Page 4 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)

P limpton stared out the window of his carriage as a servant flipped down the steps and opened the door.

He raised his hand in a staying gesture when the footman opened his mouth—obviously to ask if something was amiss—his gaze riveted to the man leaving Winifred’s house.

“Damnation,” he muttered. It was that bloody pirate who worked for Severn—the one who had somehow managed to get into the Duchess of Chorley’s ball; the one who looked familiar, but Plimpton did not know why. What the devil was he doing at Winifred’s house?

Plimpton watched through narrowed eyes as the man strolled off down the street, an irksome swagger to his stride.

For a moment, he did not move. What on earth was the woman up to? Was the privateer her lover?

Revulsion curdled in his belly and his entire body grew hot with anger. He had believed she possessed more sense than that.

The woman is a widow on the far side of twenty. What right do you have to be outraged?

Because she is mine , damn it!

She is not yours. And given how much she dislikes you; she might never belong to you.

He ignored that prognostication. Not only was it highly unlikely, but now was not the time to be thinking about it.

Once Plimpton had tucked away the remnants of his anger, he climbed down from his carriage and strode up the same path the other man had just come down.

His rap on the door was answered speedily by the woman who had just shown the last guest out.

The servant—a housekeeper, judging by her severe black bombazine gown—recognized Plimpton from his one prior visit, when he had come to discuss Winifred sponsoring Becca next year.

“Your Grace!” She dropped a hasty curtsey and then hurried back a step, visibly flustered as she gestured him into the foyer. “Please, do come in.”

“I wish to see your mistress,” he said, stripping off his gloves. “I will wait here while you see if she is at home to visitors,” he added firmly, just in case she had any notion of parking him in a sitting room to wait.

“Oh! Yes, of course, Your Grace,” she said, even more flustered at this unconventional turn of events. “Er, you just wait right here, then.” She backed away, until her foot hit the bottom step, and then turned and hurried up them.

Plimpton slapped his palm with his gloves and prowled the foyer, studying the artwork that hung there. On two walls were large landscapes, both signed by the former owner of the house, Daniel Keyes, the deceased father of Plimpton’s sister-in-law, Honoria. Like his daughter, Keyes had been an acclaimed portraitist, but he had evidently applied his considerable skill to at least a few landscapes in his day. Both were magnificent and Plimpton had just resolved to ask Honoria if she would consider painting a scene around Whitcombe when the housekeeper clattered down the stairs.

“The countess will see you now, Your Grace.”

Plimpton removed his hat, dropped his gloves into it, and handed both to the servant. “I will show myself up,” he informed her before striding up the stairs.

Winifred rose when he entered the small, cramped parlor, her lovely face as coolly serene as ever. As if she had not just entertained a piratical rogue in her home only minutes before.

She dropped into a low, graceful curtsey that he could not help but admire, regardless of his current irritation. “What a pleasure to see you again, Your Grace.”

Plimpton might have laughed at her brazen lie, had he been in the laughing mood.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, lowering herself onto the dainty settee where her needlework basket and standing tambour made it clear she had been working.

Plimpton seated himself across from her.

“How may I serve you, Your Grace?”

Why beat around the bush? “I saw that man Gregg leaving your house when I pulled up outside.”

“I beg your pardon?” she asked him frostily.

“Severn’s minion,” Plimpton said, even though she knew perfectly well whom he meant.

Her delicate nostrils flared slightly—the only outward sign of her displeasure—and she said, “What of it?”

His eyebrows leapt at her curt tone, one he was not accustomed to hearing. At least not directed toward him . “We have already discussed this, Winifred. Acknowledging Gregg at a ton function is enough to start unpleasant rumors. Entertaining the man in your house will do your reputation irreparable damage.”

“Yes, I recall that conversation now. It seems my recollection is a bit different, however.”

“Oh?”

“The word discussion implies there were at least two people involved. What I recall is you talking and me listening.” She hurried on before he could respond, “Let me just say, yet again, how kind you are to concern yourself with my well-being. But whom I entertain—and where I do it—is not your affair.”

“It is if you are launching my daughter.” As retorts went, it was less than impressive.

It was her turn to lift her eyebrows. “If you wish to change your mind, please let me know so that I might—”

“I do not wish to change my mind,” Plimpton said, hoping to keep their petty exchange of barbs from developing into a roaring row. “What I do wish is for you to take more care.”

