Schooling the Viscount Page 13

  Instead, she wrote him a note, stuck it under the plate of muffins, and fluffed her fringe—although why she did that was a mystery since she and her hair would be drowned shortly. Her mackintosh hung on a kitchen hook, her hat and the fateful umbrella next to it. If need be, she’d poke Henry with it until he came up with a solution to satisfy Sir Bertram Sykes.

  Chapter 21

  “Henry! Wake up!”

  Henry had no intention of doing so. Why should he abandon this delicious dream? Rachel was splayed beneath him, her black hair waving over his pillow. It was a mix of straight and curly—the hair, not the pillow—with a charming fringe over her fine features. Lots of little tendrils to play with over her well-shaped dark eyebrows. But why should he waste time playing with her hair when there were other parts of her that needed attention?

  He rolled away from the poke on his shoulder and smelled lavender. Mrs. Grace must have taken a page out of Rachel’s book and bedecked the linen closet with the most delightful scent. Soft, yet with a tang. Henry had seen lavender fields in Provence, acres and acres of purple as far as the eye could see. Sunflowers, too. The vegetation on his deployment to South Africa left a little to be desired, however. Scrub, poor soil. Lots of animals, though. What with the spotty rations the government had provided, his troops had gone hunting often.

  No. Banish the army from this Rachel-dream. There was no place for hunger and desolation, just the green Cotswold hills and charming flowerboxes. Gingerbread. Rachel touching herself in her little garden. Ha! A metaphor. Even in his sleep, Henry was a bloody wordsmith.

  He was kissing her lavender-scented throat now, nipping her earlobe. She didn’t wear earrings, which was convenient. It would not do for him to swallow a diamond and have to wake up. She sighed, and he moved down to her soft, pillowy breast.

  “Henry Agamemnon Challoner! Stop kissing that pillow! You look like a fool.”

  Agamemnon. Who in their right mind blighted their child with such a name? It was exceedingly difficult to make those humps on the m and n without everything running together when writing. Not to mention the rape, murder and incest honeycombed through the House of Atreus. Agamemnon’s father fed children to Thyestes. Not cricket at all.

  And then poor Agamemnon managed to survive all those years at Troy, only to be killed by his unfaithful wife upon his return. No thanks for his service there, no tobacco tins from a grateful queen. War was hell, and sometimes one’s homecoming was even worse.

  “Henry, damn you! Wake up!”

  No. It really couldn’t be. Henry had not heard those stentorian tones for over a week. With the greatest of difficulty, he rolled on his back and tried to open his eyes.

  He couldn’t do it. They appeared to be glued shut. Now to shut his ears.

  “If I had known,” Arthur Challoner, the thirteenth the Marquess of Harland, said, “that it would come to this, I never would have sent him here. Look at him! Raging with fever and black and blue all over. What in hell happened to his head?”

  “He took a fall, my lord. Several of them. As you can see, Dr. Oakley had to stitch him up. Perhaps he would be better off in a pushchair.”

  “There is nothing wrong with my son’s legs! Just because he had that trifling wound on his foot doesn’t make him incapacitated. Henry’s not a weakling.”

  “Of course not, my lord. He’s a…he’s a very fine young man.”

  Oh, Mrs. Grace was no kind of liar at all. The pater would see straight through her.

  “I suppose you never thought to notify me of these accidents. What if I hadn’t decided to drive over on this filthy morning?”

  “Now, your lordship. You know part of our procedure is to isolate the Guests from their families. If Lord Challoner had been truly in peril, of course we would have notified you. Dr. Oakley thinks your son has only a mild case of influenza.”

  “I knew something was wrong! Knew it in my bones! Couldn’t sleep a wink all night imagining the pup had fallen into his old ways. At least I was right about the falling part. And now I find my boy out of his head, moaning and flapping his lips on a pillow like a landed flounder. Where is this doctor?”

  “He’s already been and gone, Lord Harland. He gave your son a very thorough examination after he helped me get him back to bed. There is medicine.”

