remain here and wait until I know you’ll be all right.”

A light scratch came at the door.

Stewart entered, carrying two empty containers. One was the vase, which he put on the cabinet. The other was a flowered chamber pot.

Robbie nodded, and the footman slid it under the cot.

“It was entirely our fault for forgetting such an important detail. I hope you will forgive us?” Robbie spoke in a normal voice, instead of the middle-of-the-night hushed tones they’d been employing. He watched Stewart, not Charles.

Nice of him to try to remove the blame that belonged to Charles. “Of course,” Charles said.

“Stewart, please help Mr. Worthington back into his bed.” Robbie’s smile seemed perfunctory. “Good night, Cousin Charles. I hope you feel better.” He plunked the ugly flower arrangement back into the urn, then hurried out of the room.

Chapter Three

Ruffled. Like a cat whose fur has been stroked the wrong way. Crackles and pops of static electricity prickled his skin and zipped through his bloodstream. Robbie did not care for the feeling
at all
. Nor had he been prepared for a stab of lust to spear through him when he’d merely gone to offer a helping hand to the newcomer.

When he’d imagined Worthington’s arrival, at best he’d hoped to gain a friend, someone to spend an amiable hour with now and again. At worse, he’d feared an arrogant snob who would ignore or talk down to him. He had
not
expected Charles Worthington, with his dark brown eyes so full of pain and his deep voice rumbling in way that upset Robbie’s equilibrium.

This would not do
, as Aunt Lenore would say.

The flutter of excitement that ricocheted around inside him must be exterminated immediately. He’d succeeded in quashing this sort undesirable attraction before, of course. He’d simply left any room Uncle Phillip’s lawyer’s assistant entered. That man, slender and meek, barely resembled Worthington, but both had smiles that sparked that same swirling fear in Robbie. He’d easily shed that old infatuation and no longer thought of that assistant’s hands or smile except of course, at night or quiet times alone.

He deemed it best to keep his distance from Worthington for a while. Let the man gain his bearings here on his own, and, in the meantime, Robbie might find his footing again too.

By the following morning, despite a restless night’s sleep, Robbie felt quite himself again as he faced Bertie over a table laden with kippers, eggs and toast in the family’s small breakfast room. Gemma still ate in the nursery with her nanny.

“What do you think of Mr. Worthington?” the other Robert in the family, Bertie, asked. The boy regarded Robbie over a toast triangle with a frown reminiscent of his brother, Samuel. “I heard Stewart say to one of the other footmen that Worthington’s a sloppy souse.”

“Stewart shouldn’t be speaking out of turn about our guest. Mr. Worthington was also tired from his journey.”

“Well, I thought he was funny with the singing and everything. I think he seems a jolly fellow.” Bertie sat back and bit off a toast corner.

“What are your plans for the day, Master Bert?” Robbie changed the subject from the very subject he’d intended
not
to dwell on. “Off hunting for treasure or practicing piracy, I presume?”

“Highwayman,” Bertie replied. “In the woods. With Liam, but not Gemma.”

“I’m sure she’d love to play and won’t be too happy to be left behind. Would you?”

“No. But she’s a girl
and
she’s too little. She can’t climb trees or do anything useful. She can’t be a highwayman.”

“Hm.” Robbie set down his cup and considered the problem. Gemma would cry her eyes red if Bertie and Liam, the local banker’s son, spent an entire day rambling in the woods without her. She’d been devastated when Bert first left for school and mourned his loss like a sad little ghost flitting around the house.

“Maybe she could drive the coach you attack, or act as the sheriff searching the woods for your hideout,” Robbie improvised. He well recalled what it was like to be the child who was left alone while stronger, healthier boys went out to play, and he felt a powerful urge to make sure Gemma had all the childish fun she could before she was forced into corsets and long skirts.

He leveled his gaze on Bertie. “Your sister misses you dreadfully when you’re away at school. You’re here for such a short time between terms, couldn’t you give a little attention to her? Take her along with you today once she has finished her lessons with Miss Peters.”

Bertie grimaced and swallowed the last of his breakfast. “Oh, all right. I ’spose so.”

“Good lad.” Robbie smiled at his little cousin and earned a quick grin in return.

