Page 29 of An Earl’s Sacrifice (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #3)
T he longer it took Meredith to dress for breakfast, the more irritated she grew. Why should she be the one rushing about when it was her father who was the interloper?
It was nearly one in the afternoon when Agnes patted a strand of Meredith’s hair in place and stepped back, quite pleased with herself. “There. All done, milady.” And, well, she should be. It had taken two and a half years of patience to train her.
“It’s perfect,” she told the girl, pushing away from the vanity. The words were on the tip of her tongue— send a note to the duke that I’ll not be joining him —but such discourse could put Agnes in danger. Her father was not above the least petty grievance. And that was the crux of it.
Bracing herself for the onslaught, Meredith threw back her shoulders and strode into the dining hall to find her father sitting at the table in Pender’s designated chair at the head.
She pulled up short. “What are you doing in my husband’s chair?
” To her knowledge, Lucius hadn’t informed anyone but her of his plans for London.
He shrugged. “Pender was seen riding out this morning with an overnight bag. I sent you a note over two hours ago. If you deign to be late, you could have appeared in something other than”—he flung a hand in her direction—“another unfashionable frock gracing balls fit for ’44, m’dear.”
“There is no need for the latest fashion plates in this small corner of the world, Papa. I’ve been busy restoring this magnificent Keep. I hardly require the latest ensemble for such labor.”
“Gads, how do you stand it?”
“I stand it very well, thank you.” She took her place, gladly, at the other end of the table, which was as far from him as she could manage. “Coffee, please,” she told Bartlett.
“My chamber is barely habitable.”
“That is entirely your fault. You were not expected.” A cup was set before her, and she took her time adding sugar and a dab of milk. “Why are you here? I haven’t seen or heard from you in three years.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady. If anything ever happens to your husband, clearly you would be returning home.”
That will never happen , she vowed, even as a shiver touched the nape of her neck. “Nothing will happen to Pender, Papa. It’s not like you to be away from London for days at a time. Your cronies surely miss you.”
“I’m quietly handling a political matter—not that I expect you to understand such intricacies.”
She sniffed her disdain. “There’s no need to be condescending.”
“Certain matters require a personal touch, Meredith,” he said with an annoyance that abraded her skin. “Discretion was of the utmost import, and I didn’t relish entrusting such a delicate situation to an agent or via post. The fewer people who know, the better for all involved.”
“At the mines, no doubt.” She narrowed her eyes on him. “What kind of delicate situation?”
“Nothing that concerns you.” He dipped his spoon into the sugar bowl.
“You’ve always been a master at avoiding the truth, Papa. Pender is here and he has assured me he intends on staying. Again, I ask, why are you in Penhalwick?”
He paused, his spoon poised midair, his own gaze narrowing slightly before softening into an exasperated smile.
“You do cut straight to the heart, don’t you, my dear?
It’s a rather… vexing trait. One, I fear, you inherited from your mother.
” With a dramatic sigh he tipped the spoon over.
The crystals streamed white into his cup.
He stirred the contents, light clinking sounding loud in the hall.
He lifted his cup then leaned back and stared at her.
“My reasons hardly seem as urgent as the dire conditions of my chamber.”
Meredith blinked, thrown by the unexpected shift of topic. “Your chamber? Certainly, if I’d learned your intentions of visiting…”
In a tone of grave injustice, as though this were the most pressing matter in the world, he said, “Have you seen the state of such disgrace? The mattress—stuffed with straw, I presume—must be as old as the castle itself. And the sheets… truly a degradation, Meredith. One might almost believe you set out to humiliate me in front of the housemaids.”
“If it makes you feel any better, Pender is suffering the same fate.” As the words slipped from her lips, she remembered the facade they were supposed to affect. “Um, when he sleeps in his own chamber,” she finished weakly.
“If this is how you welcome your husband, it’s a wonder he returned at all.
” He took a sip of his tea then let out a dramatic sigh.
“And the, ah, draft…” Only this came out as if forcing himself to remember the current topic.
“Let us not forget the draft. I vow I could feel the cold seeping into my very bones—an assault on comfort itself. One might think this house determined to drive me out.”