  “I want a full-time nurse. Round-the-clock care. No expense is to be spared, do you hear? Henry is my heir. There’s no one but my idiot nephew to take over if something should happen to him. I’ll not see my title go to that—that deadly dull banker!”

  Well, that was interesting. George was making a name for himself in the City. Henry’s father had berated him about the perfection of his cousin George for years. How George was so sensible. How George had won the Latin prize at Eton instead of wasting his time playing Fives.

  Of course, there wasn’t much call for Latin any more unless Cousin George switched careers and decided to become a Catholic priest, and, knowing close-fisted George, he’d never take a vow of poverty. He was too busy counting up piles of money made through shrewd investments to give it all away. He wouldn’t even loan Henry a groat when they were boys, not that he needed any help from his cousin now that he’d come into his inheritance from his grandmothers.

  Henry would have to ask old Vincent how he felt about having services in English. If he were spouting off in Latin, the poor Puddlingites wouldn’t have a clue what he was saying and preparing sermons would be so much easier. How grueling it must be to come up with fresh material every week.

  “O-of course, Lord Harland. I’ll notify the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation at once that extra help is needed. I am only one woman after all.”

  “And I’m sure you’ve done the best you can. I’m sorry if I was short with you.”

  What was this—his father apologizing? The pater never apologized. Had he fallen into Mrs. Grace’s Venus flytrap along with Dr. Oakley? Henry supposed the woman was not bad-looking for an older woman, although he couldn’t see her appeal himself. She wouldn’t even let him eat biscuits.

  “Of course you are concerned. I understand. You love your son very much, don’t you?”

  Henry thought he might be sick.

  “Love?” He pictured his father frowning, turning the word around in his mouth like a captured spider. “He is my son. Of course I care what happens to him. He may be a disappointment, but life is full of them. One must soldier on.”

  Ah, Christ. Wouldn’t his father have been surprised as to what real soldiering entailed.

  “I want to be informed of his progress. As you know, Kings Harland is less than fourteen miles from here. I shall of course fund the expense for any messages or messengers. Are you on the telegraph here in this backwater?”

  Henry’s ears perked. He listened as Mrs. Grace explained that the telegraph office was in a back room of Stanchfield’s Grocery, although he couldn’t think of whom he might like to contact.

  Henry really didn’t want to be sprung from this jail unless Rachel came with him.

  The pater continued to deliver orders as Henry feigned sleep, and Mrs. Grace burbled back, sounding for all the world like a woman smitten. Where was Mr. Grace? Henry had never thought to ask.

  The chair creaked, and Henry sensed his father was leaning over the bed, probably giving him a gimlet eye. Henry groaned a little and flipped like the landed flounder he was, and heard the snick of the bedroom door. Thank God the man was too impatient to watch the patient sleeping.

  Henry refused to acknowledge the rapping at the door downstairs. Oakley again. Or Vicar Vincent, who could pray over him in English. When he cracked his eye open a slit, both his father and Mrs. Grace had disappeared and there was a muffled conversation downstairs. His father’s voice rose above the others, but Henry could not hear the specifics.

  This faking unconsciousness was proving to be easy as pie. He was getting to be an expert at it. Why had Henry not thought of that strategy earlier in his life?
He was prepared to continue as the footsteps up the stairs heralded more interference. He tucked the quilt over his head and smiled.

  “Here he is. Mrs. Grace tells me she must attend to a family matter later. Some wedding, I believe, although it’s a wretched day for it. Do you feel up to taking the challenge?”

  There was silence, but there must have been nodding, for the pater boomed, “Excellent! How fortuitous it is that you stopped by so I could hire you on the spot. You’ve had some nursing experience, and my son shouldn’t give you too much trouble in his present state. According to Mrs. Grace, this Oakley fellow feels Henry will be out of the woods by Monday at the latest. You have no objection to residing here over the weekend? You and Mrs. Grace can spell each other. I want someone with him at all times.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  So his new jail matron had a voice, though she was whispering. Henry was tempted to peek.

