The Memory of Your Kiss (13 page)

Hoffman’s expression was grim. “Very badly. He took the bullet in his midriff. The doctor says it’s—it’s very serious.”

Sydney closed her eyes and felt herself sway against the table as the impact of this message hit her. She knew such wounds were nearly always fatal. Hoffman stepped close and gripped her elbow.

“Come. Sit down, my lady.”

“I—I need to see to Henry—”

“Allow the doctor to see to him first, then we shall both see him.” With the ease of a long-standing friendship with the master of this house, Hoffman found a cabinet containing a well-stocked bar. He
poured a measure of brandy into a glass and handed it to Sydney. “Here. Drink this.”

Numbly, she did so, and the burning liquid cleared her head. Hoffman took a chair nearby.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you.” She inhaled a long, shuddering breath. “Now. Please tell me what this was all about.”

Again, Hoffman looked embarrassed. “It was a duel. Kingsley challenged Paxton. As Henry’s second, I met with Kingsley’s man, but Kingsley refused any terms.” He raised his hands, then dropped them in a gesture of despair. “We honestly thought they would both
delope
and that would be the end of it.”

“ ‘The end of it,’” she repeated dully. “The end of
what
? What on earth was this about?”

Hoffman looked away, then sighed and returned his gaze to hers. “Ralph Kingsley is the youngest brother of Baron Ryesdale.”

“Oh? Oh. Oh, dear. It was about
her
?”

Hoffman nodded. “Kingsley has tried to challenge Henry before. He gets drunk and starts ranting about family honor and berating Henry. Always before, Henry was able to defuse the situation and walk away. This time it was a very public forum—White’s. Henry could not refuse a challenge.”

“Well, he probably
could
have done so,” she said sharply, still in shock.

“I’m sorry, Lady Paxton, but no gentleman could have done so.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and refused to argue with him. Then she stood. “Let us see to Henry.”

In Henry’s bedchamber, they found the patient already changed into a nightshirt and lying in the middle of his oversize bed, attended by his valet and the doctor, who was introduced as Dr. Fisher. Perspiration beaded on Henry’s face and he grimaced in pain, but opened his eyes when Sydney entered with Hoffman.

He looked at her briefly, then turned his gaze to his friend. “Kin-Kingsley?”

“He’s already left England, probably. It will be many a year before he returns—if ever. Capital offense, you know.”

Henry nodded, then groaned in pain.

“Doctor?” Sydney said, her voice steady. “Please be frank with me and tell me how I can help.”

The doctor gave her an admiring glance, then drew her aside and spoke softly. “I am sorely afraid there is little to be done, my lady. This sort of mishap defies modern medicine.” He shook his head. “All we can do is make him as comfortable as possible and wait. He is in a great deal of pain. I have given him a heavy dose of laudanum, which should take effect soon.”

“Sydney—” Henry called. She rushed to the bed. “We mush … mus … t-talk,” he said, fading on the last word.

“We shall.” She patted his shoulder and touched her lips to his forehead. His eyelids fluttered, but she could tell he was no longer conscious.

“He will sleep for three or four hours,” the doctor said, closing his bag. “Dehydration is a problem in such cases. See that he gets plenty of liquid. I shall come back later to check on him.”

“Thank you, doctor.” She turned to Lord Hoffman. “My lord, you are welcome to stay, but please do not feel you must.”

“I think I will take my cue from the doctor and return sometime later today,” he replied.

Sydney walked them to the door, where she found Aunt Harriet pacing the hall.

“Oh, my dear. I am so sorry. The entire house is distraught. What can we do to help?”

“Nothing.” Sydney felt her tears flowing now that the initial crisis was stabilized. “Th-there’s no hope, Aunt Harriet. No hope.”

Aunt Harriet simply enfolded Sydney in her arms and held her for several minutes. Then Sydney gathered herself and told her aunt of the doctor’s report and orders.

“I’ll take care of household matters and see that you have what you need,” Aunt Harriet said. “You stay with him for now and I’ll join you later.”

“Thank you.” Sydney wiped her eyes and squared her shoulders before reentering the room even though she knew that, at the moment, Henry was insensible to anyone or anything. Feeling empty and bereft for herself, she was even more devastated by the thought of baby Jonathan’s growing up fatherless.

She sat at Henry’s bedside through the afternoon, wiping his brow with a cool cloth now and then and forcing spoons of water between his parched lips. He became more and more feverish and restless as the laudanum began to wear off. It was obvious that he was hallucinating.
He was apparently reliving sporting matches and his days at school and university, flitting from event to event, with no regard for chronology. Most of his utterances were gibberish, but occasionally a phrase or a name was quite clear. He called her name once or twice, but it was the childhood
Bella
on his lips, not
Sydney
. Mostly the name he called over and over was
Lou.

