Chapter Twenty
“AN EXPRESS RIDER waits in the parlour, my lord, with an urgent message for you. He’s ridden hell for leather from London.”
Exchanging a puzzled look with Lando, Pritchard took the proffered letter, roughly folded, from the trembling housemaid. Reassured that his beloved, rambunctious sons were in their usual high spirits, Lando would be taking to the road himself after a light breakfast. They were anticipating a leisurely ride, pausing for lunch during the change of horses and arriving back in Grosvenor Street with plenty of time to spare before nightfall. Lando was quite anticipating nightfall; he planned on spending it renewing and extending his acquaintance with Kit most thoroughly.
“Oh, God.” Pritchard clapped a hand over his mouth, his face ashen. “My lord, it’s from Jasper. We’re to come at once. Mr Angel has been attacked. He’s suffered a severe blow to the head. Your physician is tending to him now.”
For a second, Lando stared wide-eyed in disbelief before snatching at the note. A severe blow to the head ? How could he have? Kit was staying at his house, sleeping in the rose bedchamber, and riding the grey mare in Regent’s Park. How on earth could he have been attacked?
But there it was in Jasper’s poor hand clear as day.
A severe blow to the head.
The paper fell from Lando’s fingers as a sudden tautness assailed his chest. Dark spots danced in front of his eyes, and he grabbed for the chair behind him, collapsing into it. His Kit, his darling Kit . For a sickening moment, as his thoughts tumbled into the abyss, Lando felt he might pass out.
Pritchard was first to gather his wits, turning to the housemaid. “You, girl. Send for a porter at once to help with the bags. Have the horses saddled and the earl’s carriage brought to the front. There’ll be a sovereign in it if we’re ready to leave within a quarter hour.”
Pritchard didn’t waste a second as the girl scurried away to begin tossing the remainder of their belongings into bags. Lando buried his face in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Now, now, my lord. We’ll have none of that.” Pritchard efficiently folded away Lando’s shaving things. “Your Mr Angel is made of strong stuff. He’s had Jasper’s boot on his backside twice and still come back for more. There weren’t many Frenchies who could boast that.”
“A severe blow to the head.” Lando could summon little more than a whisper. “That could mean…”
“It could mean nothing more than a cheerful clip round the ear,” Pritchard interrupted. “You know how Jasper overeggs the pudding. Mr Angel will be sitting up in bed drinking ale and demanding to know what all the fuss is about by the time we get there.” He held out Lando’s travelling coat. “If his lordship would please stand up, we can get this on and be on our way.”
Lando hoped to God Pritchard was right. Kit Angel brought lightness to his soul. He was like the sun, warming his bones from the inside out. With his charm, his touch, his kiss, his damned earring and ribbons, he’d driven darkness from Lando’s heart, taking his melancholia of the past three years with it. In a single, throbbing moment of sheer terror as Pritchard eased the coat around his trembling body, Lando knew love.
And was petrified of losing it.
“He will be fine, my lord. I promise.”
As Pritchard climbed into the carriage, he paused to address the inn’s groom. “The express rider. Tell him to take some food, exchange horses, then ride directly to Rossingley and ask for Mr Robert Langford. Mr Langford will see he’s well compensated for his efforts.” His eyes darted across to his employer, mutely folded in on himself in a corner of the landau, and Lando gave a tiny nod. “And ask him to tell Mr Langford to ride to his lordship’s London house with all haste.”
As roomy and comfortable as his crested carriage was, for once, Lando regretted they hadn’t travelled in the phaeton or on horseback. As he was needful of Pritchard’s comforting presence, his valet sat alongside him as the horses flew over ruts and swerved around bends back towards London. More than once, Lando’s tense gaze met the calm grey eyes of his loyal valet, drawing strength from them. It was all he could do not to clutch the other’s hand. Nonetheless, by the time they reached Grosvenor Street, he was more composed though no less concerned.
His butler, Hargreaves, greeted him at the door.
“Where is he?” Lando was already marching towards the sweeping staircase, barely breaking stride to remove his hat and gloves.
“In the rose bedchamber, my lord. The physician departed not an hour ago. He has left instructions for his care and will return tomorrow. Mr Angel’s condition remains unchanged.”
Thank goodness. So he was alive.
