Page 11 of Runaway Countess (Those Wild Whitbys #2)

Chapter Eleven

S ebastian did not appear at breakfast the next morning. Jenny was not surprised. She had been up half the night herself, watching over Lord Beeston, and she felt as though the other half had been spent wide awake, tossing and turning as the image of Sebastian’s face the moment before he didn’t quite kiss her taunted her memory.

She had done something truly dreadful to that poor man. He was half-mad with wanting her. How simply delicious .

Jenny had always considered herself a moral, considerate sort of person, but she could not deny that the idea of Captain Sebastian Whitby lying awake through the night cursing himself for his desire to kiss her was shockingly sweet.

Mr Plum came down to the servants’ table. Jenny greeted him with a cheerful smile. He avoided her eyes.

That was delicious, too, and she would never have dared do it before meeting Sebastian.

“Where is Captain Whitby?” asked Mr Plum. “His lordship insists on leaving as soon as we can. He wishes to be at Whitby Manor this afternoon.”

Nurse Thomas shook her head. “That’s not at all wise, Mr Plum. He ought to –”

Mr Plum turned a withering glare on her. “If you wish to tell his lordship what he ought and ought not do, be my guest!”

“Captain Whitby rode off in the night,” said the coachman. “He’ll be awaiting us at Whitby Manor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Mr Plum, who seemed intent to take his foul mood out on everybody but Jenny. “Why on earth would he ride out after dark?”

“As to why, I can’t say,” said the coachman with a shrug and a none-too-happy look at Mr Plum. “One of the stable boys saddled a horse for him yesterday evening.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mr Plum declared, giving the coachman the full benefit of a view up his upturned nostrils. “The roads are dangerous at night! There are bandits, footpads, ditches – all manner of foul things! Captain Whitby could never –”

The coachman rose to his feet. “Captain Whitby is well-known to my master. I daresay he’s not as easily frightened by the country roads as you are, Mr Plum. Now, all I have done is tell you what I heard from the stable boy. You’ll kindly not trouble me with your opinion of it. I do not work for your master, see. I work for Lord Kendrick, and now I have finished my breakfast, so I will go and make ready Lord Kendrick’s coach.”

Jenny bit down a splutter of laughter. She was certain that she was the cause of Mr Plum’s foul mood – at least, now that Lord Beeston had obliged him by not dying overnight – and the last thing she wanted was to make it worse, especially since he seemed set on revenging every little slight to his own authority on the other servants.

“Mrs Thomas, do you suppose it will be really dangerous for Lord Beeston to travel again today? We ought to tell him so, and then at least he can make an informed decision.”

“He won’t listen to me, deary, any more than he listened to Mr Plum,” said Nurse Thomas, shaking her head. She paused a moment, looking speculatively at Jenny. “A pretty little thing like you might convince him, though I doubt it. Why don’t we go up together to change out his bandages, and you can give it a try.”

“Hmph,” sniffed Mr Plum. He sat down in the coachman’s place and lifted the lid of the pot of porridge on the table. “ Hmph .”

“I do recommend the porridge, Mr Plum,” said Jenny sweetly, as she rose to follow Mrs Thomas. “It was really a treat. So rich and creamy!”

She had the satisfaction of seeing Mr Plum ladle himself out a large helping of lumpy, gluey gruel as she and Nurse Thomas took her leave.

“You are a wicked woman,” said Nurse Thomas, shaking her head. “You broke your fast with nothing but toast. I saw you!”

“Well, who am I to say how Mr Plum enjoys his porridge?” asked Jenny,still smiling sweetly. “He is a valet, you know, while we are mere nurses, and he has rarefied tastes we could never hope to understand.”

“Hush!” Nurse Thomas was not amused. “You’re liable to lose your position, speaking that way. I knew you were green, but you’re a darn sight greener than anyone I’ve met before if you think you can get away with cheeking his lordship’s valet.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Thomas.” Jenny stopped walking a moment to give herself a little shake.

You are not Miss Cartwright , she told herself. You are not Captain Whitby’s sweetheart, and you are certainly not Lady Beeston .

She was a nurse for the present, and if she did not wish to be caught, she had better behave like one.

“Thank you for your advice,” she added, to placate the older nurse. “I will do my best to heed it.”

“Hmph,” said Nurse Thomas, in an unconscious imitation of Mr Plum. Jenny had to stifle a giggle again.

