Chapter 12 #2
Elf said, “I’m Lady Elfled Malloren. I am going to my room.” The crisp words seemed to dumbfound him, for he made no move to stop her going through the kitchen and into the house.
She used the servants’ stairs to reach the upper floor, then ran along the carpeted corridor to Amanda’s room. She eased in, and arrived at the bedside before realizing there were two people there.
Amanda!
Then she realized that the man was Stephen, Amanda’s husband, and they must have had a merry homecoming.
Elf backed away, but then stopped. She still needed Amanda’s help, but if she woke Amanda looking in such disarray, she’d scream. And if Stephen saw her, there’d be hell to pay.
Silently bemoaning the passing time, she hurried to her own room and threw off her motley garments.
She wanted a wash. No. She wanted a long, hot bath. She had time only to grab a new shift, a petticoat, and a plain gown. It didn’t lie right without a corset, but the simple gown didn’t need hoops.
Shoes! Where did Chantal keep her shoes?
She found them in a drawer, and started to put them on until she saw the rags that had once been her beautiful lace stockings.
Plague and damn and hell.
Angrily, she brushed away weak tears, tore off the dirty rags, and rummaged through more drawers until she found some plain cotton ones.
Hosed, shod, and dressed at last, she stuffed her ruined clothes in the bottom of a drawer, then spared a glance in the long mirror.
What a mistake. Her hair was a powdered rat’s nest, her face and hands grubby, and she looked . . . She just looked different.
She was, of course, but she didn’t want to look it.
Grimacing at yet more wasted time, she used the cold water on her washstand to clean her hands and face. Then she brushed her powdered hair into some sort of order and tied a frilly cap on top to hide it.
The mirror told her that the improvement was slight, but it would have to do. She hurried back to Amanda’s room and gingerly opened the door.
They were still asleep.
Elf tiptoed over to Amanda’s side of the bed and shook her. “Amanda,” she said softly. “Wake up.”
Amanda blinked, woke, then almost spoke. But Elf laid her fingers over Amanda’s lips, and her friend managed to keep the words inside. She slid out of bed, pulling on a wrap, and hurried with Elf out into the corridor.
“What happened?” Amanda whispered. “You look terrible! I was so—”
“It’s a long story,” Elf interrupted. “Look, I have Fort—Walgrave—tied up outside and I need somewhere to put him.”
“Tied up . . . ?” Amanda sagged back against the wall. “Elf, what have you done now?”
“Made a mess of things. You can scold me later. For now, you must have a cellar or attic—”
“Elf, this isn’t a mansion like Malloren House. Every inch is crammed with servants’ rooms! There’s a spare bedroom, but how could we keep it from Stephen?”
Elf was trying to think of a way, when Amanda added, “And anyway, I told him you were at Sappho’s.”
“Sappho’s?” Elf stared at her. “Why tell him that?”
Amanda grimaced and pulled Elf farther down the corridor.
“Stephen turned up at Lady Yardley’s looking for me!
Of course, I was delighted to see him home so soon.
It was only when he wanted to come home early”—she blushed—“that we realized you weren’t there.
He was going to make a fuss, so I said you’d left with a friend.
When he asked who, the only person I could think of who was sure not to be at the masquerade was Sappho! ”
It was Elf’s turn to sag against the wall. “If I were to tear out my hair and giggle, do you think you could find me a cozy spot in Bedlam, please?”
“Well,” said Amanda, “you have no cause to blame me! I did the best I could at the time. It was you who disappeared, presumably with Walgrave. I assumed you were enjoying yourself, and now I find you have him tied up! You’re in the suds again, aren’t you?”
“Deeper than you can imagine,” said Elf with a sigh. She hugged her friend. “You’re right. You’ve done everything possible. And perhaps Sappho is the answer. If not, I’ll just take him to Malloren House and let the mess fall out as it will.”
Amanda hugged her back. “You look exhausted, and not as if you’ve been having fun. Is there anything else I can do?”
“No, love. And,” added Elf, turning toward the stairs, “some of it was fun. Lots of fun . . .”
Two more servants were up in the kitchen as Elf made her way back through, but Elf in reasonably normal clothing only warranted a sleepy glance and a “Good morning, ma’am.”
At the end of the garden, she found Roberts with his pistol pressed to the back of Fort’s knee. “ ’E decided to be difficult, milady. I told ’im that even if ’e survived a shattered knee, ’e wouldn’t like life like that.”
Elf wanted to berate the servant, wanted to gather Fort into her arms and heal and soothe him. Being of a practical nature, she just passed Roberts his coat, climbed into the chair, and guided Bianca toward Sappho’s house.
