Number one. Soak the leg in a bath of water as hot as can be borne (without scalding the skin) for at least ten minutes.
Number two. While the flesh and muscles are still warm, vigorously massage the affected area of the leg.
Number three. Apply a poultice (made from comfrey leaves soaked in boiling water) to the leg and cover with bandages overnight.
Repeat daily.
Each time he read the steps—and he’d read them several times—they made him chuckle. Especially the last line. As though he had nothing more pressing to do than soak in a bath and mash up comfrey day after day.
Not that he objected to her nursing advice. It was nice that someone cared enough to try to help him in spite of the fact that his was a hopeless case.
Of course, she’d probably only given him her prescribed treatment out of a sense of duty—payment in return for the favor he was doing her with regard to the portraits. She couldn’t know that he’d latch on to any excuse to spend a few moments basking in her light.
The kiss had been a mistake. It was like opening a door and taking a peek at paradise, but knowing he could never, ever be admitted. Daphne herself had said she was looking for a kind, good-hearted gentleman. Someone decent and noble. Someone she could raise a family with.
That wasn’t him.
But the way she’d felt in his arms, the way she’d responded to his kiss, was hard to forget. He’d kissed her without holding back, hoping to show her once and for all that she should keep her distance from him. Not just physically, but in other ways, too. She shouldn’t introduce him to little ruffians with freckles or show him classrooms with barren bookshelves. She shouldn’t involve him in her problems or tell him what kind of man she planned to marry. And she certainly shouldn’t waste her time trying to heal him. No amount of soaking was going to fix him.
So he’d channeled the full force of his passion into that kiss. He’d greedily tasted her mouth, sucked on her bottom lip, pulled her hips toward his. Although he felt a momentary hesitation on her part—a split second in which she’d been too stunned to move—she hadn’t run away screaming.
And she really ought to have.
Though he was fairly certain that it was the first time she’d been properly—or should he say improperly?—kissed, she hadn’t cowered from him or pretended to be affronted. Instead, she’d met him thrust for thrust and stroke for stroke.
He shifted against the velvet squabs of the coach seat. The mere memory of that encounter on an orphanage staircase set his blood on fire.
The irony did not escape him. The kiss that was intended to get her out of his system would haunt him for the rest of his days.
As the coach crested a hill, Biltmore Manor came into view. The sight of the stately structure, with its gleaming white stone front and its Palladian lines, transported
Ben back a dozen years in time. As a boy, he’d often come home with Robert in between school terms. It was closer to Eton than his parents’ house. At least that was the excuse he’d used. The truth was that Ben preferred Robert’s family to his own. Robert’s parents were cordial and pleasant, but they mostly left Robert and him to their own devices. They could ride, hunt, fish, explore to their hearts’ content without having to endure endless lectures about not achieving one’s potential that were punctuated by lashes from a leather strap.
Yes, Robert’s family was preferable, and he didn’t seem to mind sharing. So Biltmore was the place where Ben had spent summers and kissed the butcher’s daughter and broken his arm after falling off a stallion he had no business riding.
It was somewhat like coming home. Except, this time, Robert wasn’t with him.
The muscles of his thigh twitched like some awful premonition. He tucked Daphne’s note carefully back into his pocket, reached for his flask, and braced himself.
Two days later, Ben seized the opportunity to ask about Charlton.
And got his first hint that some sort of trouble had befallen the squire.
Ben and Hugh were taking a ride around the estate—a short ride, since that was all Ben’s leg would tolerate—with the steward, Nigel Coulton, a short, portly man with a shock of white hair.
“Are those Charlton’s fields to the west?” Ben asked.
“Aye,” said the steward. “He used to ride into the village regularly, but I havna seen him in a few months.”
Hugh scratched his head. “The squire is getting on in his years. Perhaps he doesn’t enjoy riding like he used to, or maybe he’s ill.”
“What about his son?” Ben asked.
The steward spat in an impressive arc. “I see the son, Rowland Hallows, often enough. He frequents the taproom at the Hog and Crown. Canna hold his drink.”
“What does he say about his father?”
“Nothin’ I’d believe.”
Ben stroked his chin. “I think I’ll pay a visit this afternoon.”
“I’ll accompany you,” Hugh volunteered. “It sounds like Hallows is something of a scoundrel. If he’s in his cups, he could be a handful.”