Lord Beeston was sitting up in bed when they entered, an untouched tray of toast and boiled eggs before him. The red flush of fever had drained from his face overnight, but he did not look strong.

He looked younger, somehow, than he had the previous day. Jenny knew his age, of course. It was one of the few details Uncle Fitz had bothered to give her. Still, the number four-and-twenty and the title of earl had never quite made sense together in her mind. Earls ought to be dignified. Figures of authority. Silver-haired, stern, with lines of care across their brows.

She had painted Lord Beeston so luridly in her imagination that the experience of meeting him and nursing him through a bout of fever had not quite been enough to erase it. In the fresh morning light, here and now, the sight of him sitting up in bed with shadows under his eyes and a hand laid upon the newspaper was so prosaic that she could no longer avoid taking note of his actual, physical presence.

Arthur Graham, Lord Beeston, was not un-handsome, if one preferred men with wild dark hair falling across their pale brows, glowering brown eyes and a tragic expression.

Jenny stopped for a moment in the doorway as Nurse Thomas bustled in quite unaware of the turmoil taking place in her protégée’s heart.

I ought to marry him , she told herself, one hand grounding her against the splintered wooden doorframe as the thought made her feel dizzy and sick.

He was not ugly. He was not a monster. He was wounded, and miserable, but not – she thought – cruel. Didn’t she know how to handle men with bad tempers? She had lived with Uncle Fitz for most of her life.

Lord Beeston could never be as terrifying as that.

His dark eyes flickered to her, and stopped. He frowned.

Jenny stared into that fathomless gaze and knew that it was no longer a question of being unable to marry him. She was no longer paralysed by fear. In fact, she had been braver these past few days than she’d ever thought she could be.

It was a question of what she wanted.

Jewels , she told herself. Parties. Servants. A castle !

She’d have all that and more, and only a fool would choose to be a poor relation living above a greengrocer’s shop instead.

“You are rude, Hughes,” said Lord Beeston, a repeat of his words to her the previous day. He was still looking at her, a furrow deepening in his brow.

Jenny forced herself to drop her gaze and curtsey. Her face burned.

“Forgive me, my lord. I am only glad to see you looking so much better.”

“Glad?” He gave a harsh laugh. “By the look on your face, you were hoping I’d choked on my breakfast.”

She moved to take the tray away, keeping her eyes low. Mrs Thomas was setting out the poultice and bandages on the bedside table.

“You have not managed to eat any, my lord,” she said, fixing her gaze on the untouched egg. Nurses did not stare down earls – she did not require a long career in service to know that.

“Meaning it would be difficult for me to choke?” Beeston goaded her. She risked a glance up. He looked – she thought – almost amused.

“Meaning that I am concerned you will not have the strength for today’s journey.”

Nurse Thomas sucked in a breath behind her, but Beeston only looked thoughtful.

“Perhaps it is better to go on the morrow. I can hardly force Horace Whitby to explain himself if I am sick in bed. Yes. Better to go in guns blazing. He will explain what he has done with my money, and I will get it back from him. No matter what he has to sell off to make good the debt,” he added darkly.

Jenny’s heart thudded sick and heavy in her chest. She did not like to think of any ill befalling Sebastian’s family – not even if it was justly earned.

She hoped that Sebastian had reached his father and was already in possession of Beeston’s money. That would make her feel less guilty, at least, for robbing him of the dowry he would have had from Uncle Fitz in exchange for taking her.

“With your leave, my lord, we will change your bandages,” said Nurse Thomas. Beeston’s jaw tensed.

“Is it really necessary? I have a number of letters to attend to this morning.”

He was afraid, Jenny thought, and trying to hide it.

“No, no,” he admonished himself, before Nurse Thomas could reply. “What a damn foolish question. Of course it’s necessary. Get on with it, then. Don’t dawdle!”

Jenny helped Mrs Thomas lift up the down-filled coverlet. She was half-afraid that she would not be able to control her reaction to the sight of his injury. She had never seen anybody wounded before, not up close. Certainly nobody with whom she risked sharing a marriage bed.

If she screamed, he would not forgive her – and nor would he ever wish to marry her, should he discover her true identity.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to look down.

It turned out that a gentleman’s legs were not so dissimilar to a lady’s. Only more muscular and hairier and – in Lord Beeston’s case – ending above one knee in a neat white bandage.

Nurse Thomas gave a brisk nod as she assessed the skin above the wound. “The swelling has improved, my lord.”

