Chapter Six #2
Marcus nodded. The boy’s bristles were well and truly up; he wasn’t going to get much further.
“Very well, if you come back tomorrow, I’ll have some jobs for you to do.
For money—and no I won’t bargain with you.
We’ll see how well you work first. But it will be fair, and as well as pay, you’ll get a good midday meal. ”
The boy glanced at the kitchen window. “From ‘er what made them pies?”
“Yes, she’s an excellent cook.” He handed the boy the pie. He took a ravenous bite, glanced down at the dog, broke off another bit and gave it to him. Marcus was impressed.
“Orright then, I’ll come, but if it’s some trick. . . “
“It’s an honest offer, partly in thanks for what you did for the lady this morning.” Marcus would never forget the way this skinny urchin had stood up to him, trying to protect her.
The boy nodded, slipped out of the back gate and disappeared.
#
“THAT BEGGAR-BOY?” PEVERILL said in disbelief. “You’re going to admit him to the house again, m’lord? And I’m to find him work to do?”
“That’s it,” Marcus agreed. Peverill had taken one appalled look at the dog tucked under Marcus’s arm and had pointedly decided not to notice it.
“But he’ll steal the silver.”
“No he won’t,” Marcus said placidly, but with a firm undertone that his butler would recognize. “The only thing he’s likely to steal is Cook’s pies, and he’s welcome to as many of those as he wants. That child is near starving.”
“But he’s dirty, really quite filthy. He, he stinks, m’lord.”
“So would you if you’d been living on the street since last winter.”
“My lord!” Peverill drew himself up in silent indignation at such a suggestion.
“But you make a good point. When he comes back, have him bathed before you set him to work. Oh, and get him some new clothes, not new— I suspect he’d hate wearing stiff new clothing—but clean and in good condition.
As you say, he’s dirty and ragged, and we can’t have a child like that in the house, can we, Peverill? ”
“No, m’lord,” Peverill said miserably. “And The Animal? May I ask what is to be done with it?”
“It belongs to Lady Hewitt and will live here while she is with us, naturally.”
Peverill sighed. “Naturally.”
“You will take care of the dog while she’s indisposed.” Marcus handed him the dog.
The butler held the squirming dog gingerly and said weakly, “Perhaps one of the footmen . . .?”
Marcus hid a smile. He’d pushed his long-suffering butler far enough. “Naturally you will delegate the responsibilities as you see fit.”
“Very good m’lord,” Peverill said dryly.
#
TESSA WOKE SLOWLY. Her head ached, her body felt heavy and lethargic, and her thoughts were . . . fuzzy. They made no sense to her. A series of images floated vaguely through her mind; a minister, Edgar, a . . . a fight? She must have been dreaming—at least she hoped that was it.
But these sensations . . . they felt unsettlingly familiar.
Her eyelids were heavy, sticky. She forced them open and found she was in a strange bed, in a strange room.
The curtains were closed—blue velvet curtains.
They didn’t have any blue curtains, let alone velvet ones.
She looked around the room. An elegant carved wardrobe, matching dressing table, a chair upholstered in blue velvet.
Paintings she’d never seen. Not a single thing was familiar. Panic started to rise in her throat.
“M’lady?” a soft voice said.
Tessa turned. Behind her, on the other side of the bed stood a young maidservant. “Who are you?”
“I am Sutton, m’lady and I’m to be your maid.”
Tessa stared at her dazedly. She had a maid? A ghastly thought knifed into her. “And who am I?” she said cautiously, dreading the answer.
The maid’s brow crumpled in concern. “You’re Lady Hewitt,” she said gently. “Don’t you remem—”
“Lady Hewitt? Still? Oh, thank God.” Tessa fell back against the pillows. She wasn’t Lady Lester. She hadn’t married Sir Henry Lester.
Or had she? The anxiety seeped back in. Perhaps the maid didn’t know her newest name. Perhaps she’d been told to lie to Tessa.
“How do you feel, m’lady? Would you like a glass of water?” The maid held out a glass.
“Where am I?” Tessa croaked, and accepted the glass from the maid. She drank thirstily and asked again where she was.
“At Alverleigh House, m’lady.”
Tessa’s brow wrinkled. Alverleigh House? For a few moments she couldn’t think of where that was. It sounded familiar, but . . . She shook her head.
“Lord Alverleigh brought you here, m’lady. You were . . . ill.”
“Ill?” Lord Alverleigh? It sounded familiar, but . . .
The girl nodded. “He brought the doctor to you. And you’ve slept now for nearly two days.”
“Two days?” Tessa struggled to sit up. Her mind was full of dazed conjecture, terrible questions jostling in her fuzzy brain. Surely she hadn’t had another brainstorm. Not again.
