Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Magnus stalked down the hall in the direction of the staircase, his sense of grievance worsening with every step. Trespassing amnesiacs who disturbed his peace. Bites from diminutive half-feral dogs. Scratches from what must be three dozen rosebush thorns. How much more was a man to endure?
“My lord?” Turner scurried after him down the stairs. “My lord!”
“Calm yourself,” Magnus said when his sputtering valet caught up with him in the hall. “I obviously don’t plan to undress the woman.”
“Then how—”
“She’s beginning to regain her memory.” It was the one ray of hope in this whole wretched situation. The only thing that served to keep Magnus’s spirits from sinking completely into the mire. “Another hour,” he said, “and it will be back entirely.
He bounded down the steps to the kitchen. Streaks of afternoon sunlight glinted through the soiled windows. Evidence of Turner’s tea-making efforts lay scattered across the wooden plank table and piled high in the basin of the ancient sink.
“By that time, you’ll have found these Champion people,” Magnus said as he crossed the flagstone floor to the larder. “They can take her back to wherever she came from and undress her there.”
Turner was close at Magnus’s heels. “She’s not, sir.”
“Not what?” Magnus opened the larder door.
They’d brought limited provisions when they’d arrived.
Only a few bottles of beer remained on the cool, dust-covered shelves, along with a half rasher of bacon, some questionable milk, and the final remnants of a stale loaf of bread.
Not much, but surely enough to satisfy the undiscriminating palate of a mongrel dog.
Turner tugged at Magnus’s sleeve. “Mayhap she’s worse!”
“How do you figure that?”
“Her brains are scrambled.”
“Rubbish.” Magnus reached for the milk. “She recalled the name of her dog, didn’t she?”
Turner fervently shook his head. “Mr. Aloysius ain’t her dog’s name, my lord. It’s the name of her sweetheart.”
Magnus stilled. Bottle of milk in hand, he turned to face his valet. “Her what?”
“The fella she mentioned in her letter. The one she was stepping out on with another gent. She told her sister to send him a cuddle and a kiss. Might be her betrothed is what I’m thinking. The poor cuckold.”
“Her betrothed?” Magnus echoed incredulously.
Turner nodded gravely. “Scrambled brains, like I said.”
Magnus’s brows lowered. So did his spirits. “Which means, she’s not regaining her memory at all.”
“Which means”—Turner supplied in dire tones— “that one of us is going to have to help her out of her clothes.”
Magnus slammed the milk bottle down on the counter with an eloquent curse.
Turner edged toward the kitchen door. “Since I’m on my way to ask after these Champion people—”
Magnus narrowed his eyes. “Since when are you on your way?”
Turner set his hand on the doorknob. He gave Magnus a weak smile. “Since now, my lord. Best get it done before nightfall, I reckon. Which means…it’s you who’ll have to help the lady disrobe.”
Magnus glared at his faithless servant. “You always were a spineless coward, Turner.”
Turner didn’t dispute the fact. With a bob of his head, he ducked out the door.
Magnus was left standing alone in the kitchen. He was still bleeding from the scratches he’d received from the thorns. Not to mention the snaggle-toothed bites the little dog had given him. Pray God the creature didn’t have rabies.
“And now I must strip a brain-scrambled trespasser down to her slip,” he muttered to himself.
It didn’t matter that the trespasser was pretty. Or even that she thought she was his wife. All Magnus could see was another scandal. Another damning indictment of his already blackened character, resulting in him being held up for public vilification.
And all the while, his inheritance was hidden here somewhere. Buried in the garden, very possibly, or stashed under a floorboard, or walled up in one of the rooms. It only remained for Magnus to find it. Every second he was prevented from searching was a second wasted. And the risk—
The risk.
The villagers may not be learned or cultured, but they had it in their power to make Magnus’s time here a misery. His only hope was to keep his presence a secret. To conclude his business and to leave this place before anyone was the wiser.
