Chapter 5
Five
The elegant gentleman reined the gray stallion to a halt and looked around carefully, assuring himself that nobody was nearby to note his presence.
He dismounted and led his horse off the road into a thick copse of beech trees.
His mouth tightened in distaste as he surveyed the steepness of the ravine—along with the rocks, the brush, the mud—and then glanced down at his own immaculately polished Hessians.
Nevertheless, it had to be done.
The descent was difficult, but the gentleman, though of only average height, was powerfully built and negotiated the treacherous footing with a certain lithe grace.
The carriage was lying shattered, half-submerged in the river that cut through the tumbled boulders and granite outcroppings of the gorge.
Amid the twisted wreckage were the bloodied carcasses of the horses, which were already beginning to bloat and attract flies.
The coachman’s body was twisted face down near a broken wheel.
With the toe of his boot, the gentleman turned the dead man over.
The bullet wound at the base of the neck explained the other carnage.
With a muttered oath at the stupidity of his hired ruffians, the gentleman let the disfigured face fall back in the mud.
They truly had made things more difficult than necessary.
He picked his way to where the door of the carriage was hanging precariously by one hinge. Wresting it open, he peered inside.
There was nothing but a small valise.
He stood motionless for a few moments, as if in deep thought, then reached in and fished it out.
It didn’t take long to search through its contents.
He tossed it aside, his grim expression showing no surprise at not finding what he was looking for.
Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he walked a way along the river until a pile of boulders blocked any further progress.
There was no sign of a body. His eyes gauged the current, and he mentally conceded it was possible that it could have been carried downstream.
With another oath, the gentleman turned and began to retrace his steps back up to the road. He dared not linger in the spot too long.
Damn the chit, he cursed to himself. She had to be dead—she had to be!
Her body should have been down there. Along with the papers.
He paused and looked back down the slope.
Nobody could have survived a fall down to the gorge below.
After cursing again, he grabbed a small sapling to steady his climb…
and by chance, his gaze fell on a nearby gorse bush, not far from the crest of the road.
Clinging to one of its thorny branches was a small strip of dark cloth.
* * *
Davenport ran his hands through his hair.
His legs were stretched out toward the meager fire, and an open book was lying on his lap.
Hell’s teeth, he thought wryly, there was no need to resort to brandy in order to sleep.
He had only to read a few chapters on the raising of sheep—though the pages on breeding had reminded him how uncomfortably long it had been since he had enjoyed the pleasures of the opposite sex.
A sigh escaped his lips. Well, like many other things, that would just have to wait until he could visit Town. He had no intention of taking on his brother’s habits as well as his title.
He closed the book with more force than necessary.
At least his body was feeling pleasantly tired from the physical exertion of the day’s labor.
He wouldn’t need to rely on the effects of brandy or boring tomes to help him get some rest tonight.
Taking up his candle, he rose and set off for his bedchamber.
It was quite late, and save for his solitary light, the house was in total darkness as the earl climbed the wide staircase and made his way quietly down the corridor.
At the door to the mysterious stranger’s room, he paused, then opened it and entered.
In sleep, her face had softened, easing the edge of wariness he had noticed that morning. She looked even younger, and more vulnerable. His mouth quirked in a slight smile as he recalled the punch she had landed on his nose. She had spunk, whoever she was…
His smile quickly gave way to a frown. He hoped the matter of her identity and her situation would prove simple, but somehow, in the pit of his stomach, Davenport sensed that nothing about her was simple.
He had a problem on his hands—and that was the last thing he needed.
* * *
Caroline awoke with sunlight streaming over her face. It felt warm and—
Pain shot through her shoulder as she turned toward the diamond-paned window, bringing her sharply back to reality.
She sat up as best she could, once again aware that she was in a strange room, in a strange house, on a strange mission.
Then, as if echoing her worries, her stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours.
In fact, she was famished.
