Ten
It was several hours later before Claire left the safety of the orphanage. It had been a struggle to concentrate on helping the students with their studies, especially when confronted with their muffled giggles. She felt a fool, and it did not help to realize that a dozen children had witnessed her folly.
At least the kitten proved a welcome distraction. The children had taken great delight in retrieving a saucer of milk from the kitchen, and each took turns holding the small animal. They had even helped her to name the kitten Portia after the character in The Merchant of Venice.
After helping to serve the modest lunch, Claire had at last said her good-byes, but on the point of leaving she discovered herself hesitating. She rather rudely walked away from Simon, she acknowledged with a pang. She should at least ensure that Lady was comfortably settled. Whatever her muddled feelings toward Lord Challmond, it was a most generous gift, a gift that would be of great service to the children for years to come.
Veering toward the rather dilapidated stables, Claire entered the shadowed interior. It took only a moment to discover the chestnut mare in a clean stall. The horse gave a toss of her proud head as Claire approached and gently set the kitten on a pile of hay.
“There you are, my beauty,” she said in soft tones, stroking the velvet nose of Lady. “Such a pretty girl.”
Lady heaved a pleased sigh as Claire continued her firm strokes, talking in low tones. She paid little heed to the passage of time until the door to the stables was pushed open and the sound of Ann‘s soft gasp echoed through the hay scented air.
“Goodness.”
“Ann.” Claire turned to regard her friend, feeling oddly uneasy beneath the piercing gaze. “I did not expect you out here.”
Ann moved slowly forward, a hint of a smile curving her lips.
“When I arrived at the school, the children were filled with stories of a fancy gentleman and his gift.“
Claire kept her expression deliberately unreadable. “Yes, I am certain they must be quite excited by such a fine cart.”
Ann gave a slow nod of her head. “It is a most wondrous gift. We shall be forever in Lord Challmond’s debt.”
“He has been most kind.”
“Kind, indeed,” Ann agreed before allowing her suppressed laughter to fill the air. Claire’s unease increased as she cast Ann a narrowed gaze.
“What?”
“I fear the children were less excited by the cart than the kiss they observed you giving Lord Challmond.”
Drat the aggravating gentleman, she seethed in embarrassment. She was an intelligent woman with a clear sense of her own purpose, and yet he managed to make her appear as ridiculous as a susceptible schoolgirl.
“I did not kiss Lord Challmond,” she absurdly denied. “He kissed me. And much against my will, I might add.”
Ann gave a mock blink of surprise. “Do you mean to say that he forced his attentions upon you?”
Claire longed to bury herself beneath a pile of hay; instead, she could do no more than square her shoulders and hope she did not appear as foolish as she felt.
“Not precisely,” she amended.
“Then, you wished him to kiss you?”
“No . . . I ...”
Ann smiled gently at her flustered bumbling.
“Forgive me, Claire. I did not mean to tease,” she said, moving forward. “I am very happy that Lord Challmond has taken an interest in you. The orphanage has certainly benefited from his attraction. And you have never appeared happier.”
Claire felt the blood fade from her face. For goodness’ sake, what was Ann thinking? Lord Challmond interested in her? Absurd. He was a gentleman who could have his pick of beauties, whether they be ladies or those of easy virtue. The mere notion that he was interested in more than whiling away a few dull hours with her was simply ridiculous.
“That is absurd,” she at last stammered.
Ann regarded her with mild surprise. “What is absurd?”
“Lord Challmond is not interested in me.”
“Of course he is,” Ann insisted, seemingly baffled by Claire’s obtuse refusal to see the truth. “Why else would he go to such lengths to be in your company?”
“He merely enjoys taunting me.”
Ann’s eyes widened as she gave a tinkling laugh. “Not even you are that naive, Claire.”
For no reason Claire felt her color return with a fury. The memory of warm lips stroking and teasing her own sent a quiver of delicious heat through her body.
She was a wanton maiden, she told herself sternly.
“You are greatly mistaken, Ann,” she forced herself to mutter.
“Perhaps.” Ann shrugged in disbelief. Then the pathetic cry of the forgotten kitten had the older woman’s attention shifting to the black ball of fur upon the hay. “Where did this adorable kitten come from?”
Chastising herself for neglecting her newest pet, Claire reached down to pluck the disgruntled Portia from the hay. Placing it against her heart, she reluctantly met Ann’s curious gaze.