They hadn’t far to go, and London was still quiet when she found the back lane. She jumped down and said to Fort, “Don’t try anything stupid. It’s not worth it. We can sort all this out when we have time.”
Again, he lay as if deaf. Really, she wished she could sting him like the wasp he’d once called her. At least that would get some reaction!
She knocked at the kitchen door. To her surprise, the poet opened it herself, dressed in a plain gown, her hair tied in a loose knot at her neck.
“Lady Elfled?” Even a woman like Sappho showed astonishment.
“I need your help.”
Sappho swung the door wide. “Of course.”
The honest and complete response almost made Elf weep. “You don’t understand. I have Fort—Lord Walgrave—outside tied up. I don’t know what to do with him and Amanda said I was here. I’ve got to try to make him see sense. About the Scots. And the king. And us. The cellar. I didn’t—”
She found herself in Sappho’s arms. “Hush, child, hush . . . Cassie! Sweet tea. Put brandy in it.” She guided Elf to a chair by the plain table. “Don’t fret so. I’ll have Walgrave brought in, and then we can sort this out.”
“Don’t let him loose!” Elf said, rising.
Sappho pushed her down. “Wild, is he? It doesn’t surprise me, and it will doubtless do him good to be both wild and restrained for a while.”
Suddenly strength drained from Elf’s muscles and she sagged in the chair, watching numbly as a maid poured tea and added a large lump of sugar and a dash of brandy. When the cup was placed in her hand, the warmth of it felt good, and she cradled it.
“Drink up, ma’am,” said the maid, guiding the cup to her lips.
It was strong, hot, and sweet, and then the brandy kicked in, making her gasp.
No longer needing help, Elf took another sip and another, feeling her brain clearing and her strength return.
By the time Roberts and one of the other men staggered in with Fort, she felt ready to face her challenges once more.
Sappho had the men place Fort in an open part of the floor, then dismissed them. “Unless you need them, Lady Elf.”
“No, I don’t think so. Roberts, can we keep this quiet for a while?”
He rubbed the side of his nose. “Perhaps, milady. None of us’ll talk. But with all the goings-on at the earl’s ’ouse, dead bodies and all, London’ll be in a uproar about it soon.”
“I suppose so. Lud, but I wish my brothers were home! Do your best, Roberts.” When the man had left, Elf turned to Sappho. “This must all seem bizarre.”
Sappho sat opposite at the table and poured herself tea. “Let us say, intriguing. I can’t wait to hear the story. I do hope,” she said, “that the earl wasn’t responsible for the bodies. ’Twould be a shame to see him dangle from a rope.”
“They wouldn’t hang an earl.”
“They hanged Ferrers not long ago.”
And that was true. Lord Ferrers had run mad and murdered his valet. Elf looked at Fort, who was not mad, but was quite capable of murder at this moment.
For a grubby man with bedraggled hair, in a torn monk’s robe cut off at the knees, and trussed at elbows, wrists, and ankles, he looked astonishingly beautiful.
Even with the bruises and swollen lip.
She slipped from the chair to kneel beside him, touching the skinned and bloody knuckles.
“Oh, you . . . ! Well, you finally found a chance to hit someone, didn’t you?”
“But not you, unfortunately.” His eyes, hard and cold as stone, looked up at the ceiling.
Elf bit her lips, then addressed the maid. “Could I have some water, please. To clean his wounds.”
“If I am given any say, I would rather you not touch me.”
His chill hit Elf like a blow. She’d counted on anger burning out, but this cold hatred could last forever. Words hovered at her lips—explanations, protestations, apologies. They would fall limply off his hatred like flowers thrown against rock.
Sappho appeared on his other side, with a bowl of water and a cloth.
“Then you will have to put up with me, my lord. I cannot let a guest remain in such poor condition.” She turned his head toward her and gently cleaned away dirt, checking his eye.
“No great damage done there.” She washed his face and hands, then called for tweezers to remove some small stones from his knuckles.
Elf knelt there watching, wanting to take his other hand or stroke the hair off his brow. He had asked that she not touch him, but he lay limp and unresisting under Sappho’s care.
Having cleaned both hands, Sappho moved and began to attend to his feet. Beautiful feet, Elf thought as the dirt was wiped away. Arms, feet. A man’s body held unsuspected pleasures . . .
Suddenly, she hugged herself, remembering other pleasures she had shared with this man.
Who now didn’t want to be touched by her.
She bit down on her knuckle, tempted again to rail, to plead, to beg. Later. He must be as exhausted as she, and he needed time to heal his spirit as well as his body.