Chapter 7

 

The shape was that of a man. A badly beaten man from the look of the goodly amount of blood soaking the disheveled curls and ripped coat. Half hidden by the undergrowth, he lay face down, one arm twisted under his chest. There was no sign of movement, not even when the hound gave a doleful whine and nudged his nose against the crooked knee.

"Dear God," repeated Eliza, feeling as if she, too, had been struck a violent blow. Though the face was not yet visible, she had a queasy feeling that the features were going to prove all too recognizable, despite the awful battering.

A low cry was the only sound from Meredith. Taking the last few steps at a dead run, she sank down beside the man's prostrate form and took gentle hold of his shoulders.

Eliza tried to peel her sister's hands away. "Let me see to him," she demanded, hoping to spare Meredith what promised to be a horrible sight.

"No!" Even as she spoke, Meredith was already working to turn the body face up with as much care as she could. "I don't need to be protected, not from this."

Sensing that no amount of arguing would do any good, Eliza fell silent and concentrated her efforts on helping raise the body out of the mud.

It was worse than she had feared. Beneath the matted locks, the man's eyes were so pummeled as to be swollen completely shut, and his cheeks were puffed to nearly twice their normal size with deep, purpling bruises. The nose, smashed at an odd angle, was still oozing a trickle of blood that tinged the split lips a viscous red.

Meredith managed to choke down a retch, but her teeth could not keep from chattering as she unwound the torn cravat and sought for a sign of life.

Eliza forced a calmness that belied the churning of her own insides. To her vague surprise, her vocal chords cooperated and her words came out with an eerie flatness. "Is he dead?"

It was a moment before her sister was able to answer. "There is a slight pulse, but it's very weak." She raised her eyes. "I know what you think of him, but we cannot just walk away and leave him to die, Liza. We must get help!"

"I never meant—" She caught herself, realizing this was hardly the time to debate the finer points of her feelings. "Of course we must get help. And have word sent to Lord Killlingworth." Her gaze jerked back to the pitiful face staring up at them with bruise-battered eyes. "I don't suppose there is any doubt that this is his nephew?"

"It is Mr. Harkness—I recognize the signet ring on his finger. And the c-color of his hair." Again, Meredith nearly broke down in a sob after slanting look at the blood-soaked curls, but quickly regained control. "You must run to the village while I stay with—"

"No, I will stay here and you will go," countered Eliza.

"I hardly think Mr. Harkness poses any threat at the moment!"

"It is not Mr. Harkness I am thinking about, but whoever has done this to him!" She indicated the reticule by her side. "Unlike you, I do not consider it wasted effort to lug around a hunk of iron. Nor will I hesitate to use it. I'll not let any more harm come to him, so ceasing brangling with me and go!"

To her relief, any further argument seemed to die upon Meredith's lips. After no more than a moment of hesitation, she scrambled to her feet and set off toward the lane as quickly as the way would allow.

Ajax seemed torn between whether to follow her or stay behind. He trailed along for some yards, then returned to his adopted master. With a plaintive whoof, he stretched out at the fallen man's feet, so close that his muzzle was touching the outstretched boot.

"We'll not let any more harm come to him, I promise," murmured Eliza in response to the look of mute appeal in the hound's mournful eyes. A sigh of her own joined the soft growls. "For all the good it will do him now."

Forcing her gaze back to the bruised face, she busied herself with wiping the worst of the mud and blood from the wounds. There was little else she could do, save bandage several deep lacerations on his hands with strips torn from her petticoat and cover him with her shawl.

And to offer up a silent prayer. To her surprise, Eliza found she was doing just that.

It seemed like an age before the sound of voices and a wagon approaching on the rutted lane announced that help had finally arrived.

"Here!" she cried in answer to a muffled shout.

Meredith appeared in a matter of minutes, followed by three men. "Is he still..."

"Yes, he's still alive," replied Eliza. She stood up, glad to relinquish her place by the young man's side to the local physician. Ajax looked up sharply, but made no protest as Dr. Yount began a quick assessment of the injuries.