Ben rolled his eyes toward heaven and wished
he
were in his cups. God help him if Hugh felt the need to protect him from scoundrels and the like. “The more the merrier. I just want to see how old Charlton is doing. He used to hunt with Robert and me.”
It was the first time he’d spoken Robert’s name since arriving, and it had slipped out unexpectedly. It hung in the air between the three men, who each recalled his own fond but now-painful memories.
A few moments passed before Hugh said, “Charlton sent a nice card after Robert… died. I should thank him.”
Nigel pulled his hat down low over the snowy white bush atop his head. “If you see him, tell ’im I hope to see him in the village one of these days. Ain’t his fault that his son is an ungrateful brute. There be bad seeds that fall from every tree.” The steward sniffed the air. “A storm’s comin’ in from the south. We’d better head back to the stables.”
As if to confirm Nigel’s prediction, a gust of warm wind rustled the horses’ manes, and thunder rumbled in the distance. A prickling between Ben’s shoulder blades gave him a sudden and inexplicable chill.
Instincts born on the battlefield warned him that something was amiss at Biltmore Manor. It could be something insignificant, but he wished it wasn’t too late to cancel the house party. He didn’t want Daphne anywhere near this place.
Unfortunately, at that very moment, she was probably on her way.
“Miss Honeycote and the Sherbourne sisters should arrive tomorrow.” Hugh added a lump of sugar to his tea and took a seat in Biltmore Manor’s drawing room across from Ben, who was also drinking tea. Not his usual fare, but it couldn’t hurt to keep a clear head before visiting Charlton later that afternoon.
Of course, Ben’s ears had perked up at Hugh’s mention of Daphne, but he did his best to maintain a bored expression. “The rest of the guests, too, I imagine.”
Hugh leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Yes, but I thought you might be most interested in Miss Honeycote’s arrival.”
Ben glared over the rim of his teacup, which he feared was not nearly as effective as glaring over the rim of a brandy snifter. “Why would you think that?”
“I saw you with her at the Seaton musicale and at Vauxhall Gardens. You seemed… happy.”
Ben almost spit out his tea. “Happy?”
“Perhaps that’s a stretch. But you must admit you were less miserable than usual.”
“What’s your point, Hugh?”
Hugh set his cup on the table and tented his fingers, just the way Robert used to. “Though I am very fond of Miss Honeycote,” he said, “she doesn’t look at me the way she looks at you.”
“Maybe if you were more of an ass.”
“Ben. I’m being serious. I think she cares for you, and while part of me resents the hell out of you for that, another part of me thinks… you need someone like her in your life.”
“Jesus, Hugh. Don’t play matchmaker for me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “I just thought you should know that Miss Honeycote is only a friend to me. I once thought we might be more, but lately I’ve realized that it takes two people to fall in love.”
Ben thought about making a flippant remark, because that’s what he
always
did. But that would have been like rejecting the gift that Hugh was laying in his lap, so instead he set down his cup and said, “Your brother would be proud of the man you’ve become.”
Hugh smiled wanly.
And then, because the mood had suddenly grown far too somber, Ben said, “Do we have time for me to beat you in a game of billiards before we head over to Charlton’s?”
Hugh stood and handed Ben his cane. “I suspect it will take several attempts before you’re able to defeat me—if ever.”
“You grow cockier by the day,” Ben said approvingly. “Robert really would be proud.”
A few hours later, Hugh and Ben stood on Charlton’s doorstep. The large, box-shaped house was constructed of
brick, and ambitious ivy scaled each of its four chimneys. From a distance, Ben had admired the bay windows and the simple solidness of its design; upon closer inspection, however, he noted that one shutter had fallen off its hinges and tall weeds had poked up between the stones of the drive.
Hugh rang the bell and a woman—the housekeeper, if the large ring of keys at her waist was any indication—opened the door. Her round spectacles accentuated the round apples of her cheeks. “How may I help you?” she asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.
Hugh stepped forward. “I am Lord Biltmore, and this is my friend, the Earl of Foxburn. I recently returned from—”
“Lord Biltmore?” A cautious smile split the housekeeper’s face. “Why, we’d heard you’d come back. Please, come in. I’m Mrs. Parfitt.”
