22. The Return of a Bootboy
The Return of a Bootboy
The wheels of Alex’s coach ground to a halt behind another vehicle already standing before the imposing facade of Marlstone House.
The night air hung motionless, save for the occasional flicker of a gas lamp, throwing elongated shadows across the pavement.
Timms, ever the dutiful servant, hastened to the door, but Alex dismissed him with an air of abstraction, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before him.
The front door of Marlstone House stood open, a golden glow spilling onto the pavement, illuminating Lady Arabella Marlstone conversing with Mr. Wilberforce. The gentleman was making an elaborate farewell, after spending the day at Kensington together.
Within the coach, Lucinda lay slumped upon the opposite seat.
The intrepid miss who had faced down ruffians and bested danger now lay vanquished by sheer exhaustion.
Her lips parted in sleep were softened by weariness, her lashes dark crescents against her cheeks.
A poet might have rhapsodized over her unconscious beauty.
Alex, however, was no poet—merely a gentleman afflicted with an unaccountable constriction of the chest at such vulnerability, and a most pressing need to see her safe.
Alighting from his carriage, he approached the house with nonchalance.
“Alex!” Lady Arabella’s keen gaze fixed upon him. “What brings you here at this hour? Is it your habit now to pop up when least expected?”
“I could not pass by without ensuring all was well,” he replied, bowing to his aunt and nodding to Mr. Wilberforce.
“Either your time away has transformed you into an attentive nephew,” Arabella said dryly, “or I must suspect some devilry.”
Alex forced a smile, willing Mr. Wilberforce to take his leave. Instead, his aunt turned to him, her curiosity sharpening.
“Well?” she prompted. “What mischief is this?”
Alex hesitated, eyeing her companion, and then extended his hand. “It’s possible I have something of yours to return.”
Leading her a few steps toward his waiting carriage, he opened the door. The lamplight revealed a mass of recognizable red curls sprawled on the bench seat and the unseemly boy’s breeches that went with it.
Lady Arabella gasped. “Heavens!”
“A wayward bootboy of yours, I imagine,” Alex shot her a pointed look as if to caution her.
His aunt’s expression clouded with horror. “Ah,” she said, backing away to her host for the day. She turned hastily to Mr. Wilberforce, offering him a tight smile. “Well, sir, I must bid you goodnight. As you see, I have household matters to attend.”
“Of course, Lady Marlstone.” He was too much a gentleman to pry. He bowed to Alex, entered his carriage, and drove off, but not before seeing the burden in Lord Sinclair’s arms. The scattering red curls that fell over Alex’s arm were food for much thought as William’s carriage rolled away.
Within the house, Lady Arabella was a bundle of agitation.
“Try to remain calm, Aunt Bella—” Alex began, but was cut off.
“Don’t ‘Aunt Bella’ me! Where did you find her? Is she hurt? Lucinda! My dear girl, wake up!”
“She is quite done up, though to the best of my knowledge, unscathed,” Alex said, adjusting his hold.
“Oh heavens!” she cried, pressing a trembling hand to her chest. “If anything has happened to her, what will I tell Sir John?” She turned toward the ever-attentive butler.
“Griffiths, fetch the doctor immediately. No, wait, fetch him when we know what has happened. No, go now—oh, what am I saying? Oh heavens!”
“There is no need for a doctor, Griffiths,” Alex said, patiently, one foot on the first stair. “She had a trying night, that’s all.”
“Alexander Sinclair, you will explain yourself at once!”
Alex cast a glance at the impassive butler.
“Not here.”
“Griffiths, find Bessie and send her upstairs at once.”
“Yes, my lady,” Griffith replied with a bow.
“A trying night? What does that mean? What happened? What aren’t you telling me?
” She followed him. “Alexander Sinclair, you will tell me everything this instant! What has happened to my goddaughter and why is she dressed like a boy?” As they ascended, she stole a glance at Lucinda’s pale face. “Why is she so deeply asleep?”
“She is exhausted,” was his simple reply.
In Lucinda’s chamber, he laid her on the bed.
Her borrowed masculine clothes revealed in full, made Arabella gasp in horror.
Alex, unmoved, pulled the coverlet over her and, with an unconscious tenderness, brushed a curl from her cheek.
His fingers lingered a moment too long, tracing the silken strands before he caught himself.
“Rest well, my brave girl,” he whispered.