The words he muttered were inaudible but his grim expression made his feeling clear enough as he examined the extent of the damage. "As nasty a piece of work as I've ever witnessed," he announced, looking up from Lucien's bruised body. "I'll do what I can, but..." The rest was left unsaid. After a moment he added, "Any idea of who would do this to the earl's nephew? And why?"

The other two local men averted their eyes and made no answer.

Eliza also remained silent, praying that her sister would not make any hasty revelations. A spasm crossed Meredith's face, but she merely bit her lip.

"Hmmph." The doctor gave them all another searching look, then wasted no more time on reflection. "Bob and Josiah, go fetch the boards from the back of my gig. We must move him carefully if we are to avoid further damage. Miss Meredith, if you will go with them and bring back my medical bag, while Miss Kirtland helps me lift..."

His gruff commands set everyone into action, and in short order Lucien had been carried out to the lane. As the three men lifted the makeshift stretcher onto the pile of straw, a rider thundered into view from around the bend, his mount spurred to a furious gallop. Before the lathered stallion came to a full halt, Marcus was out of the saddle and running to his nephew's side.

One look at the battered face caused the blood to drain from his own visage. Drawing in a sharp breath, he turned to engage in a terse conversation with the doctor. What he heard caused his expression to harden and Eliza heard him curse as he stepped forward to help the two men in strapping down the board.

When the task was done, the doctor scrambled up beside his patient and motioned for the other men to take charge of the reins.

Marcus watched the gig until it disappeared around the bend, then turned to the two sisters. His mouth was compressed in a tight line, lips near white with the force of his shock and outrage.

His gaze locked on Eliza, his amber eyes afire with a molten swirl of emotion. "Well, Miss Kirtland..." In contrast to his look, his voice was very cool and its note of weary bitterness caused a lump of ice to form in the pit of her belly. "Are you now satisfied that justice has been done?"

* * *

"Is there any news?" asked Meredith softly.

Eliza put down her reticule and removed her bonnet before making an answer. "Mr. Giles says Dr. Yount was still at the manor when his boy delivered the requested medicines, but... Mr. Harkness had not regained consciousness." She unpacked the items she had brought back from the village and laid them out with great care upon the kitchen table, hoping to forestall any further questioning. "I trust I have not forgotten any of the things you asked for."

"No, it appears everything is here." Meredith continued a methodical grinding until the piece of willowbark in her pestle had been reduced to a fine powder. She then laid the mortar aside and wiped her fingers on a dish towel. "There is something else, isn't there? Something you wish to keep from me."

There was, but Eliza knew it was pointless to deny it. Her sister would hear of it soon enough. "Apparently Dr. Yount has tried to hire someone skilled in nursing to tend to the young man, but no one in the area will take a position at Killingworth Court, not even Sadie Fathing, who is desperately in need of money."

Ignoring Meredith's gasp of surprise, she added," Indeed, two of the housemaids have already quit, due to the... rumors."

"But—but if Mr. Harkness does not have the proper medical care, he may die!"

Eliza felt her mouth thin to a grim line. "Quite likely. And townsfolk are saying it would be good riddance. They hope such a dire event might also drive the cursed Black Cat away from these parts."

"And you, Eliza? Is that what you say, too?"

Eliza was rendered momentarily speechless by the look in her sister's eyes. It was as if a sudden squall had darkened the normally placid blue into a sea of stormy slate.

"Do all of you really believe you have the right to decide who should live and who should die?" continued Meredith in an agitated voice that was equally at odds with her usual sunny calm. "I cannot imagine, even for an instant, presuming to possess such wisdom."

The words forced Eliza to confront the image of twisted limbs and face beaten to a pulp. All at once she felt the bile rise in her throat, and for a precarious moment she feared she might be physically sick. Her sister's question—as well as the earl's thinly veiled accusation—implied she was playing God. Had she in some way usurped the role of the Almighty in pointing a finger at the one she had decided was guilty?

"Neither can I," she whispered, taking her head between her hands. "Believe me, I know I am all too human to sit in judgment of others. What happened was wrong, no matter what crimes the young man has committed."

Without a word, Meredith untied her apron and went to the still room. When she returned several minutes later, a basket filled with an assortment of jars and crocks was in her arms.

