Chapter Five
Everything was loud and bright, and Lawrence’s head hurt.
He glanced about him, confused. Why was he sitting in a gig?
Hadn’t he been in his own carriage just a moment ago?
He remembered sitting in the rear-facing seat so the ladies could face forward.
But he couldn’t remember getting out of the coach. How did he end up here?
“Where are we going?” Lawrence asked.
“We are headed toward to that farmhouse, Your Grace.” Lady Carrington spoke patiently, as if he were a fretful child. “See? We’re almost there.” She pointed to the tall, rambling stone building at the end of the drive.
That still made no sense to Lawrence. “Why are we going there?” He certainly didn’t recognize the place.
“It is the closest shelter,” she explained. “We will wait there for the surgeon. You were injured in the accident, remember?”
No, he did not remember any accident. But that might explain why his head throbbed. There was something wrapped around his head, too. He gingerly touched his forehead and discovered it had been wrapped in a bandage of sorts. The fabric was damp to the touch.
“I am still bleeding,” he announced. Why didn’t he remember getting hurt?
“Head injuries often bleed a good deal, even when they are not serious.” Lady Carrington patted his hand reassuringly. “But you certainly do need to be examined by a surgeon. The sooner, the better.”
“I look ridiculous, don’t I?” he guessed. “Sally is going to laugh when she sees me.” He thought about that for a moment. “Where is Sally?”
Lady Carrington sighed. “We have not found her yet. I am afraid this will delay our journey.”
Lawrence closed his eyes and leaned back. “We are not going to reach Rushton today, are we?” He was no medical expert, but he doubted any surgeon would recommend traveling further with an injury like this.
“Probably not,” his companion agreed. “But that is the least of our concerns, Your Grace. We must make sure you have not done yourself a permanent injury.”
“Does it matter? It is too late to prevent an accident.” He reached up to explore the rough bandage around his head. Was it his imagination, or had blood already soaked through the cloth?
“Of course it matters!” Lady Carrington’s gentle voice sharpened. “If need be, we can send to London for a surgeon or physician with sorcery or magecraft.”
“Oh, I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of that.
” Lawrence generally consulted an apothecary if someone in the household required magical treatment for an illness or injury.
Physicians with magical abilities were the most expensive medical practitioners, and their fees were usually too expensive for a moderately-successful barrister.
Now that he was a duke, though, people would expect him to consult the very best physicians when he needed care.
For some reason, that depressed him. Lawrence was the same man he’d been before he inherited the title.
His life was of no greater value now than it had been two weeks ago.
But for the rest of his life, people were going to treat him as if he were more important than other men, simply because of his title and wealth.
“If God is good, why is the world He made so unjust?” His question surprised even himself—he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Maybe his head injury was making him babble.
“Perhaps,” Lady Carrington suggested, “we are supposed to be the ones restoring justice to the world.”
She might have a point, but his head hurt too much for him to explore the idea further.
Instead, he concentrated on stepping down from the gig without falling.
Lofthouse Place was a large, old, and probably handsome farmhouse, but all Lawrence cared about was how many steps he had to climb to get to the front door.
The farmer’s wife welcomed Lawrence with warm hospitality and a great deal of noise. He lay down in bed and did his best to tune out all the surrounding bustle and pother. He must have succeeded, because he fell asleep, and did not wake up until the surgeon arrived.
The surgeon was not, of course, a medical magician.
Healers with magical abilities generally practiced in London, Bath, or one of the fashionable spa towns.
But Mr. Gregory seemed competent. At the very least, his bedside manner could rival a fashionable London physician.
He examined Lawrence with gentle hands, hardly jarring his head at all as he unwound the makeshift bandage.
Even better, he used a soft voice that did not grate against Lawrence’s ears. “I am afraid you have a concussion, Your Grace,” Mr. Gregory concluded. “You would do well to rest for the next several days. Or more. Concussions often take a few weeks to heal.”
“Several days? I can’t do that!” Lawrence protested. “I have an eloping niece to catch!” Too late, he remembered he was supposed to keep the elopement a secret. He was trying to save Sally’s reputation.