Sighing, Caroline had fallen to contemplating just how much longer she could hold out when salvation in the form of Mrs. Collins pushed open the door, her arms laden with a large tray from which was emanating the most heavenly aromas.
“I brought ye some porridge and a pot of tea,” announced the older woman upon noticing that Caroline was awake. “Ye must be starving, ye poor thing.”
Caroline gave a squeak.
The housekeeper put the tray down and settled herself on the side of the bed. “Here now, let me help ye.” She spooned up a large helping and guided it to Caroline’s mouth.
As the steaming mixture of oats, cream and sugar slid down her throat, she closed her eyes in bliss.
Mrs. Collins nodded her approval. “Need to put some meat on them bones,” she remarked as she thrust forward another bite.
It didn’t take long for the bowl to be emptied.
“Thank you.” Caroline gave the woman a smile of gratitude. She felt much better. “That was wonderful.”
The woman held a cup of tea to Caroline’s lips.
“That nasty knock on the head ain’t affected yer appetite, it seems. I’ll bring more, as soon as the doctor says it is permitted.
” She surveyed what little of Caroline was showing from beneath the bedcovers.
“At least yer a sight more comfortable than ye was when His Lordship dragged ye in here.”
Her eyes shifted to the muddy garments over the chair. “Shall I try to mend those?” she asked, though her expression showed what she thought of the effort. “Or perhaps I should toss…”
“No!” cried Caroline. “I mean—thank you, but please, just leave them. I am quite skilled with a needle.”
The housekeeper merely shrugged her shoulders.
Once again, Caroline was aware of the delicate lace at her neck. “Whose garment is this?” she inquired, her eyes taking in the quality of the finespun material.
“Oh, that’s an old one of Lady Davenport’s. Lucky the two of you are close to the same size, though yer a mite taller.”
Caroline’s eyes narrowed with interest. “His Lordship”—she tried to remember his name—“is married?”
At that moment, the doctor walked in, followed by Davenport. “I see our patient is awake this morning and able to take a little sustenance.” He nodded in approval at the empty bowl. “Nothing more than gruel today, then tomorrow maybe I shall allow something more substantial.”
Caroline’s stomach growled in protest.
Mrs. Collins cleared the tray, making room for Dr. Laskins at the side of the bed. He felt Caroline’s forehead, then took gentle hold of her wrist.
“No sign of fever,” he remarked. “And the pulse feels strong. You have a good constitution, miss, to have weathered the ordeal you have been through with no further ill effects.” His hand then moved to Caroline’s shoulder.
The mere touch made her wince.
The doctor’s expression turned to one of concern. “However, we are going to have to deal with that injury. The shoulder has come out of its socket. It must be set back.”
Caroline closed her eyes. She had seen such a thing happen to a groom at Roxbury Manor. She could still remember his screams as three men had wrestled to pop the offending joint back into place.
Davenport spoke up. “Is there no alternative?”
The doctor shook his head. “It must be done. Perhaps a footman might come up and assist me?”
Davenport pulled a face. “I have no footmen. I shall lend a hand—but wait.” He left the room and returned in a few minutes with a large tumbler filled with amber liquid.
“Drink this,” he ordered, thrusting the glass at her.
Caroline looked at him in consternation. “Wha…”
As soon as she opened her mouth, the earl grasped her jaw and unceremoniously dumped the entire contents of the glass down her throat.
Caroline sputtered wildly, sending a spray of tiny droplets over the front of Davenport’s shirt. “That…that was extremely unnecessary. You needn’t have forced me!”
“I have little time to argue,” he countered.
She glowered at him. “You are no gentleman.”
“So I have been told on numerous occasions,” he muttered.
“What was that foul…” Caroline sniffed the air, then shot the earl a scathing look. “Do you always reek of brandy?”
“Only when driven to it by difficult females,” he answered through clenched teeth. He looked down at his soiled shirt in dismay. He glared back at her, then turned his gaze to the doctor. “A few more minutes and we should be able to begin.”
