“Nought but cold and that is long gone.”
She turned back to Norwood. “What a bouncer! Show me your wrist..” She pointed to the red spot peeping out from under his sleeve.
“It is just a scrape. I had to break off the door to enter the carriage.”
“Have you dressed it properly?”
“It is nothing.”
“Men! Do you remove that jacket or do I?”
He matched her glare but pulled off his coat. Blood stained his shirtsleeve. She glowered at him and jerked open his cuff.
“You are a fool, your grace,” she snapped as she bandaged his arm. “And your valet is a fool for not tending you properly.”
“Enough,” he pleaded as she tied off a strip of linen and refastened his sleeve. “It is nothing.”
“Stoicism will kill you one of these days..” She sighed and returned her attention to the rescue. “But Sir Harold will be grateful for your efforts. He lost one son at Waterloo. Fate would be too cruel to take another.”
“Is that what Stevens was quizzing you about so intently that night?”
“Yes. He wanted to hear any details I could provide..”
“I suppose you knew the brother.”
She nodded. “And found his body when I was searching for Jack..”
She suddenly recalled where she was and mentally shook herself. “Enough of this maudlin fustian. Go and seek your dinner, your grace. There is nothing further you can do here.”
“Until later, Mrs. Morrison..” He bowed and left.
But before he reached the drawing room, his attention was drawn to a strident argument in the library. Thorne was berating someone for disobeying an order. Frowning in distaste over a scene that was already attracting the servants, he was moving on when Emily’s voice took over.
“You would condemn one of your houseguests to possible death just to perpetuate a nine-year-old feud?” she asked incredulously.
“I was right to disown the chit,” Thorne countered. “Her disreputable ideas have already corrupted you. How dare you abandon your duty by overturning my instructions and undermining my authority?”
“There is more than one duty involved here,” she all but shouted, the passion in her voice surprising Norwood, who had never heard a hint of emotion from her in the past. “Have you considered your own duty as a host? If you fail to care for an injured guest, your credit must suffer. And if the world learns – as it will – that such inadequacy arose from the misguided hatred of an unnatural father, you will be scorned by the very society you have always worshiped.”
“Unnatural, am I?” sputtered Thorne, rage vibrating through the words. “The description fits you far better. Is this how an obedient daughter thanks the father whose training allowed her to capture the prize of the marriage mart?”
Norwood could hardly believe his ears, but he refused to allow the argument to continue. Without knocking, he shoved open the door.
“You are castigating the wrong party, Lord Thorne,” he announced coldly. “I am the one who ordered that Mrs. Morrison be summoned to tend Mr. Stevens. The doctor is unavailable, and your guest is in dire need of competent attention.”
“So you are abetting my daughter’s defiance,” Thorne stormed, propriety forgotten in his fury.
“I suggest we both have a glass of brandy to settle our tempers, then discuss this like reasonable gentlemen,” suggested Norwood through gritted teeth.
Thorne drew in a deep breath. At last he walked over to a cabinet and poured two glasses of wine. “Sit down, Norwood, Emily,” he ordered, seating himself in a nearby chair. “And then you can explain why it was necessary for a guest to counter the orders left by the estate’s owner.”
Norwood succinctly described the day’s events.
“And his injuries are that serious?” asked Thorne.
“He is still unconscious. I have no idea when the accident occurred, but it has now been five hours since I found him.”
Thorne frowned. “We will discuss your behavior when I have had time to consider it,” he addressed Emily. “Perhaps you will see to our guests now.”
“Thank you, Papa,” she replied demurely, curtsying first to Thorne, then to Norwood. She smiled at the duke for the first time in days.
“Why was it necessary to forbid Lady Amanda the house?” asked Norwood when Emily was gone.
“I cannot have her contaminating my children with her appalling ideas and disreputable behavior,” he replied shortly, his tone making it clear that questions were unwelcome.
Norwood continued anyway. “What did she do that was so bad? I have seen no evidence that she deserves censure..” His old self reared up to castigate his newer self at that clanker, but he ignored it.