“As to that,” Mr. Gregory said diffidently, “are you quite sure your niece is eloping? Rumor has it that a young lady arrived at Rushton Hall to visit Lady Chumford. From what I heard, she was expected to stay for at least a few days. But of course, gossip can be wrong.” He shrugged and began to pack up his bag.
“Gossip usually is wrong.” Lawrence hardly dared to hope Sally was still at Rushton Hall. The way his luck had been going, she was probably halfway to the border by now.
*
Mr. Gregory prescribed an analgesic potion that sent Lawrence into a deep sleep. He woke late in the afternoon, feeling simultaneously hungry and nauseated. When he inquired about dinner, the farmer’s wife refused to give him anything more substantial than broth and toast.
Lawrence argued with the good woman, on the grounds that the surgeon had said nothing to him about a special diet. When that failed, he appealed to his ducal authority. Mrs. Lofthouse remained unimpressed.
“Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but I know how to nurse an injured man. You can have a proper dinner tomorrow, so long as your stomach’s settled.” She put her hands on her hips and fixed with him a stare that would have daunted a dragoon.
Make that a whole brigade of dragoons, Lawrence decided. Recognizing victory, Mrs. Lofthouse picked up the invalid cup and pushed it into his face, as if he were a baby who needed to be fed by hand.
“I can feed myself, thank you.” Lawrence snatched the cup so violently that it splashed broth all over himself—and on the counterpane.
“Now look what you’ve done!” Mrs. Lofthouse settled in for a long scold, but her harangue was mercifully cut short when Lady Carrington entered the room.
Lady Carrington halted when she saw how he was occupied. “Oh! I wished to have a word with you, Your Grace, but I don’t want to be in your way, Mrs. Lofthouse. I can come back later.”
Lawrence sent what he hoped was a pleading look.
“Or perhaps I could take your place, ma’am?” Lady Carrington suggested. “You must be very busy.”
Mrs. Lofthouse put down the feeding cup. “I most certainly am! If it’s not too much to ask of you, my lady—”
“Not at all,” Lady Carrington said. “As it is, I am sorry we must impose on you.”
After that, it took half an eternity for Mrs. Lofthouse to leave off insisting that unexpected guests were no imposition at all. Since this was patently untrue, Lawrence decided to simply smile and nod. Unfortunately, the pain in his head flared up whenever he moved it.
Once the door closed behind her, he caught Lady Carrington’s eye. For some reason, they both burst into laughter. Laughing hurt even more than shaking his head, though.
“I ought not complain about her,” he murmured. “The Lofthouses really have been most generous.” He had offered to pay for his board, of course, but he doubted that really made up for the inconvenience.
“That is what I wanted to speak to you about, sir.” Lady Carrington sat at the edge of the bed.
His eyes widened when she matter-of-factly wiped the spilled broth off his nightshirt. “I can do that!” A flush burned along his cheekbones. He did not need to be mothered!
Fortunately, she handed over the cleaning cloth without argument. “I am afraid you bore the brunt of the injuries today. Miss Howell and I incurred only a few scrapes and bruises.”
“I am glad of that. I would not wish a concussion on anyone.” He put the cleaning rag aside to take a sip of broth. “Lady Carrington, there is no reason why you should have to stay here while I heal. You and Miss Howell may as well go back home.”
She knit her brow thoughtfully. “I do not like to leave you, but it is true that us staying here will burden Mrs. Lofthouse even further. I will think on it. For now, I had better go help with dinner.”
Lawrence waited until she’d gone before allowing his smile to fade.
Left alone to enjoy the dubious pleasures of cold toast and congealed broth, he felt strangely bereft.
Maybe he should have asked Lady Carrington to keep him company?
But no, she would probably prefer to dine downstairs, with her own young cousin.
Hell, he’d rather eat downstairs, too, rather than sipping beef broth in bed. He took a bite of cold toast and tried not to wonder what the rest of the household would have for dinner.