Yet the chance of that happening grew narrower by the instant. Every minute this woman was in his house increased his risk of exposure. There was only one way to eliminate that risk. He had to get her out of here. But first…
He had to get her well.
“What a poor specimen of a wife I must be,” Charlotte remarked. “I’ve neglected both my house and my dog. And my husband appears to dislike me.”
Her dog—Mr. Aloysius?—growled faintly in answer from beneath the armoire.
She peered at him from her bed, her throbbing head propped gingerly on its pile of pillows.
“The second I’ve recovered myself, I mean to turn over a new leaf,” she informed him.
“I shall start with giving you a bath. You won’t like it at first, but you’ll feel so much better afterward.
And then… I shall give this room a thorough scrub and launder all these linens. ”
It seemed no one had done so in a good five years or more.
Was that her fault?
Charlotte suspected it might be.
Goodness. How long had she been here, married to her husband? And why hadn’t she done anything to make the house a cheerier place?
It wasn’t only that it was cold and dirty, the windows filthy, the furnishings outdated, and the surfaces covered with well-established dust and cobwebs.
It was a palpable feeling in the air. Something seeping from the very foundations of the house’s existence.
As if it had never known love or warmth within its walls.
As if the halls had never rung with the laughter of a happy family.
On the contrary.
This house felt much more like a tomb than a home.
She suppressed a shiver. Drawing the ragged quilt over her shoulders, she settled more firmly into her pillows. “You don’t remember me any more than I remember you, do you?” she said to the dog. “Poor thing. Perhaps I wasn’t someone worth remembering.”
The possibility provoked a painful knot in her stomach.
Something wasn’t right. She could feel it. A fundamental error at the core. Her core.
“I’m sorry to have been so careless and unkind,” she said. “I mean to do better in future.”
“Careless and unkind?” a deep voice repeated.
Charlotte’s gaze jolted to the door to find her husband entering the room. His face was still badly scratched and bloody in places. So were his hands. He held a tarnished silver tray in them. “To whom?” he asked.
She stared at him.
“Not to me, I gather,” he said.
Her pulse quickened as he approached the bed. “To…To everyone,” she stammered. “To you and my dog.” She made a vague gesture about her. “To our home.”
“When was this?” He set the tray down on the mattress beside her. It contained a dish of milk and bread, along with a fresh pot of tea and a chipped porcelain cup.
“Before,” Charlotte said. She’d have thought it was evident.
Lord Eversleigh picked up the dish of milk from the tray. “Shall I do the honors? Or would you rather?”
She attempted to push herself up to a sitting position. Another sharp pain in her head made her gasp.
“Me it is, then.” He directed a pointed look at her pillows. “If you would avail yourself?”
Reluctantly, Charlotte lowered herself back onto the bed. Oh but she hated feeling so weak and confused! It wasn’t like her. She didn’t have to remember that fact to know it absolutely.
His lordship took the milk and bread to the wardrobe in the corner. Sinking down on his haunches, he placed the dish on the floor and slid it under the wardrobe’s stubby legs.
The dog’s growls ceased. The instant Lord Eversleigh rose and stepped away, a furious lapping began.
Charlotte’s tense mouth relaxed into a smile. “He’s enjoying it.”
Lord Eversleigh dusted off his hands on his trousers. “I bloody well hope so. It was the last of our bread.”
“Surely we can get more?”
“Oh yes. Nothing easier.” His lordship’s words were tinged with sarcasm.
Charlotte’s smile dimmed. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.”
Another gentleman might have disputed the fact, if only to spare her feelings. Her husband did not. “The accommodations are ill equipped for an invalid,” he replied instead.
She plucked at one of the many stray threads on her faded quilt. “Yes. I can see that.”
“Not up to your standards, I imagine.”
“Or yours, I daresay.” Her attention remained focused on the rapidly unraveling thread. “It seems I’ve failed in my duties.”
“What duties?”