“She has always been an unnatural child,” said Thorne with a sigh. “She took after her mother, exhibiting no respect for her position and no sign of good breeding. Despite all we could do, she ran wild, sneaking off to consort with peasants, dangling after the local witch, and displaying unseemly emotion at every turn. We tried everything we could think of to teach her proper manners, but she harbors some devil that repudiates all that is good.”
Norwood was frowning, but not in commiseration. Shorn of the vitriolic tone, Lady Amanda’s childhood sounded remarkably like his own. He suspected that her motives were also the same – a search for enjoyment. He could not believe that she was deserving of contempt. Nor could he forget the pain in her eyes when she spoke of her father.
“There is nothing wrong with emotion,” Norwood said aloud. “Not even among the upper classes. From what I have observed of her, she is a caring, compassionate woman devoted to assisting others.”
“You are hardly impartial, having met her when she gave you a ride home that day,” snorted Thorne.
“It is true that she has done me some service,” agreed Norwood. “More than you know. It was she who patched me up last summer when I broke my arm trying to escape an inn fire. She treated many people that night. Her efforts saved more than one life. Nor do I believe that I am alone in my admiration for Mrs. Morrison. Wellington gave every impression of both gratitude and friendship.”
“He is biased. So many years of war are bound to warp any man’s judgment. How can anyone praise a person so lost to propriety that she stoops to spying? A more dishonorable activity I cannot imagine.”
“I can think of many activities more dishonorable, including some practiced regularly by men and women high in society,” countered Norwood, controlling his anger with an effort. Thorne was proving with every word that he was an unforgiving, vindictive, and rigid man, whose vision of the world was so constrained that few would agree with it. Even his own father had not been openly antagonistic. Why had he never noticed this before? More importantly, what legacy had so unfeeling a parent bequeathed to his daughter? All he could do was try to temper the intransigence. “Information is vital to any war effort. Gathering it requires skill and courage. I would never slight anyone who served his country in that way. The fact that Mrs. Morrison is female makes her achievements all the more admirable. She lived in a man’s world for many years, holding her own according to those who knew her, yet never abandoning her ladylike behavior.”
“Are you aware that she eloped?” sneered Thorne.
“Yes. Why did you refuse her permission to marry? Granted Morrison was considerably beneath her, but not impossibly so.”
“I did not know Morrison existed,” said Thorne more calmly. “She was already betrothed to another.”
Norwood frowned. “Perhaps I misjudged her then,” he admitted. “I had not expected her to break her word in such a way.”
Thorne suddenly appeared nervous. “Actually, she had never spoken with her betrothed.”
“You tried to force her?” exclaimed the duke incredulously. Anger flared and his voice turned deadly. “Coercing any young lady into an unwanted match is unforgivable. And I cannot envision a more cowhanded approach to taming a spirited filly. She had no choice but to elope.”
The dinner gong sounded, cutting off the marquess’s sputtering response. “After you, your grace,” he murmured tonelessly, seeming relieved to escape the discussion.
“Of course. But I would suggest rethinking your edicts concerning Mrs. Morrison. She would be a credit to any family and will always be welcome at Norwood Castle.”
Very impudent of him, he admitted as he escorted Lady Bradford to dinner. But what was the point of being a duke if he could not occasionally throw his weight around? And he had run across few worthier causes than encouraging a reconciliation between Lady Amanda and her family.
* * * *
Oliver finally awoke late in the evening. Amanda sighed in relief when she heard the first moan. She had been worried about his continued unconsciousness. There was still no sign of the doctor.
“Where am I?” he groaned softly.
“In your room at Thornridge Court,” she answered. “Your carriage tumbled off the bridge during the storm this afternoon.”
“Who—” He bit off the words, his face twisted in pain.
“Don’t try to move. I am Mrs. Morrison, called in to tend your injuries until the doctor returns from another call.”
“I remember now,” he murmured. “Lightning struck quite close as we were returning to the Court, and John had trouble bringing the team back under control. How badly was he hurt?”
“I have heard nothing of him,” she admitted. “But I will inquire. How is your head?” She gently explored around the swelling with soft fingers, relieved that it seemed smaller than when she had arrived.
