“Fu—” He bit off the expletive and steadied himself. Henry had hit his head on the bedroom doorway again. Had the cottage been built for midgets? He knew it was newer—there was even a plaque over the front door with the builder’s initials and the date, barely three years ago. People weren’t as short as they used to be, but of course, Henry was taller than most. He would have to remember to “Duck or Grouse,” as those clever signs in old inns said.
He turned on the lamp and caught sight of himself in the mirror. His bandage had migrated south, and the whack to his head had caused his wound to leak. Bloody hell. Mrs. Grace had left for the day, not that he wanted her help. She would just screw up her lips and go all prune-faced on him, as though he’d been tiddly on his way to bed.
As if he could get inebriated on tea—he’d had pots and pots of it today to keep him awake in case he was suffering from a concussion. The result was he was feeling a little wild, blood racing, and sorely wished for a bit of poppy to put him to sleep.
Definitely forbidden, and likely unavailable in purest Puddling. He’d have to count imaginary sheep, though Lord knows there were plenty of real ones about. They were probably right out there on the hill outside his window jumping fences.
Henry had a magnificent view from the cottage, but it was dark now. The village, save from the earlier ringing of the church bells, was dead quiet. The incessant bells had given him a headache—it must have been bell ringers’ practice, since they went on forever in various intonations and made no note whatsoever of the time. He’d only come upstairs because his watch told him it was ten o’clock, not because he was tired.
Henry was buckling under to his schedule, and he hated himself for it. Until a few months ago, he’d been the one giving the orders. After his capture, he’d spent a few miserable days bleeding until he was exchanged for a flock of Boer prisoners. His Majesty’s Army had not done it out of the goodness of its heart, but through the bullying of his father, whose contacts were of the very highest, right up to the queen herself.
And then Henry—still in his hospital bed—had faced a formal inquiry alleging that he allowed himself to be captured—that he’d failed his rank and country and class. The whole process had infuriated him. Try retreating when your boot’s been shot off and your foot is on fire, he’d wanted to say. But he lay unbowed—as if you can lie down and still be unbowed—for the hearing, biting his tongue. What was the point of telling these stupid old men off? They knew nothing about ordinary soldiers and were never likely to. The recent wars had been debacles, and Henry was glad he was shot of his army life, even if he’d had to have been shot to get out. Getting a damned tin of tobacco from Queen Victoria at Christmas was not enough to make up for even a minute of it.
He didn’t even smoke, one bad habit he was not guilty of.
But he’d wanted a career in the army, and he’d gotten it. The pater was right to tell him he’d made a mistake, and he’d been too stubborn at nineteen to listen. His father should have locked him in his room to prevent the inevitable consequences. Sent him to Puddling then.
Instead, he was locked away now in this dwarf’s cottage minus Snow White. Oh, Henry supposed it was all right—the conservatory was a pleasant space, the garden well-planted, most of the furniture in the rest of the house very plush. A pretty padded Puddling prison. He was becoming quite alliterative in his latest captivity now, wasn’t he?
And if only he followed the damned rules, he’d be sprung in three weeks, possibly less, if he could convince that Walker fellow that he was totally reformed.
Henry supposed that meant no more kissing schoolteachers, which was a damned shame.
He’d forgotten the Service business. Apparently Henry had to do something to prove to the Puddling Powers That Be that he knew the errors of his ways, would think of others and was prepared to forsake all pleasure forever. Henry wondered if his reading to orphans scheme would fit the bill.
He punched his pillow down, still fully dressed. Damn, he wasn’t tired at all. The air in the cottage felt close, and suddenly he couldn’t bear it.
He would walk. Look at the stars. Breathe in some sheep-scented air. The wool trade may have collapsed hereabouts, but there were still plenty of the little buggers around, their taunting bleats reminding Henry they were free but he was not.
He lit a small lantern from the dresser in the kitchen, grabbed his cane from the front hall and opened the door. A long narrow pebbled path led down to the street, with a few deep steps at the end to reach the gate and cobbled Honeywell Lane.
He’d seen the well on his walk to the schoolhouse, a pretty stone thing that still seemed to be in use. There were precious few signs of modernity here, which, Henry supposed, was the point of Puddling. How could you sin when there was no opportunity?
