A Worthy Wife(27)
A man was hanging on his wife's arma handsome young man, foxed by the look of him and the way he leaned on Aurora. Brianne was on the sot's other side, and a carrot-topped waif trailed behind, clasping a large basket in her arms. A skinny dog was whining beside a box a maid was carrying in. Kenyon didn't even want to think of what might be in the box, or the basket, or in his wife's brain, bringing this motley group home in the middle of the night.
It was a miracle he didn't fall the rest of the way down the stairs, because he hadn't taken his eyes, or his spectacles, off his wife and the clodpole who was cuddling her in her husband's own home. The dastard would be dead by morning. Thinking that he must look like a trout tossed on the riverbank, Kenyon snapped his mouth shut and started across the entry hall, seeing red. No, he was seeing blood. Dear Lord, they were all muddied and rumpled and bloodstained. The redhead was weeping, and the maid's skirts were torn, and his wife—hell, there was blood on his wife.
Kenyon shouted for the butler, his valet, the housekeeper, and Kit's doctor, and anyone else who was neither deaf nor deceased. Servants in all states of undress came running, and men raced in from the stables, too, some with pitchforks in case the house was under attack, and some with buckets of water, in case of fire. The dog was barking, something was screeching from the basket, and the redhead was still weeping in Mrs. McPhee's arms. Two footmen tried to assist the young man, with Brianne screaming at them to be careful, by Jupiter, and his wife His wife was looking at him as if she'd caught her first glimpse of land after the Flood.
Kenyon waded through the mess, issuing orders as he went for spare bedrooms, for the surgeon, for the dog to be taken to the stables in Ned's charge, for hot water and tea and fires, and for everyone else to go back to bed. Then he grabbed Aurora's arm and dragged her into the nearest room.
He meant to shout at her for worrying him so, and getting into so much trouble. He meant to inspect every inch of her for injury. He meant a lot of things, but all he did was open his arms, and she flew into them. He hugged and rocked and comforted her, then realized she was hugging and rocking and comforting him, too. Zeus, it felt so right.
Aurora felt safe, protected, cherished. Kenyon cared. She never wanted to leave the sanctity of his arms. Now she was home.
Actually, she was in the broom closet, but who cared? When a mop handle poked him in the back, Kenyon did. "Come, my love, you'll be more comfortable upstairs. You can tell me your adventures there." And he could better tell her on the bed how much he'd been missing her.
First she needed a bath.
While his wife was washing, Kenyon thought he'd get a start on unraveling this latest mare's nest. Hurriedly dressing in shirt and pants, he quickly checked to make sure his brother had not been disturbed, but the footman whispered that all was well.
Well? With who knew what being welcomed at Windrush? Horse whiskers.
The surgeon, stepping out of the handsome stranger's room, confirmed having stitched a gunshot wound, as Kenyon had surmised. The doctor had administered laudanum, he reported, so there was no questioning of the man this night. The young lady in the next room had also been dosed, for agitation of the nerves, as well as Lady Windham's maid.
Moving down the hall, Kenyon tried Brianne's door, which was firmly locked. She shouted, "Go away, I am sleeping," when he called to her. The excursion had not improved his sister's personality any, then. It was a wonder Brianne hadn't been the one shot.
Downstairs, Aunt Ellenette was frantically inspecting Frederick for fleas. That's what came of mingling with the lower orders, she declared, demanding he evict the woman who was obviously no better than she ought to be, the unknown invalid, their various four-footed companions, and his countess while he was at it. "The place has not been the same since she got here!"
"No, it hasn't, thank goodness." He left his aunt sputtering and went out to the stables, still hoping to find someone who could provide some information. Oliver, the coachman, was all too happy to see his employer, needing to make sure the earl did not blame him for any of argle-bargle.
The red-eyed and red-haired female, as Kenyon had guessed, was another Mrs. Podell, although this one claimed her dead husband's name was Harley. The story Oliver told of her circumstances made him wish once more he hadn't been so lenient with Podell, whatever he was called. He'd have to make do, Kenyon decided, with taking his horsewhip to the poor chit's father. If the deep-pocketed poltroon had guarded his chick better in the first place, she'd not have strayed from the nest.
