Chapter 2
Nothing but pain. It came from everywhere, burning, aching, pounding, sharp and relentless.
He opened his eyes. Light screamed into his head.
He squinted away but not before catching sight of stone walls.
He was in a church repurposed as a camp hospital, pews piled in corners, beds having taken their place.
Thomas had fallen from his horse. Then, a ball had ripped through William’s thigh.
Thomas. William tried to call out for his friend.
Something told him it was too late for Thomas, but he refused to believe it.
His left leg throbbed. Shouldn’t it be his right?
“You are awake?” A woman’s voice, sweet and inviting. He shifted his pounding head and found a tiny blonde woman sitting in a chair. She leaned toward him and clicked her tongue. “Your head looks well. Botkins is taking good care of you.”
A nurse. “Where is Thomas?” he rasped.
“Now, just drink this.” She slid her hand under his neck as if to tilt his head.
He resisted. “You’re trying to kill me.” He didn’t know why he said this, but it felt true, though it seemed he was no longer in Germany.
“There now. You are overwrought. No one wishes you dead, least of all me, your rescuer.”
A fragmented memory. A woman waving a gun at him. This tiny, benign-looking thing had shot him. It was like being taken down by a kitten. His thigh pulsed hot and piercing. He was not in Westphalia. And Thomas had died.
The prints. Where were they?
“Take me to London.” Pain pinned him to the bed, fixing him to the whim of this fae-like woman.
Darkness closed over him.
“Will he die?” The woman’s voice again.
“I do not expect so,” words spoken in a rich tenor. A doctor? His eyes felt sealed shut. “His ribs are broken. He lost a substantial amount of blood from the bullet wound, and he’s sustained a head injury. We’ll keep him sleeping.”
“But it only grazed him?”
“…fevered.” The deep voice again.
“It’s been days,” the woman said, not as calm as before. “He’s worse. Look at him. His face is almost green.”
“Time will tell.”
William struggled to open his eyes, but the room held only shadows and the blur of candlelight.
“I am through with guns and knives. What a fool I’ve been.”
“Go work in your garden. It’ll put you to rights.”
“Not if he dies.”
They spoke English. William would have smiled if he could move at all. He and Thomas had reached safety. But something urged him to leave. Perhaps this talk of guns.
“Father, you must pray until he becomes well,” the woman said. Someone held a cool cloth to his head and over his eyes. He wanted to push it away and look into the woman’s face which held such fervor. His arms lay useless.
“I am praying.” This voice sounded old and rasping but serene.
“Don’t you know the words for miracles?”
“My child, your loving care will do as much as my prayers.”
A strangled sob from the woman.
William’s head throbbed dully. His body ached but not in the all-consuming way it had.
He shifted. Pain radiated through his right ribs and his left thigh ignited.
He opened his eyes. Faded red velvet covered a window.
Stone walls surrounded him, but a fire warmed the room.
He lay in a large bed of heavy black wood.
Other than an empty chair and a small bedside table, the chamber held nothing.
How long had he been there? And where was he? His friends would wonder what had become of him. And the prints. Damn. It might be too late. The vote came in less than a month. He must get to London.
His leg would not move. He knew this wound. It mirrored the one received on his right leg two years prior in Germany. It had taken a year before he could walk without a limp.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself to a sitting position.
The room tilted, then stilled. He shifted his right leg to the edge of the bed.
Using his hands, he lifted the injured leg into the same position.
It hurt like the very deuce. Nothing he had not managed before.
He must find the prints and his horse and be on his way, regardless of the pain.
His left foot grazed the floor. He eased forward. Almost there. A bead of sweat trickled down his face. Right toes brushed the ground. With all his strength, he pressed his feet onto the cool stone ground. Pain ripped up his thigh. His muscles contracted, spasmed, left him in a heap on the floor.
Someone entered the room and knelt over him.
The window behind her lit her hair into a golden halo.
She looked like an angel. But he knew better—the little devil had shot him.
Still, she placed a hand on his cheek and one on his chest. He was too weak to protest, could barely swallow, let alone speak.
“Botkins! ’E’s awake. ’Elp me!” she shouted, her manner of speech altering. She sounded like a rookery beggar.
A giant of a man ran into the room. Catching sight of them, the man stopped and relaxed against the wall. “I thought he was attacking you. It’s been a while since I heard your old way of speaking.”
“Peregrine is on the floor,” the woman said. “This is urgent.”
Peregrine?
“Out of the way, then.” The man, Botkins, shooed the woman.
“You needn’t…” William found his voice, but it was too late.
Enormous arms already wrapped under his neck and knees.
Another jolt of agony and he was again in bed.
He tried to catch his breath as the pain ran its course.
“I must go.” Even as he said it, he knew leaving would be impossible for some weeks.
He couldn’t walk, never mind riding. “Where is Tempest—my horse?”
“Safe and stabled,” Botkins said.
The woman sat beside him on the chair. “A beautiful animal. I have been calling him Tranquility.”
“Not a suitable appellation for a war horse.” His mouth felt swollen and cotton-lined. “I must ask you to take me to London.”
“He needs water,” the woman said, sending Botkins from the room. “I am afraid moving you is out of the question.”
“Put me in a cart. Your giant could manage that well enough. In London, my own steward can care for me.”
“Botkins is not my giant. He belongs to himself.” Her manner turned stern. He had offended her. “You will go nowhere until you can get there yourself, but should you require anything at all, we are here to help.”
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Grace.” She arranged cushions behind him until he sat upright.