“Thank you.” Hugh handed over his hat. Ben followed suit. The housekeeper was friendly enough and might be a good source of information.
“We were so sorry to hear about the passing of your brother,” Mrs. Parfitt said. “Never was there a finer man.”
Ben saw the sadness in the housekeeper’s eyes and decided he liked her. He sometimes forgot that he wasn’t the only one who mourned losing Robert.
“Thank you,” Hugh said again. “He considered Lord Charlton a friend.”
“Oh, indeed.” She looked from Hugh to Ben and back again. “The staff was delighted to hear you’d returned to Biltmore Manor. But what brings you gentlemen here?”
“We’d like to see Lord Charlton,” Ben said. “We apologize for not sending notice, but we hoped he might be available for a short visit.”
“I don’t know.” She wrung her hands. “He hasn’t had any visitors in a long time, although he is having a good day.”
“I hope he hasn’t been ill,” Hugh said kindly.
“He’s not been well, Lord Biltmore. Not sick, exactly, but he hasn’t been himself. I can tell you that.”
“If it’s a bad time, we can come back,” Hugh offered.
But Ben didn’t want to waste an opportunity. If the baron was having a good day, this might be his best chance to ask about the portraits. “On the other hand, a little company might be just the thing to cheer him,” Ben said. “And we wouldn’t stay long.”
“Mr. Hallows, his son, doesn’t normally approve of visitors.”
“Rowland and I used to play together,” Hugh said.
“Is he out?” Ben asked.
Mrs. Parfitt pushed her spectacles farther up her bulb-shaped nose. “Yes. He rode into the village.”
Ben smiled conspiratorially. “We’ll be quick. A short visit will lift Lord Charlton’s spirits, and his son need never know we were here.”
“He could return at any time.”
Ben shrugged. “If he does, you may tell him that you tried to stop me from going up to see him but I wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
The housekeeper clucked her tongue. “That’s not far from the truth, now, is it?”
“No.”
“Very well. I’ll take you up to his bedchamber, but just for a short time. And if he is sleeping, you must promise not to wake him. He needs his rest.”
“We wouldn’t dream of disturbing him,” Ben assured her.
As the housekeeper led the way up the stairs, a sudden panic gripped him. What if Daphne’s portrait was hanging in the hallway upstairs or, worse, in Charlton’s bedchamber? Ben would have to create some sort of scene and get Hugh out of the house before he had a chance to identify Daphne. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Mrs. Parfitt toddled down the hall where she pushed open the door to a spacious bedroom. Only one of the room’s three windows admitted light. The curtains on the other two were drawn tight. The walls were utterly and blessedly devoid of artwork. The baron sat up in his large four-poster bed, a book open on his lap.
“My lord, you have two fine gentlemen here to see you.” Mrs. Parfitt’s voice bounced up and down as though she were speaking to a rather simple child.
“What’s this?” Charlton slammed the book shut and sat up straighter. His gaze went to Hugh and the older man’s glassy eyes grew wide. “Bless my soul. Robert?”
Hugh walked closer to the bed. “No, Lord Charlton, it’s Hugh—Robert’s younger brother.”
Damn. Charlton was in bad shape.
He squinted, as if he didn’t quite believe Hugh, then gave a loud sigh. “Of course you are. You looked so much like your brother for a moment, that’s all.”
Beyond the cleft chin, Ben had never noticed a resemblance. But maybe he was too close to the brothers to see it. It would be bloody inconvenient if Charlton were insane.
“Lord Foxburn and I have come to visit.”
Ben stepped forward. “Charlton.” The baron shook his hand, but a mild look of confusion clouded his eyes.
“We went hunting last year,” Ben said. “You, Robert, and I. Robert shot a pheasant and your hound—”
“Molly!” the baron exclaimed. “Molly snatched that bird right out of the air. Yes,” he said more softly. “I remember.”
“We’re sorry to hear you haven’t been well,” Hugh said.
“Ah, it’s nothing. I’m a little weak. A little forgetful. But Rowland takes care of everything. I’m fortunate that Eleanor gave me a son before she left this world. If it weren’t for Rowland, I don’t know what would become of me or the estate or the staff. We’ve missed you around here,” he said sincerely. “It’s a tragedy about Robert. First the eldest brother, and then him. Devastating. But you’ll do a fine job, Hugh. Make a fine viscount.”