The house windows were mostly dark, the only sound his footfall and the slap of his stick. Henry hissed a bit at the uneven pavement and its effect on his foot, but he was determined to walk himself into sleep. He knew his way by now, up St. Jude’s Street toward the towering church, right on Vicarage Lane, around Market Street to New Street, back to St. Jude’s, the holy quadrumvirate. His own lane made five, and he knew where it led now: to a dead-end at a stream. He’d been a fool to stumble down it this afternoon—if he hadn’t been driven up in his first-class wheelbarrow, he’d probably still be navigating the hill.
Henry’s foot yearned for a straightaway, something smooth and paved and flat, but wasn’t going to get it here. The starry skies above twinkled, but he focused on the lane under his feet, minding the dips and divots. All he needed now was a twisted ankle as well as a sore head.
He wasn’t even sure if he was allowed out at night. Probably not. He was meant to get a solid eight hours’ sleep. Breakfast was at eight sharp, after he shaved, bathed and dressed. Mrs. Grace had refused to feed him in his scruff and dressing gown.
Henry passed the public baths on the corner. How lucky he was not to share his ablutions with strangers. Although army life had robbed him of the kind of privacy he’d previously enjoyed, and his brief experience as a prisoner of war made him all the more grateful he was demobilized. Stonecrop Cottage was totally up-to-date in the bathing department with hot and cold running water, though he understood the rest of the town was very much behind the times. Since he had his very own dynamo in the shed, he didn’t need to read by candlelight, as a few cottagers seemed to be doing.
Henry wondered what they were reading. Racy novels? Unlikely. There was a tiny lending library on Vicarage Lane, but Henry had resolutely passed it by each day without stepping inside. He was sure every book would be of an ‘improving’ sort, or chock-full of sermons. No thank you. He was sermonized sufficiently by Mr. Walker every afternoon.
He turned onto New Street, which was crammed with old buildings. New Street had not been new in a very long time. According to Mr. Walker, who seemed very proud of his parish, a couple of hundred years ago all the cottages had weaving rooms on the top floors, when Puddling had been known far and wide for its cloth. Now it was a secret spot to sequester scandalous scions of society.
Good God, this alliteration had to stop!
He was saved from chastising himself further by a small growling dog who sped out of an alley between houses, hackles raised. Henry thought it was best to stop and shine his lantern on the creature in hopes it would be temporarily blinded so he could go on his way. The dog—if that was indeed what it was—Henry had never seen such a misshapen mongrel—was not deterred. Its growl changed to a near-rabid bark which would wake up everyone on the street.
“Sh. Good doggie. Um, bad doggie.” It was hard to know what tack to take. If anything, the dog barked louder with each syllable.
A light spilled from the upper story window, and a head popped out. “Rufus! Be quiet! Come!”
Henry knew that voice. The soothing angel-mermaid voice that led to terrible trouble. Would she drop a flower pot on his head when she discovered who had riled her dog?
So this is where his schoolteacher lived, a modest attached stone cottage right on the road. Presumably the little alleyway the dog raced out of led to the back garden, where, judging from a frayed rope at his neck, he might have been tethered.
Rufus had an inordinate interest in Henry’s cane, which he now shook so vigorously between bared teeth that Henry had difficulty holding on to it. What was it with the Everetts and his walking stick? At least the animal hadn’t noticed his trouser cuff. Yet.
“Who’s down there? Bother. It’s you.”
“Yes, that sums it up rather nicely. Would you mind very much coming down and unfastening your dog from my person?”
“Oh, God! Is he biting you?”
“Not just yet. But I’m sure he can smell the potential delectability of my ankle, even with a pushed-in snout like that.”
“I knew all that fruitcake would unsettle him,” she said. Whatever fruitcake had to do with Henry’s predicament he wasn’t sure, but Miss Everett disappeared from her window. He held on for dear life as the mongrel attempted to play tug-of-war with his unwilling victim.
Henry was determined not to topple down in Miss Everett’s presence again if he could help it and held steady. He could always clout Rufus on the head with his lantern if worse came to worst, but he knew instinctively that Miss Everett wouldn’t like it. One didn’t keep a dog like this for its good looks—she must have great affection for him, since Rufus looked put together by a blind man at the dog parts factory. Small head, dangling ears, squashed face, and a body that looked like a sausage on stumps.
“Down, Rufus,” Henry said tentatively. Rufus turned his bug-eyes on him and glared, not giving up his grip on the cane one inch. Henry diverted his attention to the front door of the cottage, so was startled when Miss Everett appeared from the alley in her dressing gown, her hair a river of black silk down her back.