The doctor smiled grimly and folded his arms across his chest.
“What do you mean?” asked Caroline.
Davenport ignored her question and began to converse with the other man about the weather, the state of Squire Dawson’s broken leg and the price of wheat as if she weren’t there.
Caroline felt a rush of anger. How else to explain the sensation, for all at once, she felt hot all over. It was strange, however. In the past, even when she had really lost her temper, she had never felt so…odd.
She narrowed her eyes, for it was becoming increasingly difficult to focus.
And then, to her surprise, she started giggling. “S-stop swaying! You are making me dizzy,” she said to the earl—though it was her own head that was lolling from side to side.
The physician rolled up his sleeves. “I think we may begin.”
“I feel terrible,” announced Caroline, her speech slightly slurred.
“You are about to feel worse,” replied Davenport as he took hold of her good arm.
The doctor grasped the injured limb below the elbow and began manipulating it back and forth. At the first touch, Caroline gave a little cry of pain.
“Steady now,” urged the earl.
She gritted her teeth together and did not cry out again. Sweat began to bead on her forehead, and as the pain became worse, her nails dug into Davenport’s wrist, nearly drawing blood.
“Just a little bit more,” muttered the doctor.
“Hurry,” snapped Davenport.
With a last wrench, the bone popped back into the socket. Caroline collapsed back against the pillow, her face as white as the surrounding sheets.
“Brave girl, well done.” Davenport unconsciously brushed a damp tendril of hair from her brow as he spoke.
Caroline managed a weak smile. “Not missus…didn’t throw a fit of vapors…”
“No, indeed.”
She was about to speak again—and then was suddenly, violently, sick.
As the earl stared down in dismay at his ruined shirt and breeches, an oath escaped his lips.
The doctor cleared his throat. “I shall call for Mrs. Collins. I’m sure she will be able to take care of…tidying up.”
He placed a small vial on the table. “Here is more laudanum for the pain she will undoubtedly feel when she wakes. Mrs. Collins knows the dose.” He snapped his bag shut and regarded the earl with what Davenport could have sworn was a glint of amusement. “Shall you be able to manage?”
Davenport muttered something unintelligible under his breath.
“I shall call again tomorrow morning. Have a pleasant day, milord.”
* * *
The day, mused Davenport late that evening, had gone from bad to worse.
Sighing, he kicked off his boots and stretched his stockinged toes toward the sputtering fire.
The challenge was going to be even more difficult than he had imagined.
His eyes strayed to the open ledger on his desk.
No matter how he juggled the columns, the debts were staggering, and it would be some time before he could hope to make a dent in them.
Perhaps Jarrett was right.
His jaw tightened as he shook off the thought.
The family’s honor had meant nothing to his father or his brother.
However, he was determined to do all in his power to see that it sank no further.
Even without the promise to his mother, he would have done no less.
But he had always lived up to the promises he had made to her, he thought grimly, though she had no idea what it had cost him.
The price to restore Highwood would be paltry in comparison.
With a sigh, he took up the poker and raked out the dying embers.
Upstairs, as he made his way to his bedchamber, he was startled by a noise that was coming from the room of his mysterious stranger.
He paused for a moment, then pushed open the heavy oak door at the sound of another cry.
She was having a nightmare. Her shoulders were writhing beneath the coverlet as if she were trying to struggle free from some imagined bonds.
“No!” she gasped weakly. “No!”
Davenport put down his candle and took her hand. It immediately tightened around his, surprising him with the strength in the slender fingers.
“Tell him…” she muttered.
He leaned in close to her lips. “Tell him what?” he asked softly.
Her breathing was rapid and ragged. “Don’t worry—I…” Her voice was barely audible. “I can take care of myself.” Then she lapsed into silence.
The earl held her hand until he felt the tension ebb out of her grip and her breathing settle. After tucking her hand carefully back under the covers, he left for his own room to face his own demons.