Sydney found herself strangely unmoved by the fact that her dying husband was calling for another woman. She wondered if she was herself suffering from shock. Yes, she was saddened by what she heard, but she managed in these few hours to face the reality of her marriage. Henry had treated her and her family well, but obviously the real love of his life had been Lady Ryesdale. And who was she—Sydney Isabella Waverly Laughton, Countess of Paxton—to complain? She had always been fond of her husband, but there had never been the sort of overwhelming need—the passion—the sharing she had once viewed as requisite to marriage. Clearly Henry had felt such passion, such need for Lady Ryesdale—while his wife had been denied such.

An image of Zachary Quintin standing next to Henry on her wedding day flashed across her mind. Zachary resplendent in his uniform. Zachary showing her the sights of Bath. Zachary’s kiss.

Good heavens. Such schoolgirl foolishness
, she chastised herself. Still, those images served to accord her some perspective later when Henry awoke.

O
thers
had been in and out during the afternoon, but Sydney was alone with Henry when he became truly conscious of his surroundings. She had drawn a comfortable barrel-shaped chair near the bed and sat reading when she became aware of a change in the sound of his breathing. She looked up to find him gazing at her, his eyes alert, seeing.

“Oh. You’re awake,” she said, feeling foolish at stating the obvious.

“Yes. For several—minutes now. You’ve—been here all this while?” His words came in short bursts, punctuated by grimaces of pain.

She nodded, then laid her book aside and reached for a glass of water. “The doctor said you must have plenty of liquid.” She put her arm under his head to help him drink. The pillow was warm and damp with sweat. He drank, but also winced in pain and pushed the glass away, spilling a bit of water on his chest.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No. I’m the one sorry. Sorry about—about this. Burdening you. The scandal. You did not—deserve this, too.”

She put the glass aside and pulled the bedcover back over his chest. “Never mind, Henry. We can talk about it later.”

He grabbed her hand. “No. Now. There’s no time. I know. You know it, too.”

“Oh, God, Henry—”

“Don’t. Don’t cry, Bella—Sydney.” He loosened his grip on her
hand, but still held it gently. “I need to tell you—never meant to hurt you—had to save Paxton from P—Per—” He coughed and the pain brought tears to his eyes.

“Percival Laughton, your cousin. I know.” She disengaged her hand and helped him to another sip of water, then she drew her chair closer and patted his shoulder.

He sighed. “No, my dear. I doubt—you—you do know. Percy—truly evil—you—you—” He winced again.

“Henry, please. This isn’t necessary.”

“Yes. It is.” His tone was fierce. “Now listen.”

“All right.” She did not want him upset any more.

He closed his eyes in a grimace of pain, then seemed to steel himself against the monster besetting him. “You must protect—protect J—Jonathan. Zac—Zachary—”

“Protect Jonathan? From Zachary?” This made no sense to Sydney. Was Henry hallucinating again?

His eyes flew open. “No. Trust—trust Zachary. He will help—help protect—”

“Zachary will help protect Jonathan?”

He nodded and seemed to drift off for a moment. Sydney thought about what he had said. So far as she knew, Percival Laughton had never been a guest in any of the Paxton estates. The Laughton family had been torn asunder some forty years earlier when the infamous Percival’s father, one Robert Laughton, had tried to murder his cousin, Henry’s father, in an attempt to gain the Paxton title and wealth. Historically, except for the first to hold the title, Paxton earls had each managed to produce the requisite heir, but then had had only girls or baby boys who did not survive beyond their third or fourth birthdays. The last one to produce a “spare” had been Henry’s grandfather, and that spare had been the murderous Robert who had, in turn, spawned Percival, the nominal heir to the earldom—until Sydney had borne Jonathan.

She glanced at Henry to find him gazing at her again.

“Y—you understand?” he asked. “The danger—”

“Yes. Now you should get some rest.”

“No. Can’t.” His voice was harsh, then softened. “More.” He closed his eyes, then opened them again and held her gaze. “I—never meant—hurt you. Louisa and I—”

She touched his hand. “I understand.” And, finally, she thought she
did
understand—at least a little.

“I—I thought perhaps you—you knew—”

“No. I did not.” She wondered how she could have remained so ignorant for so long. But what did that matter now?

“Z—Zac—Zachary told me—said it would be—disaster. Didn’t listen.”

“Zachary told you?” Sydney closed her eyes but could not shut out the pain. Zachary knew—had known all along. His attentions to her in Bath—that kiss in the park—all had been meaningless to him. Some sort of game. What an utter fool that young girl had been as Henry and his cousin laughed behind her back.

