Chapter 7 #2
“I wrote you a note last night,” she said, suddenly remembering. “Telling you I was in the area and would be stopping by for a few days. Did you not get it?”
“I have been out all morning,” Vivienne said, “setting up for the summer harvest festival. I must have missed it. I had only just arrived home myself when I heard you arrive.”
Vivienne set her glass of cognac down on the mantle and crossed the room to Beatrice, sitting down next to her and taking her hands.
“But what happened?” she murmured. “Who is this man, and how did he come to be injured?”
Beatrice took a deep breath, and then, with stutters and stops, she told the whole story of how she had met Rupert, beginning with her return to England and running away from the inn and Mrs. Hughes. When she was done, Vivienne’s jaw had dropped.
“Beatrice…” she breathed. “This is the strangest tale I have ever heard! When did you become so… rule-breaking?”
Beatrice swallowed. She wasn’t sure if her friend’s voice was filled with admiration or apprehension.
“I just kept thinking that soon, my life would not be my own,” she said quietly, looking down at her hands. “And how much I wanted one last adventure. And to see you.”
Vivienne took her hand, and she looked up. “I am glad you came to see me,” Vivienne murmured. “But this gentleman… you were alone with him for hours! He saw you in a state of undress! It is highly improper. And if anyone were to find out.”
“No one must find out,” Beatrice said quickly. “No one!”
“But now my whole staff has seen you together,” Vivienne said doubtfully. “Of course, I will swear them to secrecy, but I cannot guarantee their silence.”
Beatrice felt a hard rock of dread land in her stomach. “But you will not tell anyone, will you?” she asked.
“Of course not,” Vivienne said at once. “And fortunately Nathaniel is not here presently. He would feel duty-bound to tell Theodore, as you know. Thankfully he is away for a few days. But Mr. Grenville must be gone by the time he returns. Otherwise I do not know how I will explain it.”
“Let us see what the doctor says,” Beatrice said softly. “If the wound is worse than he thinks, or does not heal, I do not know how we will move him…”
And then of course, there was the other possibility weighing over her. That Mr. Grenville, Rupert, would die.
But it was too horrible to think about.
“But what of your attacker?” Vivienne asked. “Who was he? And will he be coming back for Mr. Grenville? Is it even safe to have him in the house?”
Beatrice swallowed, but the truth was, she did not know. And the last thing she wanted was to put her friend in danger.
“I do not know who it was,” she said at last. “Perhaps when Mr. Grenville is out of danger, he will have an idea. And then you can decide if you will allow him to stay here.”
Vivienne stood up suddenly and began to pace around the small parlor. “It is hard to know what to do,” she muttered. “I do not want to throw an injured man from my home, but we are women here alone, and it is highly improper. Not to mention the danger he may pose…”
“I am sorry,” Beatrice said, looking down at her hands once more as guilt warmed her cheeks. “I just wanted to have an adventure, and now I have made a mess of everything! I nearly got myself killed three times, and now I have dragged a stranger into your home!”
Vivienne sighed and stopped pacing. When Beatrice looked up at her, there was a glint in her eyes.
“It is a fabulous adventure, though,” she said. “We must admit that.”
Surprised, Beatrice laughed. “Yes, I suppose it is,” she said. “Although now I wish I had not started it to begin with.”
“But then we would not have been able to see one another!” Vivienne said brightly. “And I would not get to tell you all the gossip from London!”
Beatrice tried to smile. In truth, it was hard for her to think about gossip, when Mr. Grenville’s life was in danger, but maybe, she reasoned, it would be a good distraction.
“Go on then,” she said. “Tell me.”
“Well!” Vivienne sat back down next to her and grinned. “The ton is abuzz because there are rumors that the Duke of St. James is expected to be in Society this Season.”
Beatrice frowned. “I do not know the Duke of St. James.”
“He is supposed to be devilishly handsome,” Vivienne said, giggling.
“And there are whispers that he has cemented his reputation as a rake during his travels on the continent. But he is also known for being warm and charming, the kind of man any young lady would swoon over. And it is said that his mother wishes for him to take a wife. After all, his father recently died, and the line must be secured.”
“Well then, I feel for him,” Beatrice said with a sigh. “It is not an easy thing to know that one must wed, especially if one is not ready.”
Vivienne patted her shoulder reassuringly. “There are many handsome, kind, intelligent men in London,” she said. “I am sure that you will find one that you like very much.”
“And if Theodore has picked one out for me?” Beatrice asked gloomily.
For some reason, a small, secret smile spread across Vivienne’s lips. “Your brother has always had good taste,” she said. “I trust him. And I think you should, too.”
Before Beatrice could respond, there was a knock on the door, and the doctor came in. He looked tired, and there was a sheen of sweat on his brow, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, but he was also smiling. The moment Beatrice saw that smile, her heart leapt.
“I have good news,” he said with a bow. “The bullet only grazed the gentleman’s arm. It did not enter the flesh. There is a mark there, and it will pain him for some time, but I was able to sew it up without too much fuss and stop the bleeding.”
Beatrice had not even realized she was holding her breath until she let it out in one long, relieved gust.
“That is wonderful!” she cried. “So he will be well?”
“I am glad to say that he should make a full recovery,” the doctor said. “With limited permanent damage to the arm. And of course, if the wound is regularly cleaned and does not get infected. I shall have to come back tomorrow and dress it again, but otherwise, I would recommend letting him sleep.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Vivienne said, rising and pressing the man’s hand. “We are in your debt.”
“Not at all,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “It is God you should be thanking. It is a miracle the bullet did not do more damage! I could hardly believe it.”
That was one reason to be thankful: that she had gone on this adventure. Had she not, perhaps the bullet would have killed Mr. Grenville. As it was, she had provided him with a chance to save her life, and in doing so, he seemed to have bought himself a miracle.