“Don’t prattle on about it,” said Lord Beeston. “What do you think I care for swelling this and bandages that? Just get on with it.”

Jenny caught Nurse Thomas’s eye. She saw that the nurse was in agreement with her – for all Lord Beeston’s growling and posturing, he was still afraid of the pain.

“Now, Hughes, you watch closely and see how I do it,” said Nurse Thomas. “I am not a boastful woman, so you know I’m telling you true when I say I can change a dressing quicker than anyone this side of London, and further too, I dare say. You pass me the poultice and the bandage as I ask for it. An education’s coming your way, and no mistake.”

If I were his wife , Jenny thought, I’d be holding his hand .

Or, more likely, he’d have sent her out of the room. He was a proud man. He wouldn’t want his bride to see him vulnerable.

If she married him, she’d never have a single moment more of the exquisite, intimate agony she’d felt while looking into Sebastian’s eyes and seeing all the aching torment in his soul. Pin money shall not exceed fifty pounds. Any and all trips to London at Mr Smythe’s expense.

For the next few moments, there was no sound but Nurse Thomas’s terse commands. “Hot water. Poultice. Throw these away. Bandage. Pin.”

It was done quickly, and Jenny learned something new about herself. She was not afraid of tending the wounded.

Lord Beeston was sweating, his shoulders tense on the pillow. Jenny dipped a cloth into the cool water in the basin, just as she’d done for hours on end the night before. This one, she left on his bedside, for him to take up himself.

“Send up Plum,” said Lord Beeston, fastening his hand around the cloth and squeezing it. “I’ll get some semblance of decent clothing on. Now, where’s that blasted man?”

He meant Sebastian. Jenny’s cheeks felt hot again. “He has ridden on ahead, my lord,” she said. This time, it was easy to keep her eyes low. She didn’t want Lord Beeston to see what was in them.

“Has he really? Ha. That rascal can never sit still. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll be squeezing the last few coppers out of his father. Hughes?”

Jenny was making her way out of the room, the tidy bundle of used bandages in her arms. She nearly stumbled into Nurse Thomas, who had turned back to give her a sharp look and make her acknowledge the sound of her pseudonym.

“Oh – uh – yes, my lord?” For goodness’ sake. How hard was it to simply remember one little secret identity? She could have kicked herself.

“Take the egg,” said Lord Beeston. “I won’t have it. No use it going to waste.”

Jenny flushed and stared at him, wondering whether it was some trick, but he had already lowered himself back onto his pillows and was flicking idly through the newspaper.

“Thank you, my lord,” she stammered. The boiled egg, still in its shell, was cool and round. It brought to mind, for some reason, the little pebble that Sebastian liked to carry in his pocket.

“Well, seems he ain’t so bad, after all,” said Nurse Thomas, as they made their way downstairs. “Lot of bark, less bite. I’d bark like billy-o if a sawbones had my leg off, mind.” Jenny wordlessly offered her the egg, but she shook her head. “You have it. I tried a mouthful of that porridge earlier, and it’s sitting in my stomach like a boulder.”

She gave the egg to the stable boy instead, while she passed on word to the coachman that Lord Beeston would not travel that morning after all. She could not have eaten it herself. If the world were just, that egg would stick in her throat or poison her.

She had taken enough from Lord Beeston already.

The stables were warm and dimly lit, full of soft, comfortable animal sounds and men with busy hands and kind words for the beasts under their charge. She lingered a moment, unwilling to return to the unpleasant clamour of the inn and the company of Mr Plum, and gave Lord Kendrick’s horses a few little scratches and pats. The coachman gave her a knowing grin. He was not hurrying back inside, either.

A shrill whistle summoned the stable boy out into the yard, the last of the egg stuffed hastily into his mouth. He returned a moment later leading a horse who whickered and pulled at the reins to go to Jenny. She smiled and extended a hand, scratching the animal’s nose fondly. “Hello, Red,” she said, without realising what she was saying. “What are you doing here?”

Then she heard the all-too-familiar shouting from the yard, and caught the coachman’s queer sideways glance, and realised, too late, just what Uncle Fitzherbert’s favourite horse was doing at the Ring O’ Bells Inn.

“I don’t care where you think he’s gone,” Uncle Fitz was shouting. She could picture the exact way the flecks of spittle would be gathering in the corners of his mouth. “Fetch me Captain Whitby, and fetch him now !”