She chanced a fleeting look at him from beneath her lashes. “Wifely duties,” she said. “Obviously.”
A strange expression crossed his scarred face.
“I don’t wonder you think so little of me,” she continued in a small voice. “I’ve not made our home a very welcoming place. And I haven’t cared very much for poor Mr. Aloysius. He’s dreadfully thin and dirty.”
“I won’t argue with you on that score.”
Charlotte’s lips trembled.
“As to the house…” Her husband returned to the bed, frowning. “You’re not an imp or a fairy, I take it? Not a goddess possessed of supernatural power?”
She eyed him uncertainly as he sat down on the mattress beside her. “No. Of course not.”
“You don’t possess some latent ability to lift evil curses?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“Then such capabilities as this house requires are beyond you.”
She searched her husband’s face, intrigued in spite of herself. “You’re saying this house is cursed? Like a castle in a fairy story?”
He picked up the teapot from the tray. “Anyone else would tell you the same.”
“Fairy stories aren’t real.”
“No indeed.” He poured out her tea. “Fairy stories have happy endings.”
Charlotte knit her brows. “And ours doesn’t?”
“Our story?” His mouth hitched briefly. There was no humor in the expression. “You and I don’t have a story, my lady.”
Her throat tightened painfully. She silently accepted the cup of tea when he passed it to her. He’d only filled it halfway, making it easier for her to lift to her lips without sitting all the way up in bed. The consideration stood in sharp contrast to the harshness of his words.
She took a meditative sip. “You don’t like me at all, do you?”
Lord Eversleigh stilled. For a moment she didn’t think he would answer. Possibly because she’d offended him. Possibly because he didn’t care. It was difficult to tell by his expression. He was incredibly hard to read.
She’d almost given up any hope of a reply when—
“I don’t know you at all,” he said. “Our acquaintance has been of short duration.”
Her brows lifted. “We are newlyweds?”
“Something like that.” He moved to rise.
Charlotte touched his sleeve, arresting his movement. “Then…we haven’t lived here long?”
His eyes met hers. They weren’t steel gray at all, she realized. They were softer. Smokier. Like the morning fog on the moors. “Is that what you’ve been thinking?” he asked.
“I’ve been wondering about the house’s condition.”
He made a dismissive sound. “It’s always been thus at its core, even when there was an entire staff of servants to clean and polish all day long. It was never what you would call a home.”
“Our servants?”
“My father’s servants. The late Earl. This was his estate.”
Her head throbbed, struggling to make sense of things. “But not yours?” she asked.
“I grew up here,” Lord Eversleigh said. “And then I was gone. I’ve only returned for a time.”
“With me,” she concluded. “Then…it’s not our home at all.”
His lips twisted in another bitter smile at the relief in her words. “You sound pleased to hear it.”
“I am,” she admitted frankly. “I thought all of this was my fault.”
“The state of the place? No. It’s your fault you stupidly cracked your head and put Turner and me to such inconvenience. Other than that—”
“I didn’t mean to,” she interjected hurriedly. “Indeed, I don’t know how I did.”
“You fell off of a wall,” he said.
“A wall?” Charlotte’s teacup stopped halfway to her mouth. “What was I doing on a wall?”
“An excellent question.” He studied her face. There was a frown in his eyes. “So, my lady.” He plucked her dangling teacup from her hands and returned it to the tray. “Tell me, how am I to assist you out of your things?”
Charlotte’s pulse accelerated in immediate apprehension. She’d almost forgotten that she’d asked for his help. Still…there was no denying that she needed it.
She heaved a resigned sigh. “With difficulty, I fear.”
His fingers brushed the ruffled trim of her bodice, making her heart stutter. Foolish. One would think he’d never touched her before. Which wasn’t the case, clearly. Even if they were only newlyweds.
“I’m finding it hard to sit up for any length of time,” she told him. “Or to raise my head.”
Lord Eversleigh nodded once. “Leave it to me.”