As for the highwayman, Kenyon would hand him over for trial in the morning.
"Happens your ladies might have somethin' to say about that."
"No."
Oliver shrugged. "The bloke's a gentleman, right enoughand handsome as the devil, smooth-tongued, too. The countess believed his story 'bout gettin' choused out of an inheritance."
"No." Not no, he wouldn't pardon the bastard for almost shooting Aurora, but no, he would not be cuckolded again, not by a criminal. A French nobleman was bad enough, but a disinherited knight of the road was too much!
"Lady Brianne won't take kindly to hangin' the rascal. Taken with him, she was."
"My sister? With a common thief?"
Oliver spit his tobacco juice between his teeth and out the stable door. "Ain't common. Son of a baron."
"The son of a bitch could have overturned the carriage, killing all of you."
"Speakin' of bitches, young Ned took the dog to his own bed. The cat'll need an earth box."
"The cat?"
Oliver nodded. "Big, mean 'un. But your lady's pluck to the backbone, my lord. She'll have it straightened out in two shakes."
Two shakes might have awakened Aurora when he returned to her room, but Kenyon was reluctant to disturb her. She'd been through a lot, poor puss. No matter that he needed to hold her, touch her, be with her, be one with her, more than he needed to breathe, Kenyon softly kissed her forehead and turned to leave.
She smile drowsily and reached for his hand. "Thank you, my lord."
"It was nothing, the merest kiss. I did not mean to wake you."
"No, I mean for seeing to everyone and managing so well." She sighed. "I just knew you'd get everything squared away."
He had not done anything yet; the servants had done all the work. Still, his heart glowed, for the confidence she had in him. He brushed a curl off her face. "We'll talk about it in the morning."
She yawned and rolled over, burrowing deeper under the covers. "Good. Remind me to send Dawson back for the diamonds then, too."
Oliver had not mentioned any diamonds. "What, did you finally select the wedding present I've been promising you? I'm surprised you had time for visiting the shops, with all your adventures." He was venturing closer to the bed, thinking he might just slip under the covers while she was so sleepy and sweet and smelling of roses from her bath.
"No, silly, the Windham diamonds."
He jumped back. "What? You drag home a dog, a cat, a watering pot, and a well-born knave, but you lose the Windham diamonds?"
"Don't forget Lucy's babies."
"Lucy? Who the devil is Lucy?"
"She's the dog. She has four of the sweetest puppies."
And he supposed she expected him to provide for them, too. "Well, I pray one of the pups can talk like Frederick. Maybe it'll tell me what I did to deserve this."
Chapter Twenty
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Nialla was up early. One tended not to sleep well in a strange household, with one's life in turmoil, and a hungry cat sharing the bedroom. She was dressed and on her way in search of breakfast or someone who could direct her to the kitchens when she heard swear words, some of the same ones her father had used when he threw her out of the house. There was no way on this earth she was going to go near anyone that angry again if she could help it, so she crept down the hall, hugging the wall. The cursing was growing more plaintive, though, and weaker, so she peeped into the partly opened door as she passed. A gentleman was tangled in his bedclothes, struggling with one arm to reach something on the far side of the nightstand.
This had to be Captain Warriner, Lady Brianne's injured brother. He could not order her from the house, she didn't think. Nialla hesitated but, understanding hopelessness, she stepped inside the room and asked, "May I help you, sir?"
"Deuce take it, girl, yes. The footman left to fetch breakfast, and I've knocked my spectacles to the floor, so can't see which of these blasted bottles has the fever pills I'm supposed to take."
Nialla forgave his curses, for he was a soldier, and his rudeness, for the poor man must be in pain. She located the glasses and put them in his hand, not daring the familiarity of placing the spectacles on his nose. Then she started reading labels on the scores of bottles on the table.
"What are you doing?" Christopher looked up, expecting to see one of the maids, who probably could not read. "I can Well, hello, Sunshine." This was no maid, but an adorable little redhead with freckles.
Nialla blushed, but found the appropriate bottle and poured out a cup of lemonade for him from the pitcher by his bed. He swallowed, then apologized. "I am sorry, ma'am, for mistaking you for a servant. You must be the Mrs. Podell my brother told me about last night. Welcome to Windrush."