  But then his father began to explain that he was on his way to a house party, and had just stopped by to see how his son’s progress was going. So much for losing sleep over him. Henry wondered if the traveling coach was stuck somewhere on Puddling’s narrow streets, the coachman anxious to get back on a proper road that actually went somewhere.

  “I shall be at the Entwhistles at Frampton Mansell tonight, and bound for home tomorrow. Please notify me of any change in his condition.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Don’t let him charm you. Even a simple country woman like you—that is, I am sure once you are dry, you’re not so…erm, my son has a reputation, as you must know. Do not let him take liberties. I should hate to think I placed you in harm’s way.”

  “Yes, my lord. I mean, no, my lord.”

  The door banged shut. The poor thing. Henry had forgotten just how not charming his father could be, though the man had no trouble throwing diamond dust in Mrs. Grace’s eyes. As far as Henry knew, his father had never looked at a woman since his mother died. Had never taken a mistress.

  Aha. That explained the pater’s sour disposition. Why, the man only needed to get la—

  “Henry!”

  A harsh whisper. Henry debated whether he should pull the covers down.

  “Henry Challoner! I know you by now. Stop pretending, you possum!”

  And Henry knew her as well. With the greatest of pleasure, he untangled himself and looked into the face of his new nurse.

  Chapter 22

  She was not looking her best. Henry could see why his father thought she might be safe from Henry’s predations.

  Not that he would predate her. Was that a word? They were predating each other anyway, as he recalled.

  “How lovely to see you, Rachel. What happened?” Her fringe, usually so curly and bouncy, hung down almost to her nose. Her face—what he could see of it—was smudged with dirt, and her mackintosh was spattered with mud. She resembled nothing so much as a wet, dirty sheepdog.

  “A great big carriage came by. Your father’s, I imagine. I tried to get out of the way, and lost my balance on the slippery sidewalk once it passed. I found myself in a—in a puddle.”

  “Again? Miss Everett, you really are not steady on your feet, are you?”

  “Do not tease me, you dreadful man! It’s because of you and your father that I’m about to lose my job and get thrown out of Puddling!” With that, she burst into tears.

  Henry sat up and handed her an edge of sheet to use as a handkerchief. “What do you mean?”

  “S-Sir Bertram Sykes paid me a visit earlier, and I may have lost my temper.”

  “You have a temper? I hadn’t noticed.”

  Rachel gave him a little shove that did nothing to improve his headache. “Be serious for once! You must help me. Tell Sir Bertram I’ve done nothing to arouse you. Attract you. Tell him that what’s between us is completely innocent.”

  “I can’t do that. I cannot lie.”

  “Oh! Why do all of the men I ask for help claim they cannot lie? It’s infuriating.” She blew her nose on the sheet. Henry hoped there were more sheets in the linen closet.

  “Who else have you asked for help?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I am ruined.” She smeared a glob of mud across her chin.

  “You are not. All right, all right. I’ll go talk to this Sykes fellow when I’m allowed to get out of this damned bed. Tell him…whatever you tell me to tell him.”

  “Thank you.” She stood up.

  “Wait a second. Where are you going?”

  “Home. My father will want something to eat.”

  Ugh. Food. The very thought made Henry’s stomach do a tumblesault. “You can’t!”

  “Why not?”

  “My father hired you to be my nurse, did he not? He expects you to sleep here.” Henry couldn’t help himself—he patted the bed.

  “I have no intention of nursing any part of you!” Rachel said, eyes flashing. “He just took control of the conversation, and Mrs. Grace and I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.”

  “Yes, he does that.” Henry’s father had never brooked much interruption. It came of being a marquess, he supposed. Henry wondered if that unfortunate trait would be passed down to him as well as the title when the pater went to his reward. “But still, you agreed. I heard you. And I really don’t feel all that well.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but really, Henry—I can’t stay. What will people say?”