“Shh! My father’s sleeping,” she hissed.
“I doubt that,” Henry whispered back. “Your dog barked his head off.” Even being partially deaf, Henry’s ears were still ringing.
Miss Everett cocked her head. “He’s just in the front room.”
“Well, then we should continue our conversation in the back. If your dog will stop attacking my stick.”
“We do not need to continue anything. Rufus, come.”
Rufus growled and held fast. Miss Everett tugged on the bit of rope, the dog tugged back, and Henry found himself on his arse.
Again.
Would the humiliation ever end? The lantern extinguished itself and clattered away down the road, and they were left in the dark.
“Oh, dear.” Henry thought he heard a snicker. “Can you get up, or should I fetch a wheelbarrow?”
Impertinent minx. “I’m fine.” Only his consequence was bruised. Henry sprung up from the gutter, his trousers only slightly damp.
“What are you doing out?” Miss Everett asked waspishly, handing him back his now dogless stick.
“I didn’t realize I was confined to quarters. It’s a lovely night, and I wanted some fresh country air. Is that a crime hereabouts?”
“If it isn’t, it should be. The town isn’t safe for strangers to walk around in the dark.”
It was true there was not a lick of light, or a helpful night watchman with a working lantern. “I’m hardly a stranger. I’ve walked up this road every day now for a week. I could do it blindfolded.”
“Stop bragging—it’s a very unattractive quality in a man. Good evening, then.” She turned to go, somewhat hunched over as she still held the hideous Rufus by the shortened rope.
“Wait.”
Miss Everett paused. “What now, Lord Challoner?”
Henry really didn’t know what to say, except that he was reluctant to leave the woman frowning at him in the dark. He was even more wide awake now than he’d been to start with, and going home to stew alone was not appealing in the least.
“I—I think your dog may have bitten me.”
“You think? I thought you said—”
“I was confused. Trying to be brave. Everything happened so quickly.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where did Rufus bite you, my lord?”
“Um. My leg. It hurts like the devil,” Henry lied. He reached down as if he were rubbing it, found the small knife he kept in his boot and stealthily stabbed though tweed and stocking and skin.
Clearly, he was mad.
“I’m not sure where Mrs. Grace might keep bandages and such,” Henry continued, straightening and slipping the knife in his pocket.
“You’d better come in then.” She sounded doubtful, as she should. There were two curs on the street now. “Around the back way.”
Henry followed her down the narrow alley and through a wooden gate. The night air was perfumed with flowers from the back garden. It must be lovely and lush in the daylight; Henry could barely get through the bushes. Miss Everett tied Rufus back up to a stake, and Henry observed in the dim starlight there was rather large doghouse for such an unprepossessing animal.
They entered by way of the kitchen door and Miss Everett lit a lamp on the dresser. The room was small but scrupulously clean. Warm, too. The range was probably the only steady source of heat in the cottage. She put the kettle on and faced him squarely. “Remove your pants, my lord.”
This was more like it. Henry hoped slashing himself had been worth something, and this exceeded his expectations. But he was still a gentleman deep down. Miss Everett needed to be saved from herself.
“Did I hear you correctly?”
“Unless you think you can roll them up over your calf. I shouldn’t like you to lose any circulation while I treat the wound.”
Blood was flowing to a part of him best left undiscovered. Henry hoped his shirttail would cover it and Miss Everett wouldn’t notice. “Very wise. All right. Do you have nursing experience?”
Miss Everett sighed. “I teach school, and half the students in my class are little boys.” She picked up a bottle and cloths from a shelf and waved them at him. “Always prepared. Does that answer your question?”
“Indeed it does,” Henry said, working his buttons free with one hand. The other propped him up on the scrubbed pine table. His leg did hurt in fact. The walk might have been too much for him in his present condition, injured from tip to toe. He wondered if the bandage around his head was on straight.
Miss Everett’s back was turned as she rummaged through a cupboard. “Sit down, and put this over your lap.” She handed him what appeared to be a tablecloth. Henry could smell starch and sunshine, and had a vision of this young woman hanging laundry in her little back garden. His pants puddled around his ankles, and suddenly he felt venal and stupid.
“I hope we don’t wake your father,” Henry said truthfully. He felt at a distinct disadvantage wearing table linen.
“He’s a sound sleeper. Now, this may hurt….”