“As I said, it is—”

“As a matter of fact, my lady, your well-being is my concern. That is why I am here today.”

Her lips parted in amazement. “I beg your pardon?”

“I had a serious conversation with your brother about you recently.”

She bristled visibly and opened her mouth.

“Wareham is extremely ill,” he said before she could argue—which, judging by the belligerent glint in her pale gaze she had every intention of doing.

“What is wrong with him?” The sudden stiffening of her shoulders told him that she was not untouched by his news.

“He was in a bad carriage accident that killed his valet and—”

“My God! When did this happen?”

“About ten days ago.”

“Ten days! Why am I only hearing about this now?”

Plimpton’s temper spiked at her question, and he struggled to rein in his anger before saying, “He sent you a letter—which he’d had to dictate rather than write himself, he was so ill. It was returned unopened.”

Her throat flexed as she swallowed hard, color flooding her cheeks. After a moment, she nodded. “Yes, that is true. I sent it back. Obviously, if I had known—” her voice broke and naked fear spasmed across her face. “Tell me what happened.”

“He was traveling from Bristol—perhaps you read about the severe series of storms they recently suffered?”

She nodded mutely.

“Wareham was caught in one of those storms and the section of road he was on washed away, taking his carriage with it. He broke his arm as well as two ribs.”

Her eyes widened, her expression accusatory. “How dare you frighten me like that, Your Grace? A few broken bones are unfortunate, but hardly fatal.”

“They can be if one of those bones punctures a lung.”

“His lung? But…can a person survive such a wound?”

“Wareham was fortunate to have a physician who’d spent a great deal of time on the Continent during the war. Thanks to Doctor Madsen’s skill with instruments called a cannula and trocar, Wareham’s prognosis was excellent.”

“You were there?”

“Not during the surgery, of course, but immediately afterward. I was in London when his message reached me, and I went directly to Torrance Park. Wareham was doing better, but still in critical condition. Naturally, he was anxious that there should be somebody he could trust at hand in the event the worst happened.” Plimpton pulled a letter from his inner coat pocket. “Wareham sent for me because he could not reach you. ”

Once again, mortification seized control of her features. “I did not know he had been hurt or I would have opened it. I thought it merely one of his monthly missives.”

“He told me you return all his letters unread and have done so every month for years .” Plimpton had been flabbergasted by his friend’s admission. “What purpose could such childish behavior possibly serve?”

“That is hardly your concern.” Her words were cold, but her deepening flush told him she was not as sanguine as she wished to appear.

“I am making it my concern, Winifred.”

“Do whatever you please, Your Grace ; it will have no effect on me. ”

Her dismissive, slighting tone should have been insulting, and yet Plimpton found it… endearing. Yes, that was the word. She was so lovely—so delicate and dainty—that it was like being attacked by a butterfly.

You are going soft in the head.

He was. And he planned to enjoy every step of that journey.

Plimpton thrust aside that happy thought and held the letter out to her. “Take it and read it.”

“You are not the master of me, Your Grace.”

No, he was not. Yet. But he would be.

Yes, by God, he would be.

Plimpton tossed the letter onto the coffee table in front of her settee. “Your brother made a grave mistake not taking you firmly in hand after Sedgewick’s death.”

If looks were lethal, Plimpton would be gasping his last breath on the floor. “I am sure you think so, Your Grace.”

“I do think so.” He was amused by the scorching glare she sent him. Plimpton doubted that she knew how lovely she became when she was angry. Or how much the sparks she was throwing his way were encouraging, rather than curbing, his desire for her.

“Wareham has been too light with the reins; he has allowed you to get the bit firmly between your teeth. What you require is a firm hand, Winifred.” And I intend to be the one who provides it.

She gave a squeak of strangled rage, and it was all Plimpton could do to suppress his laughter. He was behaving badly teasing her—especially given the serious reason for his visit—but he simply could not resist one last, little dig. “Had a sister of mine behaved with such willful, reckless independence I would have put her over—”

“Enough, sir!” She lunged to her feet, quivering with rage.

Plimpton stood, watching with interest as she mastered her temper.