Oliver bit off an exclamation of pain. “It feels like an army is marching through my brain, with knives protruding from every foot.”
“How about your neck?”
He experimentally moved his head a fraction. “It is fine.”
“And your arms and legs?”
“A few bruises,” he admitted after a limb by limb examination. “And my right wrist and shoulder seem sprained.”
“Be grateful. Your hand caught in the strap when you went over the side and saved you from drowning. Now let’s try some of this broth, and then I will give you something for the pain.”
He sighed and opened his mouth, grimacing as he swallowed. “How did I get here?”
“Norwood rescued you, apparently at great risk to himself, though I know no details.”
“That doesn’t sound like him.”
“Many people differ from the face they show the world. You hide behind a mask yourself.”
Oliver raised questioning brows.
“Do you wear your heart on your sleeve?” she prodded him.
“Ah. Perhaps I should have joined the army after all.”
“My former comments still apply, Mr. Stevens. And accidents can happen anywhere. When I was on the Peninsula, there were often problems. Lightning struck as we were trying to cross a rain-swollen stream one summer, hitting six men.”
“How awful,” he whispered, paler than before. “Did all die?”
“Two survived,” she reported, “though both were badly burned. But you must realize that no place is safe. Death in war is common. Worse were the letters from home – a house that burned down, killing the family; a beloved brother who broke his neck while hunting; a young child drowned in a lake. It is not a perfect world. Be grateful Norwood pulled you out when he did. As for the other, running away from a problem rarely works.”
Chapter Thirteen
Oliver had fallen into a natural sleep by the time his bedroom door opened, admitting Norwood.
“How is he?” he whispered.
“He should be all right,” Amanda replied softly. “He woke an hour ago and took some broth.”
Norwood sighed in relief, but all he said was, “Good.”
“Do you know what happened to his coachman? He was asking.”
The duke dropped into a chair and frowned. “He died. We sent grooms out as soon as we returned to the Court. They brought his body in two hours ago. The neck seems to be broken, but whether that happened in the accident or as a result of being tumbled about by the stream, I cannot say. Both horses also perished.”
Amanda shook her head. “How tragic. If it had happened anywhere else, all would have survived. I did not question him about the details, but he mentioned a lightning strike quite close at hand.”
“Then it is possible that he had only been in the water ten or fifteen minutes before I found him. There was an excessively loud crash of thunder about that time.”
“Excellent. That improves his chances for a full recovery.”
“Did he suffer any other injuries?”
“Nothing serious. And he was completely lucid.”
They fell silent for some minutes, the only sounds an occasional creak of the house and Oliver’s quiet breathing. Even the wind had disappeared as the storm moved on. The duke knew that he should return to his room now that he had assured himself that the boy was all right, but he had been unable to sleep earlier and did not believe that had changed. In here he was relaxed.
Why that should be he did not understand. Was it just because he craved company? That feeling had been growing since his arrival at the Court, though he had never experienced it in the past. But the idea did not seem right. He derived no comfort from being with Geoffrey.
Comfort. Perhaps it was female company he needed. Not for intimacy, but for companionship. Since even betrothed couples were not allowed to be alone together, he had to settle for his future sister-in-law.
“I always seem to see you under dramatic circumstances,” he murmured in an apparent
non sequitur
.
“Not always, though I can see why it might seem that way..” She shrugged.
“I cannot forget that fire,” he admitted even as he wondered why he was mentioning it. Perhaps it was a combination of the dark room with its single candle and the weariness of a late night after a long day. But he could not keep his mouth closed, uttering thoughts he normally bottled up in the privacy of his mind. “It haunts me.”
“Nightmares?” Sympathy warmed the single word.
He nodded.
“No wonder you recognized mine so readily. Trauma frequently prompts night terrors. It is hardly surprising in your case. I doubt you are often subjected to drama. The dreams should fade in time.”
“They are becoming less frequent,” he admitted, leaning his head against the back of his chair and closing his eyes. “But at first it was two or three times a night.”