He treated her with a tenderness that startled his aunt.
“You do care for her,” she breathed.
“Do not overreach, Aunt.” Alex offered a self-deprecating smile. “How peaceful she now looks.”
“She would look better if she had not been gallivanting about in breeches.”
“Undoubtedly,” Alex agreed. “But consider how dull life would be if we all conducted ourselves with perfect propriety.”
Arabella’s eyes narrowed. “Alex, do not trifle with me. What is the meaning of this? What in heaven’s name led to this—this scandalous state?”
Alex’s expression was warm and kind, looking down at the sleeping beauty. “Do not scold her, Aunt Bella. If anyone bears blame, it is yourself.”
“Me?” Arabella’s indignation was palpable. “How dare you!”
“Or Miles,” Alex conceded, “and his wretched dog.”
“Miles and Periwinkle?” Arabella repeated, now thoroughly bewildered. “You expect me to accept such nonsense?”
Alex turned to go. “You shall have the full story—but I suggest you wait for Lucinda’s account. It will undoubtedly be the more accurate version.” Pausing in the doorway, he added, “I shall call in tomorrow to see how she fares.”
With that, he disappeared, leaving Arabella staring after him, torn between exasperation and gratitude. With a sigh, she turned back to Lucinda, brushing a cool hand over her forehead. “Oh, my darling,” she murmured. “Whatever have you done now?”
With a care not to disturb, she smoothed the counterpane with great tenderness when she noticed a shadow marring Lucinda’s temple. Arabella’s heart lurched.
“Oh, my dear girl,” she whispered, tracing the bruise. Heavens above!—might the injury lead to an attack of the brain? The idea was so appalling that she did not hesitate a moment longer.
Summoning the nearest footman in the hall, Lady Marlstone declared, “You will ride posthaste to Doctor Bailey’s practice and inform him he is needed at Marlstone House without delay.”
The footman, well-accustomed to her ladyship’s tendency to treat every trifle as a crisis, bowed with deliberate slowness and withdrew at a measured pace. A full hour later, Doctor Bailey was ushered into Lucinda’s bedroom.
“Oh, by the grace of God,” she said, rising, “what hour do you call this? Did you come by way of Brighton? I began to doubt I’d see you before the sunrise! My goddaughter has sustained a blow to the head!”
The doctor set down his bag with a weary sigh. “The hour,” Bailey corrected, consulting his pocket watch, “is ten o’clock. A good hour for a sensible physician to be in his own chair by the fire, with a glass of port in one hand and no patients in the other.”
“Bailey, I am in no humor for levity.”
Quite unmoved, the doctor removed his coat with provoking leisure. “Indeed? That is a pity, for I find it an excellent remedy in most cases.”
Arabella pursed her lips. “If you cannot be serious, Bailey, I shall send for someone who can.”
“As tempting as it is to surrender my post to some other unfortunate, I suppose I must oblige.” He leaned over the sleeping girl, his examination brief but efficient. At last, he straightened. “She is merely sleeping.”
“Merely sleeping?” Arabella echoed, scandalized. “With a bruise the size of a half-crown upon her temple?”
“Indeed. The young do bruise quite impressively, my lady, but I assure you, it is of no lasting consequence.”
Arabella eyed him suspiciously. “You are quite certain?”
“If her brain were damaged, we should have seen rather more dramatic symptoms.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, fainting fits, delirium, speaking in tongues,” Bailey replied airily. “A tendency to compose sonnets at inopportune moments.”
“Do not jest with me, Bailey.”
“My apologies.” He smothered a grin. “When she awakens, if she is confused or experiences severe pain, send for me. The possibility of amnesia exists, but I should think it unlikely.”
Arabella blanched. “Amnesia?”
“A loss of memory, that is all.”
“Heavens! You speak as though it were no more consequential than a slight cold!”
“For a young woman in good health, I prophesy a full recovery.”
Arabella exhaled, tension ebbing from her frame. “Oh, that is a relief, Bailey. Thank you.”
“Of course, my lady,” Bailey said, already repacking his bag. “And now, with your permission, I shall return to my fireside. Unless you have another crisis planned for the evening?”
Arabella glared at him. “Be off with you, you horrid man.”
Bailey bowed. “A pleasure, as always.” With a nod, he took his leave, and Arabella, torn between frustration and acknowledging his decades of accuracy, was left alone once more with her dear goddaughter.