Henry stirred and brought her attention back to the present. “Louisa and—I—loved—We never meant—Hopeless.” He heaved a long sigh and lay still for several moments. Sydney had the impression he was gathering his strength. He gripped her hand again and said, “I want—I need—to—to see her. Please, Sydney.” Henry Laughton was unused to asking favors of anyone.

“You want me to—”

“Invite her here—now. She—she cannot come—on her—her own.”

“Oh, dear. Henry—”

“Please. She—she needs to know—not her fault.”

But it is
, Sydney thought. She put her head in her hands.
Oh, dear God.

“Please.” Henry reached toward her. Sydney was aware of the degree of pain of another sort that one word had cost him. She noticed increased perspiration on his brow. She busied herself wetting the cloth, wringing it out, and placing it on his forehead.

“The doctor will be here soon with some more laudanum for your pain,” she said.

“No.” He grabbed her hand again. “No more. Not ’til I—see Lou.”

“All right, Henry,” she said soothingly.

The doctor arrived a few minutes later and right behind him came Lord Hoffman.

“How’s he doing?” the viscount asked in a hushed tone.

Henry glared at his friend. “I’m not dead yet, Fred.”

“I can see that.”

The doctor, having lifted the bedcovers to look at the bandage,
now said, “If you will ring for his lordship’s valet, he and I will change this dressing.” It was a polite dismissal of the wife and friend.

“I need to speak with you,” Sydney said to Hoffman, and led him two doors down the hall to her private sitting room. She gestured to a pair of chairs upholstered in a floral fabric sporting the room’s dominant colors of green, gold, and blue—the room’s cheery colors a direct contrast to her mood. When they were both seated, she explained Henry’s wish to see Louisa.

“What? He wants her here? Highly irregular, don’t you know?”

“Yes, I do know, but one can hardly deny the request of a man who is—is in his condition.” She could not bring herself to say the word
dying.

“No. I suppose not. Still—how is it to be done? Bound to be talk, you know.”

“We can minimize it,” she said briskly. She rose and went to her writing desk, where she quickly penned a note to Lady Ryesdale. Handing it to Lord Hoffman, she said, “If you would be so kind as to deliver this note and then escort Lady Ryesdale here—”

“Are you sure about this?”

“No. But I cannot refuse him. It is dark out already. I’ll have Mr. Roberts rather than a footman answer the door, then you bring her directly up to Henry’s chamber. Roberts is very discreet. So is Brewster. It will work. I’m sure it will.”

Hoffman stood to take the proffered note. He shook his head. “You are quite a woman, Lady Paxton. Quite a woman.”

“Henry considers you a good friend.”

When they returned to Henry’s bedchamber, they found the patient refusing the doctor’s offer of another heavy dose of laudanum. “Not yet,” Henry said, glancing at Sydney, who merely nodded to him. “Leave it. My wife will give it to me—later.”

“Very well, my lord.” The doctor handed a vial to Sydney along with a small slip of paper with instructions. “Allow him as much as he feels he needs.”

The doctor and Lord Hoffman exited Paxton House together.

Henry lay very still and closed his eyes for a moment; he seemed to be fighting a wave of pain.

“J-Jonathan?” he said. “Can you bring him—?”

“Of course.”

Sydney tugged at the bell pull, then sent the footman who answered
to the nursery. Within minutes, the nursery maid arrived with the squirming, babbling infant. Henry reached a hand toward his son and Sydney set the baby on the edge of the bed, keeping her own hand on him to prevent his falling. Henry smiled when Jonathan grabbed his index finger.

“He’s a—fine lad,” Henry said. “Strong. Thank—thank you.”

“He is sometimes fussy nowadays,” she said, reaching for trivia. “He’s getting a tooth.” Her heart ached not only at knowing Henry would miss all these milestones of his son’s life, but that their son would grow up without his father.

Henry murmured appreciatively, but Sydney could see that the baby’s movements were causing him discomfort. As she took Jonathan onto her lap, Henry reached to touch the baby’s hair and cheek.

“Yes. Fine—lad.”

After turning the baby back over to the nursery maid, Sydney took her evening meal on a tray at Henry’s bedside and managed not only to eat half her meal, but also to persuade him to drink a cup of broth. Marybeth and the twins came to visit Henry, but Sydney shooed them away when she saw that they were tiring him. Aunt Harriet and Celia looked in briefly and Sydney refused their offers to relieve her.

“Perhaps later,” she said.

Very late in the evening, when most members of the household were occupied elsewhere, there was a soft knock at the door of Henry’s bedchamber. Sydney opened it to find Hoffman and Lady Ryesdale in the hallway. Lady Ryesdale, wearing a dark green traveling cloak and heavily veiled, was obviously apprehensive.

“Thank you, Lady Paxton. I cannot tell you what this means to me.” The woman was already looking beyond Sydney to the figure on the bed. Sydney stepped aside.

