Cold-Hearted Rake

“Hamlet is very clean,” Cassandra said, reaching down to pet the pig as he came up to her and grunted affectionately. “Cleaner than the dogs, actually.”

It was true. Hamlet was so well-behaved that it seemed unjust to banish him from the house. “There’s no choice,” Kathleen said regretfully. “I’m afraid that Mr. Winterborne can’t be expected to share our enlightened view of pigs. Hamlet will have to sleep in the barn. You can make him a nice bed of straw and blankets.”

The twins were aghast, both of them protesting at once.

“But that will hurt his feelings —”

“He’ll think he’s being punished!”

“He’ll be perfectly comfortable —” Kathleen began, but broke off as she noticed that both dogs, alerted by a noise, had hurried from the room with their tails wagging. Hamlet rushed after them with a determined squeak.

“Someone is at the front door,” Helen said, setting aside her embroidery. She went to the window for a glimpse of the front drive and portico.

It had to be Devon and his guest. Jumping to her feet, Kathleen told the twins urgently, “Take the pig to the cellars! Hurry!”

She suppressed a grin as they ran to obey.

Smoothing her skirts and tugging her sleeves into place, Kathleen went to stand beside Helen at the window. To her surprise, there was no carriage or team of horses on the drive, only a sturdy pony, its sides sweat-streaked and heaving.

She recognized the pony: It belonged to the postmaster’s young son, Nate, who was often sent to deliver telegraph dispatches. But Nate didn’t usually ride pell-mell on his deliveries.

Uneasiness slithered down her spine.

The elderly butler came to the doorway. “Milady.”

A breath caught in Kathleen’s throat as she saw that he held a telegram in his hand. In the time she had known him, Sims had never given her a letter or telegram directly from his own hand, but had always brought it on a small silver tray.

“The boy says it’s a matter of great urgency,” Sims said, his face tense with repressed emotion as he gave the telegram to her. “A news dispatch was sent to the postmaster. It seems there was a train accident at Alton.”

Kathleen felt the color drain from her face. A sharp hum crackled in her ears. Clumsy with haste, she snatched the telegram from him and opened it.

DERAILMENT NEAR ALTON STATION. TRENEAR AND WINTERBORNE BOTH INJURED. HAVE DOCTOR READY FOR THEIR ARRIVAL. I WILL RETURN BY HIRED COACH.

SUTTON

Devon… injured.

Kathleen found herself clenching her fists as if the terrifying thought were something she could physically bat away. Her heart had begun to hammer.

“Sims, send a footman to fetch the doctor.” She had to force words through a smothering layer of panic. “He must come without delay – both Lord Trenear and Mr. Winterborne will require his attention.”

“Yes, my lady.” The butler left the receiving room, moving with remarkable alacrity for a man his age.

“May I read it?” Helen asked.

Kathleen extended the telegram to her, the paper’s edges fluttering like a captured butterfly.

Nate’s breathless voice came from the doorway. He was a small, wiry boy with a mop of rust-colored hair and a round face constellated with freckles. “My dad told me the news from the wire.” Seeing that he had gained both women’s attention, he continued excitedly, “It happened at the bridge, just before the station. A train of ballast wagons was crossing the line and didn’t clear in time. The passenger train crashed into it, and some of the carriages went over the bridge into the River Wey.” The boy’s eyes were huge and round with awe. “More than a dozen people were killed, and another score are missing. My dad says there’s probably some who’ll die in the coming days: They might have their arms and legs torn off, and their bones crushed —”

“Nate,” Helen interrupted, as Kathleen whirled away, “why don’t you run to the kitchen and ask the cook for a biscuit or a heel of gingerbread?”

“Thank you, Lady Helen.”

Kathleen pressed her balled fists against her eyes, digging her knuckles hard against the sockets. Anguished fear caused her to shake from head to toe.

She couldn’t bear knowing that Devon was hurt. At that very moment, that beautiful, arrogant, superbly healthy man was in pain… perhaps frightened… perhaps dying. She let out a coughing breath, and another, and a few hot tears slid between her knuckles. No, she couldn’t let herself cry, there was too much to do. They had to be ready when he arrived. Everything necessary to help him must be instantly available.

“What can I do?” she heard Helen ask behind her.

She dragged her cuffs over her wet cheeks. It was difficult to think; her brain was in a fog. “Tell the twins what’s happened, and make certain they’re not present when the men are brought inside. We don’t know what their condition is, or how severe the injuries are, and… I wouldn’t want the girls to see…”

“Of course.”

Kathleen turned to face her. Blood throbbed in her temples. “I’ll find Mrs. Church,” she said hoarsely. “We’ll need to gather the household medical supplies, and clean sheets and rags —” Her throat closed.

“West is with them,” Helen said, settling a gentle hand on her shoulder. She was very calm, although her face was white and tense. “He’ll take good care of his brother. Don’t forget, the earl is large and very strong. He would survive hazards that other men might not.”