At nearly eleven, Bertie could not really be called little anymore, Robbie realized. His babyish roundness was honed away, and the man he would someday be emerged in the strong bones of his face and form. Another straight-backed, blond-haired Chester in Uncle Phillip’s mold. Robbie only prayed that the sweet child wouldn’t grow to be too much like his arrogant older brother. But already there were changes in Bert’s character, a cooler exterior, a harder heart, courtesy of boarding school.

Robbie shrugged off miserable memories of his own school days—a bleak and endless time to be sure—and went to find his uncle.

“Sorry to rise so late, sir.” Robbie greeted Phillip as he entered the organized clutter of the office where his uncle and the bailiff sat, discussing estate affairs.

Leaning back in his large leather chair, Uncle Phillip nodded. “That’s quite all right. You earned a late rest. I thank you for helping out with my Cousin Charles. His arrival was quite an event. An embarrassment to our family, as I’m sure word of this will spread through the village and beyond. Servants enjoy passing on such tidbits of scandal.”

Robbie feared his uncle was right. Gossip always oozed through the county like water from a leaky pipe, and although Worthington’s sodden state was not the Chesters’ fault, the incident would reflect poorly on the family in the community’s eyes. Wagging tongues and narrow-minded rural morality—Robbie had once hoped to experience a broader scope of living in London, but his time there had been quickly aborted due to health issues, so here he remained in his country-mouse life.

Robbie took a seat in the straight back chair across the desk from his uncle, stiffly, for both his leg and shoulder were giving him twinges today. He greeted Mr. Todd, a brawny man from the southern part of the county, whom Robbie had urged his uncle to hire after discovering former bailiff, Mr. Smithers, had embezzled from the estate.

“I thank you again for offering a kind hand to my recalcitrant cousin,” Phillip said. “The sooner the man is back on his feet, the better. Since you have such a gentle way with children and the infirm, I hope you will continue to help him to recuperate.”

Robbie knew that brisk tone well. Uncle Phillip’s “I hope you will” meant “you must”.

“Oh. I…” Robbie was at a loss. Uncle Phillip required the exact opposite of keeping distance between himself and the annoying yet alluring Charles Worthington. “That is to say, I have my hands full with helping Mr. Todd with the accounts and implementing all the improvements we’ve discussed. We still haven’t decided if diverting that stream in the McGillis’s farm is the wisest—”

“I appreciate all you’ve done to help put the estate back on track, but Mr. Todd is competent to carry on the work. Of course, you’re still very necessary, Robbie. Your bookwork is exemplary and I rely on you for your ideas and innovations. You’re a very clever young man.”

Uncle Phillip leaned forward in his armchair, the worn leather creaking slightly as he shifted. His long features and golden hair fading to gray gave him a leonine appearance—kindly, wise…and decided. “You have served the family well. All your work here has been appreciated, but I think it’s time we take another look at your future. I am not certain if you wanted to again try for another apprenticeship. If not, I have acquaintances who could use a good employee in their offices. It’s time for you to begin something new.”

There it was. The exact thing he’d longed for, extended on a hand of kindness like a piece of enticing fruit. The trouble was he’d grown too comfortable in this little corner of the world, a place where he knew what was expected of him and where he could be of good use. Living on his own in the city was a frightening, if exciting, proposition.

“That would be… I would greatly appreciate that,” he stammered.

“For now, however, I’m afraid I count on you to assist my cousin during his recovery. I would like you to stay until he is entirely better.” Uncle Phillip drummed his fingers on his desk and cleared his throat. “We’ve had word that Samuel will be returning home from France sooner than expected. He will be staying at home now. It his duty to take on many of the responsibilities I’ve relied on you to perform.”

Robbie nodded. He even managed a small smile, although he felt a bit as if he’d been slapped. This was the real reason for his uncle’s speech about moving on. He was to be replaced.

He’d realized the time would come when Samuel would take his rightful place as heir, yet he’d enjoyed the sense of being an indispensable right hand to his uncle. It hurt to know he wasn’t.

During the many years he’d lived with the Chesters, Robbie had sometimes nearly forgotten he wasn’t their son. But then someone would say or do something, an invitation would come for “the family”, and Robbie would be left home. Such small matters reminded him of the distance between them. He was not a guest or employee, and he
was
a part of the family, but never quite a full-fledged member.