“Mrs. Foley,” she hedged.
“Mrs. Foley?” Ann demanded in surprise.
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Foley sent the orphanage a kitten? How very odd.”
Drat, she sighed. She should have simply headed for home when she had the opportunity.
“Actually Portia is for me,” she reluctantly confessed.
“Ah.” A sudden flash of understanding rippled over Ann’s countenance. “I do not suppose that Lord Challmond was responsible for bringing you the kitten?”
Claire heaved a weary sigh. Lord Challmond had a great deal to answer for, she thought in exasperation. Even when he was not near he created troubles in her life.
“I fear that you shall have to save your inquisition until a later date,” she muttered in defensive tones. “I promised Father I would be home for lunch.”
“Of course.” Ann battled to hide her amusement. “I shall see you tomorrow.”
Feeling ridiculously self-conscious, Claire walked past her friend and into the afternoon sunshine. She did not pause on this occasion, but instead hurried across the yard toward a narrow path. Although she could easily have a carriage at her disposal, Claire preferred to walk when the weather permitted, although today she would not have been averse to the convenience of a coach. The sooner she was in the privacy of her home, the sooner she could regain command of her composure.
Why had she ever thought to use such a disturbing gentleman to fool her father? she wondered as she stepped over a fallen log and headed into the thickening woods. Her father had yet to rid himself of Lizzy while her own well-ordered world was in turmoil. Perhaps it would be best to abandon her rather desperate scheme before she discovered herself in dangerous waters.
After all, there were other gentlemen in the neighborhood who did not make her heart leap and her knees unnaturally weak.
Dwelling on her confused thoughts, Claire crossed a narrow bridge that marked Westwood Park. It was far shorter to cut through the pasture than to skirt the vast estate. She had little concern of encountering the bothersome earl at such a remote location.
Surprisingly, however, she had taken less than a dozen steps when a large shadow crossed the path. She came to an abrupt halt, half expecting her thoughts to have conjured Lord Challmond. But the thick frame and ruddy countenance had nothing in common with the handsome Simon, and her leaping heart abruptly plunged to her toes. Although she had no desire to run across Lord Challmond, it would certainly be preferable to Mr. Foster.
She unconsciously grimaced as his beady eyes made a slow inspection of her stiff form.
“Well, well. If it ain’t Miss Blakewell,” he drawled in ugly tones.
Claire tilted her chin as she held the sleeping Portia close to her.
“Mr. Foster.”
“Quite the meddlesome female, ain’t you?” he accused.
“Excuse me?”
Foster stepped closer, filling the air with the stench of stale whiskey and an unwashed body.
“Always sticking that bloody nose where it don’t belong.”
An unfamiliar flare of fear stabbed though her heart. Although she had faced Foster on more than one occasion, it had never been so far from others. And, of course, there had always been the knowledge the greedy scoundrel would never risk his comfortable position by attacking a wealthy young maiden.
Now he had nothing to lose, and Claire could sense a drunken disregard in his swaggering stance.
Still, she had no intention of revealing her unease. Not to an out-and-out bounder. “Please stand aside.”
He ignored her lofty command as his eyes narrowed.
“You got me thrown out.”
“You were thrown out because you stole money intended for Lord Challmond’s tenants,” she corrected him in cold tones.
“Bah,” he spat out. “What does a nob like Lord Challmond care of farmers?”
Once Claire would have agreed with his disparaging comment; now she gave a sharp tilt of her chin.
“He happens to care a great deal.”
Foster spit on the ground, nearly hitting Claire’s skirt. “He cared for nothing until you interfered.”
Claire took a pointed step backward, her expression one of cold disapproval.
“I merely pointed out that the cottages were falling into disrepair. It was hardly a secret,” she said. “And if you had been performing your duties in a competent manner, you would not have been asked to leave.”
“What do you know of how I worked?” She ignored the litde voice that warned her to walk away from the scoundrel.
“I know that you spend your days at the inn and your nights gambling away money intended for the estate.”
His face became even redder. “Easy for a lady such as yerself to sneer at the likes of me.”
“I do not sneer at you, Mr. Foster,” she denied.
An evil expression hardened his features. “Well, mayhap I think you do,” he growled as he stepped even closer. “Mayhap I think you owe me something for the trouble you’ve caused.”