Botkins returned with broth, bread, and wine. Grace took it and held a spoon to his lips. Did she think him wholly incapacitated? He snatched the spoon from her, spilling warm broth onto his chest—his naked chest.
Grace mopped the spill with a napkin. “Your injuries necessitated the removal of your clothes.” She appeared entirely at ease with his state of undress.
His breeches were cut high on the left side, his thigh thickly bandaged.
“Consider yourself fortunate. Botkins is better than a doctor, trained by England’s best in the most ancient art of healing. ”
Botkins closed his eyes and his chin fell to his chest. Was laughter shaking his shoulders?
William set aside the spoon and began drinking broth straight from the bowl. It tasted of heaven, and he felt almost immediately stronger. He set aside the bowl, preparing to beg assistance in departing to London.
Shuffling drew his attention to the door. An ancient man stepped into the room with a long stick that stretched forward, scanning the ground. He wore a cassock. Was there no end to the strangeness of this house? A devil of a woman cloaked in angelic loveliness, a red-headed giant, and a priest.
“He is awake.” Grace sprang from the chair and threw her arms around the priest, nearly toppling the old man.
“Your kindness made him well.” The priest patted her cheek, his eyes focused somewhere distant. He was blind.
William could not endure praise for his attacker. “Nay, she is the reason I am laid up.” Fatigue inched over him, but he could not give way to it. “I must get to London. Please. I am no longer in danger.”
“His concern is for the prints,” said the priest.
They had found his papers, then. Gone through his things and taken his money pouch, no doubt.
Grace turned to William, eyes bright. “I might distribute them for you. You must tell me who your contacts are in London. I can take care of coaching inns.”
His mind grew foggy. “You? Distribute them?”
“I am already familiar with your work.” She waggled her brows at him, as if they shared a secret joke.
In contrast to fair curls framing her face, her high, arching eyebrows were dark. A pretty conflict. Her cheekbones cut sharp while her lips appeared soft and full. He puffed out a great sigh, blowing away his thoughts.
“I am—was scheduled to meet with some of my associates. They will be worried.” His lids grew heavy.
“When you wake, I will write them for you and make arrangements for your prints.”
His eyes flew open. The woman, Grace, was staring at him, a smile lifting her mouth. “There he is. My handsome Peregrine, I am at your service.”
“No one calls me Peregrine.”
“The Duke of Stulton does.”
“He does not know me, not really.”
“What shall I call you then?”
He reached for the glass of water on the bedside table, grimacing at the pain in his ribs. “My friends call me William.”
She slapped her knees. “We are friends, aren’t we? I am glad I needn’t call you Mr. Elsworth. That is a stuffy name, though Peregrine…” The grin she gave him ran deep and genuine. Unnerving.
She knew his name. Of course, having rummaged through his saddle bags. He emptied the glass of water, hoping it held no laudanum. “I misspoke. You may call me Mr. Elsworth.”
“I’ve become rather fond of Peregrine. But that is neither here nor there. Tell me, to whom may I write?”
“No one. I can take care of my own correspondence.” She already knew too much.
“I do not believe your ribs will allow it.”
“I would rather Tempest drag me through a ditch than give you another scrap of information.”
She beamed at him, as if he could say nothing more delightful. He grasped for some way to threaten her. “You are a highway robber. Imagine the magistrate's pleasure when I take you to him.”
Her laughter rang blithe and joyful. “How droll you are, my lord.”
“The younger son of a baron is not addressed as ‘my lord.’”
“Fastidious, are we? Well, Peregrine, I am not a highway robber and did not shoot you. However, you, the Honorable Mr. Peregrine William Elsworth, are entirely in my hands.”
“Little devil,” he muttered. He was almost certain she had shot him. Still, he could not gauge how dangerous she was.
She considered him for long enough that he felt pleased to be wearing a shirt. “I think our relationship will be mutually beneficial,” she said. “I need something from you, and you require something from me.”
He wished to tell her that he wanted nothing from her, but it wasn’t true.
She withdrew a letter from her sleeve. The invitation to the duke’s house party. “I must accompany you to Stulton.”
“I am not going.”
“You will probably think better of that once you consider your position.”
If his leg did not hurt so badly, he might enjoy this exchange. “Am I to understand that you tried to rob me, shot me, searched my belongings, dragged me to your lair, and now you threaten me?”
“I didn’t—”
“As you have pointed out, I am a baron. No one will take your word over mine.”
“True.” She tapped her chin, then drew toward him. “But they might be interested in Billy Falcon of Hertford, Grub Street hack writer, disaffected turncoat, bent on destroying Mr. Pitt and defaming the crown.” She reached inside her sleeve and waved one of his prints at him.
He steadied his expression. During his delirium she had been hard at work, somehow discovering his alias.
He could not betray how her knowledge affected him.
How had she discovered so much? “I have no intention of succumbing to threat, neither will I attend the duke’s hunting party.
” Nothing could induce him to make an appearance at Stulton.
It was not a fox hunt but Lady Anne’s chase for a husband.
Despite throngs of men anxious to lay hands on Lady Anne’s dowry and wield the duke’s name, her ladyship had fixed her desire upon a lowly baron, one Peregrine Elsworth.
“We have six weeks to prepare. For the party, I mean. Until then, I will see to it that your prints are plastered across London. That alone will let your friends know you are alive. In return, you must school me in proper behavior for one attending the hunt. Already I’m a crack shot. ” She had the cheek to smile.
In a few weeks, his returning strength would see him out of wherever he was and away from this bullying woman.
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