Although Eliza feared she knew the answer, she could not help but ask, "What do you mean to do?"

Glass clinked against glass as another bottle was taken down from a shelf and added to the load.

"Meredith, your intentions are noble, but you cannot go to Killingworth Manor."

"I cannot, in good conscience, stay away when I know I have the skill to help. The earl is in desperate need of someone to move in and tend to Mr. Harkness until he is recovered."

"Move in—are you mad? It can't be done! Not without causing utter ruin to your reputation."

Meredith's chin rose in a defiant tilt. "Is a reputation worth more than a human life?"

"Do you wish to live the rest of your life as a reviled outcast?" countered Eliza.

After a moment of strained silence, Eliza added, "Both questions are much too complex to answer with a simple yes or no." She pushed back a lock of hair from her forehead. "Oh, Meredith, you are guided by lofty principle while I am the practical one, who considers the harsh realities of the world."

"If you were to come with me—"

Eliza shook her head. "I would hardly be considered a proper chaperone, since I am also unmarried and not quite of an age to be thought above temptation. I'm sorry, but as we are not related to the earl, the idea of spending any time under His Lordship's roof is simply out of the question. "

There was a heavy silence, save for the scrape of an earthenware jug against a pine shelf. "But if it were known that I was... engaged to Mr. Harkness, that would quiet any gossip, wouldn't it?" said Meredith slowly, her words quite firm despite the fact that they had been uttered in barely more than a whisper. "Especially if you came along. And... and Mama, too, for naturally she could not be left alone here."

"Good Lord." Eilza drew in a deep breath. "You are serious, aren't you?"

"We could say that we were waiting for Mama to recover her health before making the announcement public, but that given the seriousness of injuries, our family felt beholden to show its support." She added a bundle of dried herbs to all the other things she had assembled. "Even the worst of the tabbies would be hard pressed to find fault with that."

"And when the young man recovers—if he recovers?"

Her sister gave a tiny shrug. "Mr. Harkness would return to London, and after a suitable length of time, I could simply announce that I have decided we would... not suit."

"I suppose it might work," admitted Eliza, noting the look of grim determination etched on her sister's pale features. "But I cannot imagine the earl will like such a mad idea any more than I do."

* * *

"You are proposing what?" asked Marcus.

Eliza pulled her shawl a bit tighter around her shoulders. "Come along, Meredith. I told you His Lordship would not agree to any such arrangement."

Her sister, however, refused to be pulled away from the massive oak door quite yet, despite the fact that several oaths had preceded the question. "I realize it is not the most ideal solution, Lord Killingworth, but to be blunt, there are precious few other choices. Dr. Yount did not exaggerate—you will find no one willing to come tend to your nephew. And by the time you can arrange for any help to be sent down from London, it may be too late."

The earl folded his arms across his chest, finding his initial anger turning into a grudging respect as the delicate slip of a girl did not wilt under his sharp scrutiny.

As if sensing a softening of his initial opposition, Meredith pressed on. "Not to speak of the fact that the sort of women sent out as nurses by an employment agency are usually more likely to steal a tipple from your supply of brandy than to offer competent care for your nephew. While I, on the other hand, am accorded to have some skill in the healing arts."

"So I have been told." His lips pursed as he considered the highly unorthodox proposal. "You are willing to do this?"

Meredith nodded.

His eyes swept to Eliza. "And you are prepared to go along with it?"

Her chin rose a fraction. "As my sister said, it is the right thing to do, sir."

He muttered something under his breath, then let out an exasperated sigh. "Then I should be fool—or worse—to decline your offer of aid. Yount has already informed me that he must leave here within the hour, for there are other patients in dire need of his attentions."

"I came prepared to stay, sir," said Meredith quickly. "If you will have someone take me to your nephew's chamber, I will go over with Dr. Yount what he wishes done."

"And I will go on to the village and begin spreading the felicitous news," muttered Eliza, with a good deal less enthusiasm. "Perhaps, if I am lucky, I can keep the flames of wild speculation from burning us all to a crisp."