Lady Ryesdale rushed to Henry’s bedside, where she knelt and took his hand in hers. “Henry. Henry, my darling. My love. Oh, God. I am so sorry.” She bent her head to the hand she held and sobbed.

Henry’s eyes lit up at seeing her. “No, Lou—not to blame—yourself.”

Sydney had felt rather numb ever since her earlier discussion with Henry. She gave Hoffman a rueful glance. “Will you join me in the drawing room for a glass of sherry? Or perhaps something stronger?”

“Definitely something stronger,” Hoffman said.

In the drawing room they found Aunt Harriet and Celia sitting before
a low fire in the fireplace. Aunt Harriet was doing some needlework as Celia read aloud from a novel. Gas lamps on two end tables provided a pool of light in this part of the room. Sydney and Hoffman both murmured “Good evening” and the other two responded in kind.

“Is Brewster with Henry then?” Aunt Harriet asked.

“No. Lady Ryesdale is,” Sydney said, going to the sideboard. “Cognac?” she asked Hoffman, who nodded.

“Lady Ryesdale?” Celia squeaked.

“Lady Ryesdale,” Sydney said calmly, pouring drinks for Hoffman and herself. She had noted the tea tray on a low table between the other two. She handed Hoffman his glass and they both sat, Sydney on the couch next to Celia and Hoffman on an overstuffed chair matching the one Aunt Harriet occupied.

Sydney sipped her drink. “But that is not for public consumption,” she said to Celia.

“I should think
not
,” Celia replied in a shocked tone.

“It is what Henry wanted,” Sydney said. “Lord Hoffman arranged it for us.”

“I see,” Aunt Harriet said with a look of understanding at Sydney.

“Roberts met us at the door,” Lord Hoffman said. “We went directly up.”

Aunt Harriet nodded. “Sounds discreet enough.”

Sydney decided to change the subject. “Henry was quite worried earlier about Percival Laughton.”

“That one is a nasty piece of work,” Lord Hoffman said.

“I was introduced to him in the Assembly Rooms in Bath three years ago,” Celia said. “Just after your wedding, Sydney. When I mentioned the wedding, he made a point of informing me that
he
was Paxton’s heir.”

“He
was
the heir. Now Jonathan is,” Sydney said.

“But if something were to happen to Jonathan …” Celia let the statement fade.

“I think that is precisely what worries Henry,” Sydney said, trying not to be overly fearful for her son.

“Don’t worry, Lady Paxton,” Hoffman said. “Percy Laughton has been out of the country for months. He is one of those on the fringes of the entourage of the Princess of Wales.”

“Out of the country?” Sydney asked.

“Italy, last I knew,” Hoffman answered.

Aunt Harriet shook her head. “One does hear the most dreadful things about that lot.”

Hoffman shrugged. “Well, you know what they say: Where there is smoke—” He drained his glass and set it on the table between the chairs. He looked at the ormolu clock on the mantel and turned to Sydney. “It is time I returned Lady Ryesdale to the bosom of her family before they discover her missing.”

Sydney nodded and rose as he said good night to Aunt Harriet and Celia. They found Lady Ryesdale again kneeling next to Henry’s bed. She had removed the cloak and her veiled hat to reveal an amber-colored silk gown and dark auburn hair that Henry kept stroking. She turned deep blue eyes toward Sydney and Hoffman as they entered.

“Oh. Is it time already?” she asked in dismay.

“I am afraid so, my lady,” Hoffman said. “It has been more than an hour.”

Henry held Louisa’s gaze and said, “Remember—what I—said. Zac—Zachary—”

“I will remember.” Louisa rose and looked apologetically at Sydney, then bent over Henry and kissed him on the lips. “Good night, my darling. I’ll—I’ll come tomorrow if I may.” Again, she looked at Sydney, naked anguish showing in her tear-filled eyes.

Sydney merely nodded, tears of her own threatening. Hoffman helped Lady Ryesdale with her cloak and Sydney handed her the veiled hat. Louisa touched a finger to her lips, then to Henry’s. “Tomorrow,” she murmured.

Sydney walked them to the door, where Lady Ryesdale said softly, “Lady Paxton, you have been far kinder than I deserve, and I do most sincerely thank you.”

“It was Henry’s wish,” Sydney replied, sounding somewhat stiff to her own ears.

“And I may come tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course. Henry
is
still the master of this house.”

When the door closed behind the pair, Henry seemed to shrink into himself, but gestured feebly at the chair near his bed. As Sydney sat, he said, his words ravaged with pain, “Thank you. I needed—thank you. Not easy—for you. You—more than I—I deserve.”

She was struck by his echoing the words of his mistress, but all she said was, “We shall talk tomorrow.”