  “That my father hired you. How can they object? You don’t cross a marquess, you know. Marquesses are nearly as bad as dukes. This gives us a perfect opportunity to spend more time together without sneaking around. No more shovels and stone walls and puddles.”

  “But your treatment plan…”

  “The grand poobahs will have to make adjustments, won’t they? I cannot be left alone—I’m as weak as a kitten. If Mrs. Grace is going off somewhere, I must have assistance.”

  “But not from me!” Rachel sounded a little desperate.

  “I don’t see why not. Who else is available? Isn’t everyone hereabouts going to that wedding?”

  “I doubt it. It’s Mrs. Grace’s sister over in Sheepscombe. I’m sure we can find someone from the village to take over. Even my father if it comes to it.”

  “Oh. He can climb these stairs?” Henry asked innocently.

  “You couldn’t get down?”

  Henry imagined he could, with the right incentive. Rachel Everett naked on the sofa below, for example. Or better yet, in his garden on the little bench overlooking the koi pond, her legs parted, her hand busy—

  But not in this rain. She was wet enough as it was, dripping onto his bedroom carpet, looking entirely miserable.

  He wondered if the fish had been fed. It was one of his duties as temporary master of Stonecrop Cottage. Mrs. Grace had passed him a card as soon as he’d moved in with the requirements of residence. Henry thought the items were designed to make him feel like a responsible citizen: feed the fish, take the rubbish to the bin in the garden shed, water the fern in the conservatory. The dratted fern was dying, but he’d managed the other two.

  Henry had grown fond of the bright orange-red fish hidden under the green vegetation of the pond. They came right up to the surface now and allowed themselves to be tickled. When he had property of his own, he’d dig a little pond and stock it as a pleasant reminder of his stay.

  Hopefully, he’d have another pleasant reminder, the redoubtable Rachel Challoner, née Everett.

  “Look, take off that wet coat and get dry. There are clean towels in the bathroom dresser. You shouldn’t have allowed yourself to be bullied by my father, you know. But now that you’re here…” Henry shrugged.

  “But my father! He’s alone in our cottage. And he’ll never let me stay here with you.”

  “Doctor’s orders.”

  Rachel huffed off to the bathroom and Henry heard the cry of alarm as she must have caught sight of herself in the mirror, the tap running, the slamming of drawers.
She emerged a few minutes later considerably cleaner, her fringe scrunched back up almost where it should be.

  “Tell Mrs. Grace to stop at your father’s cottage on her way to the wedding. Doesn’t she live on New Street too?”

  Rachel made a face. “You think of everything.”

  “I try.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea or something?”

  Henry wasn’t sure if he would. But he said yes and Rachel went downstairs to talk to Mrs. Grace.

  They returned together, Rachel holding a tray between hands that did not appear to be all that steady.

  “I have told Rachel, and now I am telling you,” Mrs. Grace began. Henry stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He was tired of his housekeeper treating him like a mischievous ten-year-old boy. Really, if he had known just how much trouble Francie and Lysette were going to be, he would have sewn his pants shut. It had all been a harmless prank, really.

  He wouldn’t be here being lectured, Rachel cowering in the background. He didn’t like to see Rachel unhappy—it did something to his insides that were already in an uproar.

  “You keep your hands to yourself, do you understand me, Lord Challoner? Self-control at all times. None of that boyish charm, although I do see where you get it. It runs in the family.”

  Pater? Boyish and charming? Not hardly.

  Mrs. Grace opened the curtains with a snap. “We are here to help you mend your ways, not that you seem to understand that. If I did not have to leave, I would not. I know my duty, and you are my responsibility. Why my sister has decided to marry again is beyond me. She’s already buried three husbands. I should think that would be enough of a deterrent to any man. I will be back by nightfall, and you can go home, Rachel. There is to be no funny business, or I shall inform Sir Bertram.”

  Bugger Sir Bertram. The man had already upset Rachel today.

  “Yes, Mrs. Grace,” Rachel and Henry said in unison.

  “This is all most ill-advised,” the woman muttered as she left the room. “But how was I to contradict a marquess?”