“Your equine analogies are odious and insulting.” Her eyes were the steely gray of a winter sky, and her voice was admirably cold for all her high color. Indeed, Plimpton was surprised there weren’t snow flurries eddying on the parlor floor between them. “Your comparison of women to horses merely confirms what I have long suspected.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“That you are utterly devoid of any sensibility where women are concerned. I am deeply grateful that I am not your sister.”

So was Plimpton, albeit for entirely different reasons than hers. He would have liked to keep that color in her cheeks a bit longer, but it was time to finish the matter he had come to address.

“A few hours ago, I received an urgent message from the doctor who had been treating Wareham.”

Her frigid glare gave way to confusion. “He is no longer treating him? But I thought you said—”

“Wareham is worse.”

“I do not understand. You said his prognosis was excellent.”

“It was. Or at least it had been. According to Doctor Madsen, Wareham’s mother-in-law—the Dowager Lady Telford—arrived at Torrance Park the day after I departed. Her stated purpose was to take charge of your brother’s children and bring them back home with her.”

She gave him a look of disbelief. “Wareham asked her to take the children?”

“I can see you are familiar with the Dowager Lady Telford,” he said dryly. “No, he did not want her to have the children. In fact, I delivered them to Wareham’s brother-in-law, Lord Telford—who lives only an hour away—when I was there. Rather than return home when the dowager discovered the children were not there, she decided to stay and take charge of your brother’s nursing.” Plimpton’s temper flared and he suppressed it with great difficulty before adding, “And now Wareham is far worse than he was.”

“The dowager might be… unpleasant, but she has raised five children in her time and is probably a competent nurse. If Wareham is relapsing, it is likely the severity of his injury.”

“That is not Doctor Madsen’s opinion. He said the wound only became infected recently—under her care. Indeed, that is why he had a falling out with her. The dowager evidently dismissed him for impertinence.” He met Winifred’s gaze squarely. “I fear Wareham is in grave danger, my lady. You must go to him.”

“ Me ? I have no power over the situation. If Lady Telford can dismiss a physician, she will take no heed of anything I say.”

“She will heed what I say,” Plimpton assured her grimly.

“Then you do not need me.”

“I need you because I know nothing about nursing. And once I dismiss her, I will require your help.”

She stared at him, clearly at a loss for words.

“My carriage stands ready to take you home.”

His words, or at least one of them, brought her back to life. “Torrance Park is no home of mine. Wareham and Sophia saw to that years ago.”

“Enough of this foolishness,” he snapped, losing patience. “Wareham might die—not because he has to, but because that shrew is bungling his care. Is this how you wish to end your relationship with your only brother? If you do not go to him now, you will regret it for the rest of your life. He is my oldest friend and I will not have his death on my conscience. You should be ashamed to even hesitate to help him.”

Her face, which had been hot with anger, drained of color and she seemed to deflate. “I—I—cannot—” Her jaws snapped shut and she broke off her stammering, dashing a tear from her cheek before nodding and saying, “You are right, Your Grace. Now is not the time for any of…that. Of course I will go to him.”

The relief he felt at her words left him lightheaded. “Good—excellent,” he amended. “So then, how soon can you be ready to travel?”

“I will take the stage from—”

“You will take my carriage.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are not—”

“This quibbling is wasting valuable time! My carriage will be far faster and more comfortable than anything you can arrange. If you are concerned about being beholden to me, then you should view my assistance not as a favor to you, but to Wareham.”

Her eyes glittered dangerously, and she inhaled, swelling in size like an exotic reptile preparing to spit venom.

She looked magnificent in her fury.

He prepared to quash her next argument, but she said, through gritted teeth, “Thank you, Your Grace. When can—”

“Whenever you are ready.”

“I need only an hour to send a few messages and pack my things.”

Plimpton stood. “Then I will return for you in an hour. No. Do not get up,” he said. “I can show myself out.”

But she followed him anyhow.

When they reached the foyer Plimpton paused after he had opened the door, expecting that she had accompanied him to say something. But she stared at a point beyond him, visibly shaken.

Was it preparations for her journey that consumed her thoughts? Or was it concern for the brother whose letters she rejected and whom she had not spoken to for eight years?

Or was she thinking about that bloody scoundrel he had seen sauntering away from her house earlier?

Damnation.

Getting her away from London, Plimpton decided, would serve multiple purposes.