If only it were that simple …
Meredith choked down the rest of her breakfast in silence before pushing away from the table forty minutes later.
“I’m sorry, Papa. I’ll let Mrs. Verity know how uncomfortable you are.
In the meantime, I just recalled a promise to Pender.
I must go to the village. Pender adores those lemon tarts from The Copper Kettle. ”
*
Groaning, Lucius pried his eyes open. Nausea hit him like a bullet to his gut.
With slow, shallow breaths, he managed not to cast up his accounts.
At least until he tried rising. He barely retrieved a chamber pot from beneath the bed before his stomach emptied.
He remained on one hand and his knees, allowing the dizziness to pass before pulling himself up and sitting on the edge of the bed.
It took a moment for his vision to clear.
The room was unfamiliar, and he struggled to distinguish between dream and reality as fleeting, disconnected memories slipped through his grasp.
The sluggish thoughts pelting him were fragmented, as if he had emerged from beneath a cold sea trying to drag him back down.
He lifted his hand to his face. Even that simple movement required immense effort.
The overwhelming desire to lie back down, slip once more into an unconscious state tempted him beyond measure, but for those fragmented thoughts persisting like bees buzzing about his head.
There was a disconnect between his mind and body that frightened him, yet he couldn’t get his thoughts to coalesce to anything near coherent.
Water. He needed water. To rinse the vomit from his mouth, to dispel the cottony dryness in his throat.
Pushing through the distorted sensations, he gripped the sides of his narrow bed. Pain darted down his arm from his shoulder, finally reminding him of where he was and why. Shot . He’d been shot and dosed with laudanum.
Ashcroft. No. Ashcroft had saved him. Hadn’t he?
A flash of panic sent his pulse thrumming until the lightheadedness had white spots in his vision rendering him unable to see.
He gritted his teeth and breathed through his nose.
After a moment, the sensation passed, and he opened his eyes.
The room was stark in its simplicity. There was no sideboard holding a pitcher and basin.
Just a tall chest of drawers and a few boxes lining one wall.
An unlit candle sat atop the chest of drawers, and he set his aim for that.
With caution, Lucius came to his feet, fearing a fall flat on his face. Determination, or perhaps stubbornness, definitely sheer will, kept him upright as he made his way to the chest of drawers, feeling as if he waded through a molasses-drenched undergrowth.
He knew he was forgetting something significant—Meredith. His wife. Someone had shot him. He clutched the chest of drawers to steady himself as reality knocked him in the head.
Meredith could be in danger.
Water. He needed water but with one glance at the candle, he turned away.
All he’d need was to light the damn thing then collapse, setting the cottage and himself afire.
Lucius glanced to the open door where firelight wavered on the hall wall with eerie shadows.
The floating shapes were dizzying but if he didn’t have water soon, he knew he would perish of thirst. The overdramatic thought floored him.
Never would anyone have referred to him as overdramatic.
Self-serving? Yes. Hard? Yes. Unemotional, stoic, unfeeling? Yes, yes, and yes.
Meredith—from all he’d ascertained—was none of those things. She certainly deserved better than him. But he was what she’d been allotted, and it was past time to do right by her.
Using the wall to balance himself, he made his way from the tiny, stark bedchamber into the great room where a low fire burned.
The culprit that had been casting the shadows.
In the small make-shift kitchen, steam curled from an iron kettle of water.
There was a pump. He tried drawing water, but the effort left him too weak.
Close at hand, he found a piece of chipped crockery on a wooden sideboard and poured hot water in the cup.
It burned all the way down. He poured more, tossed that back.
Twice more before he slowed enough to locate tea and a piece of bread, stuffing it in his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
Immediately, Lucius felt better, more like himself.
The fog in his brain cleared enough to allow him to light a couple of candles.
He sat at the table and used the solitude to gather his bearings.
His shoulder pulsed, but thankfully, he didn’t feel feverish.
His coherence was returning as he sat there and let the thoughts roll over him.
Who shot him?
Why would someone attempt such a thing?
What was behind Rathbourne’s sudden appearance?
Who the devil was Ashcroft? And, what was the man truly after?