Stung by the sarcasm in her tone, Marcus found it impossible not to reply with equal sharpness. "You needn't make it so clear that you think you are descending into the bowels of Hell," he growled. "Believe me, I am no more happy than you are about the devilish turn of events, Miss Kirtland. It is, after all, my nephew who lies at death's door, and no matter that the entire shire seems to think he deserves to roast in eternal damnation, none of you had the right to act the avenging angel."

He noted with some measure of satisfaction that his words had brought a tinge of color to her cheeks. "If I were not in agreement with you on that, I would not be here, sir," Eliza replied stiffly. "But you are right—since it seems we are going to forced into close proximity for a while, we should strive to be civil with one another."

Noting the fire that was still smoldering in her eyes, he could well imagine how difficult a task that was going to prove for the young lady. As well as for himself. They seemed to rub together like flint and steel, setting off sparks at the slightest contact.

"If you would be so kind as to send your carriage around in several hours, sir, I will have a trunk packed and my mother ready to be brought here," she added with scathing politeness.

He gave an exaggerated bow.

"I should really make haste to join Dr. Yount," murmured Meredith in gentle reminder as she, too, watched her sister stalk off in a swish of skirts.

"Yes. Of course." Forcing his gaze away from Eliza, the earl stepped aside and gestured for her to enter the Manor. "I will have my housekeeper—assuming I still have one—show you up to the sickroom."

The hawk-faced woman in charge of the staff was none too pleased at having to make preparations for three female houseguests, especially with the shortage of help. By the time Marcus had managed to sooth the ruffled feathers and retreat to the sanctuary of his library, it was he, and not some slatternly nurse, who was ready to steal into the supply of brandy.

But despite the temptation to drown his growing frustration in a bottle of spirits, the earl reminded himself with a baleful grimace that he had better keep a clear head. The Lord only knew what other crisis might arise before the day was over—though how it could get any worse was difficult for him to imagine.

Taking up a poker, he jabbed at the banked fire, fighting back a feeling of raw helplessness. He could strike back against an enemy who had a name and a face, but against a swirl of rumor and innuendo...

A low oath mingled with the crackling coals. It appeared that the Black Cat's legendary luck had finally come to the end of its nine lives. His decision to remove to the quiet of the countryside had only resulted in one disaster after another. Perhaps the locals were right in seeing him as an omen of misfortune, he thought glumly as he ran his hand through his locks. Perhaps he brought nothing but grief to anyone whose path he crossed.

Supper that night did very little to dispel his dark mood. Miss Kirtland's notion of civility seemed to be based on keeping her mouth firmly shut, save for a peckish nibble or two at her food. And as Meredith partook of only the first course before rushing back to the sickroom, the rest of the meal was passed in a gloomy silence, save for the scrape of silver on the heirloom china. He couldn't have been more relieved when the plates were finally taken away by the lone footman and the young lady had excused herself to tend to her ailing mother.

Marcus sought refuge in his study, but after pouring a glass of brandy he suddenly felt the need to escape from the house and drink in a breath of fresh air. The night was damp with the lingering chill of passing shower, yet it was not nearly as oppressive as his own clouded thoughts.

Bloody hell—what a muddle.

Lighting a cheroot, he leaned up against the terrace railing and blew out a ring of smoke. It caught in a puff of wind and drifted out toward the gardens, only to melt into the mist in the blink of an eye.

Life was just as ephemeral, he mused, thinking of Lucien hovering between this world and the next. As were hopes that went with it.

And dreams.

Had he ever had dreams? His jaw tightened. Or merely whims and desires?

A light mizzle started again, but the earl ignored the moisture beading along the arch of his brows and pooling in the hollows of his cheeks. Would that it would drown out such disquieting questions. Had his own life really been as meaningless as he feared? All things considered, he could not in truth say that anything he had done so far was of any more substance than a fleeting breath of tobacco-warmed air.

With a slight shudder he ground out the sodden stub beneath his boot and went back inside.

* * *

"How is he?" asked Eliza.

"His pulse is still very weak, but as of yet, no fever has set in." Meredith looked up from folding a length of clean linen. In the flickering candlelight, the smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes looked much the same as bruises that mottled her patient's face. "I managed to get several swallows of laudanum down his throat, so right now there is little more I can do but wait."