Lando, his heart thudding, was met with near darkness as he pushed open the door. Faded sunlight filtered through the draped windows, dappling the heavy oak bed moored in the middle of the room and casting long shadows over the man lain very still upon it. He froze in the doorway, not daring to take another step, trembling with fear at what he might find—a fear of the kind he’d hoped never to experience again.
“He’s going to live,” pronounced a gruff voice. “Daft pillock.”
Lando’s gaze swung to an armchair stationed near the head of the bed, finding Jasper in attendance.
“Him, my lord. Not you.”
On shaky legs, Lando ventured closer as Jasper vacated the chair, gesturing for the earl to sit whilst he stood almost to attention beside him. Together, they gazed down at Kit’s waxy face.
“Is he…what did…”
Nausea swirled in his belly as Lando scrabbled to formulate the words. Kit’s lips were parted and his eyes closed, the thin lids covering them so fragile-looking they were almost blue. Tufts of thick hair poked out from a clean bandage circling his head. An angry bruise blossoming on his right cheek provided a grim splash of colour.
“He’s woken a couple of times,” Jasper added. “Once, when the physician stuck a great pin in his foot. And once, when he wafted a candle over his face and peeled his eyes open. Unconscious again now though. But his pulse is good and strong.”
Not caring that Jasper was there, Lando took one of Kit’s cool hands in his.
“He’s got cuts and bruises in tender places, and he’s done a few ribs, I reckon. Nothing time won’t fix. He’ll have a sore head when he wakes though. That took the brunt of it.”
Lando swallowed, his mouth dry. “What…what happened?”
“Silly sod went back to Sindell Street, didn’t he? Nearly lost him ’cos he ducked down the back way so as not to be seen. Trouble is, that Bow Street runner who’s after him had that beggar I told you about keeping a weather eye. By the time your man here came out, a ’scallion and his two chums were waiting to bash him. Poor bugger didn’t stand a chance. Two of ’em roughed him up while another went to fetch the boss. He’d have been right pissed off when he got there and found out I swiped him. Mind you, one of ’em got me right square in the ballocks. If you’ll pardon my French, my lord.”
Lando wasn’t entirely certain which part of his language Jasper was apologising for. None of it was fit for his employer’s ears, but he really didn’t care. Not only had the former soldier saved Kit’s life, but he was also completely overlooking the fact that Lando was clutching Kit’s hand as if he’d never dare let go.
“I’m forever indebted to you, Jasper,” he said. “You may go and rest. Tend to your own injuries. And I would be grateful if you would instruct Hargreaves to prepare for the arrival of my brother. I expect he will be with us tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord.” Jasper pointed to a glass bottle and wrinkled his nose. “There’s laudanum there for if he wakes and is restless, on the instruction of the physician. Don’t truck with it myself. I’ve seen too many men lose themselves to it. Brandy’s better. But I daresay a few drops won’t hurt.”
For a long while after Jasper left, Lando sat unmoving, never taking his eyes from the heavily sleeping man. Only time would tell if there was lasting damage, for all of Jasper’s bravado.
Twice, Pritchard came in with attempts to coax him away, offering one of the footmen to take his place so he could eat and rest, and twice, Lando refused. On the third occasion, Pritchard brought Jasper back with him in the company of two housemaids.
“My lord,” Pritchard said. “Your vigil is a credit to your fortitude, no doubt honed from hours of the vicar of Rossingley’s dreary sermonizing with your derriere perched on six inches of hard wood. And not of the pleasurable variety. But you are no nursemaid, and I would not be your loyal valet if I didn’t point out that the time has come to extract you from your crumpled travelling attire.”
Pritchard extended a finger towards his companions. “Gertie and Emily will wash Mr Angel and change his bedding with Jasper’s assistance, and you, my lord, will accompany me to your own chamber and will eat, rest, and bathe.”
“I am not hungry. Nor am I weary.” Neither did Lando feel in need of bathing, but there were serving girls present.
“But you are stubborn, my lord,” Pritchard countered. “And your stubbornness is overriding your intelligence. When Mr Angel awakes, he will not want the first thing he claps eyes on to be a rumpled, starving heap of creased wool and silk. And you are not yourself when you are hungry.” He treated Lando to a stern look. “As we have all found to our cost.”