“Very well,” he answered as he realized his silence had gone on too long. He spoke absently, not truly heeding his own response. “When the time is right for the transition, I will step aside. You’re right, Uncle Phillip. It is time I made my own way in the world.”

Charles’s head pounded and his eyes seemed to be glued shut. A thick, foul-tasting substance coated his mouth. His legs were stiff and throbbing with pain. If he opened his eyes, he knew everything would only hurt worse. Any ray of sunlight sneaking between the heavy drapes at the windows would spear into his head like a knife and finish him off. Maybe he should continue to lie here until the blessed dark of night resumed.

But life went on. A man couldn’t hide from reality under the bedcovers like a child fearing monsters in dark corners. And he couldn’t drink away reality either.

Charles peeled open his eyes and sat. He waited until the thumping in his head subsided, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Sucking in a breath, he put his feet on the floor and stood, holding on to the edge of the bed for balance. And then he let go and continued to stand.

Standing. On his own two feet. Everything would be all right. He would become himself again.

It took only the length of time for that thought to enter his head before his legs buckled and he fell. Luckily, the wheeled chair was close beside the bed. He caught an arm of the heavy thing on the way down and heaved himself back into its confines.

All right. So his weakened legs wouldn’t hold him yet. But at least he was no longer having those strange symptoms he’d suffered from over the last months—the ones that had led to the carriage accident. His legs had turned to jelly, and he’d stumbled a few times. And then the symptoms had grown worse. Numb extremities, loss of control over his muscles. One day he’d woken on the floor after one of those fits of weakness drooling, for God’s sake! Demeaning, debilitating, and no doctor could find a thing wrong with him.

His friend, a doctor, had suggested a good sanitarium, and Charles soon realized he’d meant an insane asylum.

“You have a vivid imagination,”
his friend had explained gently. That conversation had taken place even before the worst of the illness had robbed him of everything. Fear of losing control like that again swept through him. Whatever the strange illness had been, it had stricken him out of the blue. What if it were to happen again?

But no. He couldn’t think that way. He’d never before lived his life in fear, and he wasn’t about to start now.

And all of that drinking? No. Not prompted by fear. He refused to consider such an idea.

Charles pushed at the wheels of the chair and moved himself several feet across the floor. He was just trying to figure out how he’d get to his clothing and dress himself when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in.” He looked up and was unreasonably disappointed when the footman, Stewart, and not Cousin Robbie entered the room. “Ah, so they’ve assigned you to be my valet, or is it caretaker? Sorry about that and about the trouble I caused last night.”

Apologies to a servant? The old Charles would never have given a thought to any mess he made for someone else to clean up.

“That’s fine, sir. I’m glad to help.” Stewart moved about quickly, helping Charles wash and dress, then pushed the unwieldy chair out of the room, careful not to scrape the doorframe on the way through.

Cleaned and clothed, Charles felt leagues better than he had the previous night. Sunlight shone through windowpanes, illuminating the breakfast room, and he fell upon the kippers and eggs, toast and tea with a hearty appetite, wishing there were sausages as well.

The room was quiet but for the clinking of fork against plate. None of the Chesters appeared, and Charles wondered how much in disgrace he was with the family. Stewart stood nearby to wait on him as needed.

“Do you think you might push me outdoors for a bit of fresh air?” Questions instead of commands were apparently the new order.
No longer the master of the house
—yet he could contemplate that fact without the bitterness it usually engendered. Perhaps his lack of rancor could be the result of a good breakfast, the first he’d had in weeks. Bankruptcy tended to make meals less consistent.

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir. I have other duties to attend to.”

“Oh, of course,” Charles said airily as if he had no true interest in going outside. “Then perhaps I should return to my, ah, room.” The converted library seemed as good a place as any for imprisonment. Better than most. All those books he’d never had time to read during his past active life.

“All right then.” After a long pause, Stewart added, “Sir.”

Charles suppressed a sigh and wondered if he could find a book on the topic of how to conduct oneself as an infirm and possibly brain-addled houseguest. Perhaps he might write such a monograph.

Rule one:
A dependent must not notice any rudeness or neglect.
No, the first rule must be
do not arrive drunk as a sailor,
quickly followed by rule number two,
if one must be sick, locate an appropriate container.

The door to the breakfast room opened, and there stood Robert Grayson, who didn’t wear a smile.

Rule three:
Do not lust after members of the household.