“There there, m’lady, just you rest a moment. I’ll let Lord Alverleigh know you’re awake. And, would you like me to order you some breakfast?”
“Breakfast?” Tessa repeated vaguely.
“Yes, you’ll feel more the thing with some food inside you. How about a nice soft-boiled egg with some toast soldiers?” Sutton said coaxingly. “Or if you prefer, a cup of chocolate and some pastries. Lady Gosford always enjoys cook’s pastries. Or maybe you just feel like a nice cup of tea.”
Tessa shook her head. She felt quite nauseous; the last thing she felt like was food. She had an unpleasant acrid taste in her mouth. That strawberry fool last night that had tasted a bit funny. Had it been off? Did it make her sick? But she’d only had a couple of mouthfuls.
And if she could believe the maid, she’d been here two days, sleeping! Two days! So, the strawberry fool wasn’t last night, but several nights ago.
What had happened? What was she doing in this strange house with a strange maid tending her and wanting her to eat?
And why would this Lord Alverleigh bring her to his house and fetch a doctor to her?
She was sure she’d heard the name before.
Why couldn’t she recall who he was? And why, oh why did nothing make sense?
The image of a minister in a long black cassock, a white surplice over it haunted her. Was it a memory or a nightmare?
Had there been another wedding? Was it too late?
No, the maid had called her Lady Hewitt, not Lady Lester. But maybe the maid didn’t know . . .
The confusion, the blankness, the terrifying, unanswerable questions—it was all so dreadfully familiar. She clutched the sheets around her. She couldn’t let herself panic, not now, not yet.
The maid slipped from the room, closing the door softly behind her. Immediately Tessa moved to get out of the bed. She had to get up, find out what was afoot, get out of this place.
But the minute she tried to stand, her legs quivered, then buckled beneath her. She would have ended up on the floor, but she managed to grab hold of the covers and haul herself back onto the bed.
Once she’d caught her breath, she tried to stand again, this time, holding on tight to a smooth carved wooden bedpost. Her legs wobbled, her head swam but she forced herself to keep standing while she breathed in deep, slow gulps of air.
It helped to clear the dizziness somewhat, and her legs slowly gathered strength, but the questions whirling in her brain remained unanswered.
Realizing she was dressed in an unfamiliar nightgown, much too big for her, she looked around for her own clothes. A dressing gown hung from a hook behind the door. Lurching slightly as she walked, she reached the wardrobe and threw it open.
“What are you doing up?” A deep masculine voice came from the doorway.
She stepped back in fright and almost fell over—her dizziness hadn’t yet passed.
In two steps the man crossed the room, scooped her up and laid her gently on the bed.
“You haven’t yet recovered,” he told her.
The maid had followed him in, and he told her to help Tessa put on the dressing gown and get her properly into bed.
“Recovered from what?” she said accusingly, then faltered as she recognized him. “Oh. It’s you.” Even to her own ears her voice sounded thready, uncertain.
“Yes, you’re safe, in my home,” he told her. “Just rest and let yourself recover.”
“Recover from what?”
“It seems your brother drugged you.” He paused a moment, then added, “My physician confirmed it.”
Edgar had drugged her? Tessa sank back against the pillows and let the maid tuck her in. Her brain was whirling.
Drugged? And not for the first time, she realized slowly.
She should be more shocked, but in retrospect it made terrible sense. No wonder the sensations she’d felt on awakening—the taste in her mouth, the foggy brain, the lethargic limbs, the bewilderment—had felt so familiar. Drugged.
She drank another glass of water. It was very like when she’d woken to find herself married to Lord Hewitt, after she’d experienced what Edgar and her new husband had explained was an illness: she’d suffered ‘a brainstorm’ they told her.
That was why she’d been so confused and why she didn’t recall her second wedding. She hadn’t been ill at all; she’d been drugged. By Edgar.
Somehow, she wasn’t as shocked as she ought to be.
It was as if, deep down, she’d known it was something like that, only she’d refused to face it. Edgar was, after all, her brother, her only living relative. He had his faults, to be sure, but . . .
And anyway, once they’d shown her the marriage certificate with her own wobbly signature . . . it had been too late.
She looked up at the tall man standing by her bed.
She knew him, felt somehow safe with him, though she couldn’t immediately think of his name.
“So tell me, am I married or not?” she asked dully.
No point in asking to whom—it would be Sir Henry, Edgar’s latest choice.
But if so, where was he? And why was she in Lord—she couldn’t remember his title—in Marcus’s house? Yes, that was his name—Marcus.
“No, we were in time.”