"Get some rest. I'll sit with him for a time." Eliza removed the fabric from her sister's fumbling fingers and helped her rise. "You will be of no use to anyone if you are muzzy with fatigue."

"But you have been tending to Mother all evening," protested Meredith.

"As she has been sleeping soundly, I was able to lie down for a bit. The move does not appear to have upset her unduly. Indeed, the news of your... betrothal has, if anything, brought a pinch of color back to her cheeks."

Eliza's words caused a dull flush to rise to her sister's face. "I hope she will not be too... disappointed when it is broken off."

"Let us not worry about the future. There are quite enough problems in the present to keep us occupied."

A tiny smile played briefly on Meredith's lips. "As you say, always the practical one. You are right, of course." She stood up and rubbed absently at the back of her neck. "Promise you will rouse me the moment there is any change. And—" A light kiss brushed Eliza's cheek. "—thank you. I know how much you disapprove of this, but I am grateful for your sacrifice."

Sacrifice, repeated Eliza silently as her sister left the sickroom. She wished she might claim her presence was due to any such noble sentiment. But it wasn't. It was due to guilt—pure, simple and selfish. She was not here merely to help nurse the young man's grievous injuries but to salve her own conscience.

Lucien stirred, a faint groan interrupting his ragged breathing. The blanket had fallen away and his profile lay in shadowed contrast to the white pillow. She stared for a moment. With his thick lashes fluttering against his pale cheek, he looked very young and very innocent. Hardly the face of a vicious criminal.

But appearances could be deceiving, she reminded herself with a reluctant sigh. Especially as she had every reason as of late to question her own judgment.

Guilt. Innocence. Would any of them involved in this sordid affair atone for their sins?

She was not sorry to be distracted from such musings by the opening of the door. "Surely you cannot mean to return—"

But it was the earl, not Meredith, who stepped into the room.

"You need not worry," she added wryly, seeing his gaze move sharply from the glass in her hand to his nephew's lips. "It is not hemlock, but a soothing potion that my sister brewed. We must try to keep any fever from developing."

His only answer was reach out and lay his hand lightly on Lucien's brow. Eliza noted with some surprise how lithe and strong his fingers appeared, and yet how gently they brushed at the young man's hair. "His forehead feels deucedly hot."

"Yes." She dipped a piece of felt in the basin of cool water and wrung it out. "All we can do is bathe his face and try to get him to swallow the medicine. After that, I'm afraid nature will have to run its course."

Marcus looked as if to say something, then remained silent as his touch trailed down to the bandaged cheek.

"Rest assured that my sister and I will see to it that he is not left untended."

"You think I will rest while he lies here in suffering?" he snapped. "Go to your own bed, Miss Kirtland. I will take my turn by the sickbed, if you will but show me what I must do."

"But—"

"But what?" His dark brows drew together in a formidable scowl, and as he leaned forward, Eliza was suddenly aware of the heat emanating from him as well. It was enough to bring two hot spots of color to her cheeks, though she wasn't quite sure why.

"You think me devoid of all sensibility? Incapable of caring what happens to my nephew?"

"N—not exactly," she stammered, taken aback by the raw edge in his voice. In truth, she had thought him coldly arrogant and unfeeling in his treatment of everyone, including Mr. Harkness. Now, however, she could see how wrong she was to imagine there was naught but ice water in his veins. His gaze held a simmering intensity that caused her breath to catch in her throat.

"It's just that from what I observed, there did not seem to be much love lost between you and your nephew," she added.

"Perhaps things are not always as they seem, Miss Kirtland."

As the same thought had recently crossed her own mind, she made no retort. But still, at that moment she was sure there was no mistaking was she saw—among the emotions swirling in the depths of his hooded eyes was one that she recognized all too well.

How strange.

For what reason was the Earl of Killingworth feeling guilty?

Too tired and confused to make any sense of it all, Eliza wrung out the strip of flannel. "Perhaps," she answered aloud.

Without further comment, she showed the earl what to do, then rose and took up her candle. "You have only to ring the bell if you need assistance. My sister will relieve you in an hour or two."

He waved her off, and Eliza stumbled toward her room, wishing that when she awoke in the morning, this would all turn out to be a bad dream.