Another stab of fear pierced her heart as she acknowledged just how alone she was with the angry man.
“Stand aside, Mr. Foster, or I shall scream.”
“And who would hear?” he mocked, clearly as aware of their isolation as she. Then the glittering gaze dropped to Claire’s heaving breast and her heart nearly stopped with fright. Good Lord, what disaster had she tumbled into now? she wondered with a surge of panic. Why, oh, why hadn’t she brought the carriage like any sensible maiden? Or at least brought along a proper chaperon?
She swallowed heavily, wondering how she was going to save herself when she realized the villain’s gaze was firmly attached to the necklace she had forgotten she wore.
“Now, be a luv and hand over them fine pearls. They might ease the pain of being turned off with no place to go.”
Ridiculously Claire discovered her fear being replaced with a burst of anger. The necklace had belonged to her mother, and while it was certainly not the most valuable piece of jewelry, it was her most sentimental. She wasn’t about to hand it over to a common bully.
“Never,” she exclaimed in fierce tones.
Foster bared his teeth as his grimy hand rose toward her neck.
“If you won’t hand them over, then I’ll take them.”
“No.”
Knowing he was far too large to fight off, Claire did the only thing she could. Gathering her skirts in one hand, she clutched the sleeping kitten with the other and with a burst of speed dashed into the thick trees.
Behind her, CIi:lire could hear Foster give a loud curse, then the crashing sounds of his pursuit through the underbrush.
Although Claire did not often have the opportunity·to dash about the countryside, she was wise enough to keep her head low and to dart through the thick bushes rather than struggle against them. Her slender frame helped her to slip into even the narrowest gaps, and soon the sound of Foster’s labored breathing began to grow fainter and fainter.
Claire gave a silent prayer of thanks for the large amount of whiskey Foster had no doubt consumed as she angled toward Westwood’s great house. She was quite certain that Foster could have easily overcome ,her if he weren’t half foxed.
On the point of believing she might actually escape unscathed, Claire risked a glance over her shoulder. It proved to be a costly mistake as her foot caught on an exposed root and she abruptly lunged forward. Turned to an awkward angle, Claire was helpless to halt her tumble forward and with a faint cry she heavily hit the ground.
Her last memory was the sight of a large stone and the certain knowledge it was directly in line with her forehead. Then a sharp pain exploded in her head and everything went perfectly black.
* * *
Seated in the leather wing chair beside the black marble chimneypiece, Locky watched as his companion paced the length of the library for the hundredth time. On the low table was a tray overflowing with sandwiches and cakes, and a pot of tea that had been forgotten, as well as the decanter of brandy Simon had ordered, only to leave it neglected as he continued his restless pacing.
Locky hid a small smile. He had never witnessed his friend so discomposed. Not that he entirely blamed Simon. He had been distinctly rattled when he had stumbled across Miss Blakewell lying upon the ground with blood trickling down her forehead. But by the time he had carried her up to the house he managed to convince himself that she merely knocked herself unconscious after tripping over a root in the pathway.
His arrival at the house, however, caused a near riot. One glance at the battered beauty in his arms, and Simon exploded into action. He plucked the maiden from Locky’s arms, demanding the surgeon to be called, that tea be fetched, that water be boiled, and the yellow room opened as he swept up the stairs. Then he planted himself on the bed next to Miss Blakewell, refusing to budge until the surgeon at last threw up his hands and cried that he could not examine his patient with his lordship hovering over her like a mother chick with its egg.
Banished from the sickroom, Simon had begun his ceaseless pacing, on occasion marching into the hall and glaring up the long flight of steps. Returning from yet another circuit, Simon roared in frustration. “What the devil is taking that surgeon so long?”
Locky stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles.
“It has been less than half an hour.”
Simon frowned in displeasure. “I should send to London for a doctor.”
“She has a bump to the head, Challmond, not a mortal wound.”
Simon reined his temper with an effort. The devil take it, how could he meekly stand aside and wait? He had never been so frightened as when Locky had entered carrying Claire in his arms. Just for a moment a pain that he had never felt before clutched at his heart and he nearly fell to his knees in response. The only means he had of keeping the panic at bay was to keep himself busy, even if it was only walking from one end of the room to the other.
“We both know that head wounds can be dangerous.”
“It is a bump, not a wound,” Locky pointed out with exaggerated patience. “No doubt we both have received worse falling off our mounts when we were bosky.”
Simon regarded his friend with open displeasure. “You appear remarkably unconcerned.“
“You wrong me, Challmond,” Locky argued. “When I came upon Miss Blakewell lying upon the ground, my heart nearly halted. All I could think was to get her to Westwood Park as swiftly as possible. But since you are clearly determined to be anxious enough for all of England, I have resigned myself to the role of keeping you from any foolish actions, such as riding off to London for a doctor, when there is a perfectly capable surgeon upstairs.”
Simon grimaced in a rueful manner. “I hate this waiting,” he admitted by way of apology, then determinedly turned his thoughts to the other worry nagging at the edge of his mind. “What could have happened to her?”
“Difficult to say.” Locky gave a faint shrug. “Perhaps she was startled by a small animal.”
Simon swiftly dismissed the suggestion. “You do not know Miss Blakewell if you think she could be frightened by a mere animal.”
“Surely all ladies are terrified of mice and rats?”
Simon gave a decisive shake of his head. “Not Miss Blakewell.”
“Then perhaps she simply tripped. I did notice a root sticking out of the path.”
It was a perfectly reasonable explanation, but Simon remained unconvinced. Why would Claire be on a path leading directly to Westwood Park? After their delicious interlude that morning, he would have bet good blunt she would go out of her way to avoid his presence. And how had she managed to overlook a large root and tumble hard enough to knock herself unconscious?
“Perhaps,” he murmured in disbelieving tones. “Whatever the reason, she should not have been alone in those woods. I have warned her more than once.” His stern words were cut short as a small, nearly baldheaded gentleman entered the room. Moving forward, Simon regarded the surgeon with impatience. “Well?”
Remarkably calm despite the large earl looming over him, Mr. Cassel slipped on his greatcoat.
“Miss Blakewell appears to be coming about.”
“Thank God.” Simon felt his entire body quiver with relief. “What of her head?”
“She had taken quite a blow.”
Simon paled. “Then, it is serious?”
“I do not believe so, but any injury to the head should be treated with great caution.” Simon shot his companion a sour glance. “My thoughts precisely.”
“I wish her to remain abed for the next two days,” the surgeon commanded. “I shall return then to ensure she is well enough to get up.”
“Of course,” Simon promised, only briefly considering Miss Blakewell’ s reaction to her predicament. He did not care if he had to tie the stubborn chit to the bedpost to make her remain.
“If her condition worsens, send for me immediately.”
Simon stepped forward as Mr. Cassel prepared to leave. “May I see her?”
“Only for a few moments,” the elderly man warned. “She is not to be overly exerted.”
Simon gave a conceding nod, then glanced toward his friend.
“Locky, would you see to our guest? I wish to discover if Miss Blakewell is in need of anything.”
Locky immediately rose to his feet. “Of course.“
“Thank you.” Simon offered both gentlemen a distracted bow, eager to be with Claire. “Have the bill sent to my secretary.”
Mr. Cassel bowed with rigid formality. “Your servant, my lord.”
Simon swept past the surgeon and into the hall. On the point of climbing the steps he was halted by the sight of his housekeeper.
“Ah, Mrs. King.” He waited for the older woman to join him by the stairs. “Miss Blakewell will be staying with us for the next few days.”
“The poor dear,” Mrs. King breathed, no doubt having heard the gossip running rampant through the mansion. “Is she badly wounded?”
“The surgeon does not believe so, but we do not wish to risk removing her to Blakewell Manor.”
“Certainly not.”
“Could you please request Aunt Jane to remove to Westwood Park?” he commanded. “I believe it would be best to have a chaperon if only for appearance’s sake.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And send a message to Blakewell Manor to inform Mr. Blakewell what has occurred.”
“Anything else, my lord?”
Simon gave it a moment of thought.
“You might also inquire if Miss Blakewell has any favorites that Cook can make for her,” he at last decided. “We want her stay to be as comfortable as possible.”
Unable to suppress his need to assure himself that Claire would indeed survive, Simon turned and vaulted up the stairs.
Standing below, Mrs. King watched the earl’s hurried retreat with a growing smile. She had a distinct sensation that Miss Blakewell’s visit would prove to be anything but comfortable.