Page 34 of The Major’s Mistake (Intrepid Heroines #7)
Every few days he had stopped in at Lady Thornton’s to keep the two ladies informed on Julian’s condition, and while Miranda had questioned him concerning the injuries and provided medical suggestions with a cool efficiency, she couldn’t quite hide the true depths of her emotions from his keen gaze.
It was clear she would have liked to hear of more than the medical details, though she held back from asking anything of a personal nature.
Still, he noticed how her hands stopped whatever they were doing when he repeated some little anecdote concerning the marquess and how he had passed his day.
Giving a slight shake of his head, he wondered if ever the erstwhile couple would admit to what was really ailing them.
“Hmmph,” remarked Julian after some thought. “Perhaps it is time to give the good doctor his notice.” Another silence followed as Sykes straightened up the marquess’s dressing table. “You are going to visit the Hall?”
“I could do with some fresh air—that is, unless there is something you’d rather have me attend to.”
“No, not at all,” answered Julian quickly.
“You will of course give my regards to my aunt and tell her I look forward to her next visit, though I don’t intend to let her win another fortune at cards.
” He cleared his throat. “My regards to Miranda, too.” After a fraction of a pause he added rather self-consciously, “She is ... well?”
Sykes couldn’t resist. Repressing a grin, he turned to rearrange the set of silver-backed brushes. “Your aunt is in fine fettle. I should say she’s as sprightly as a lady half her years.”
Julian’s face fell ever so slightly.
The valet relented. “Lady Miranda appears quite fine as well, and shows no ill effects from her ordeal.” He dusted a bottle of bay rum on his sleeve.
“That’s a very brave lady, guv. All courage and heart.
Why, if you could have seen the way she took aim at that bastard when he threatened to go at you again. ”
The Marquess murmured something unintelligible in reply.
“Well then, if you’re not needing me for anything else, I‘ll be on my way.”
Sykes put down the delicate china teacup with great care and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m not used to having to act the gentleman,” he mumbled, looking around the cozy parlor. “A tin cup is more what I am accustomed to.”
The corners of Lady Thornton’s lips twitched. “Well, I assure you that you show to better advantage than most fellows who can lay claim to the title, Mr. Sykes. Another cake?”
The valet shook his head and stood up rather awkwardly. “I’d best be heading back, ma’am. I like to keep my eye on the guv, seeing as I don’t trust any of the advice given by that Dr. Reynolds. In my humble opinion, he has no notion of what he is about.”
Lady Thornton’s face pinched in concern. “You don’t think my nephew is healing as he ought?”
He gave an eloquent shrug. “Well, I can’t rightly tell, having no skill in these things myself.”
Miranda rose abruptly. “Come along with me, Mr. Sykes. I’ll give you a fresh supply of salve and an herbal tisane that may help His Lordship sleep through the night.”
Sykes followed her through the kitchen to a small pantry near the scullery door that served to hold her stores.
“You say there is a redness around the sutures? What is the physician’s opinion?” she asked as she began to sort through an array of vials and crocks.
The valet gave a snort. “All he wants to do is shut the windows up tight, claiming it is the night air that causes inflammation.”
Miranda’s mouth tightened. “Fool,” she muttered under her breath. “Is the skin hot to the touch?”
“I, er ... I’m afraid I can’t really say.”
For several moments there was only the sound of bottles clinking and jars being uncapped.
“Is there any sign of fever?”
“I don’t think so.”
Miranda went back to filling a small vial with a viscous ointment the color of deep amber.
“I, er, I don’t suppose you might spare the time to look at the leg yourself, ma’am? That way you might tell me what I should do.”
Her fingers froze on what she was doing. “It is not a question of time, Mr. Sykes,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. The matter is a good deal more ... complicated than that.”
“I’m sorry. I had no right to ask you. Besides, surely Dr. Reynolds must know what he is doing. I mean, there’s many who believe that drawing a cup or two of blood from a patient is effective in fighting off an inflammation.”
Her head jerked up. “Dr. Reynolds means to bleed him! Why, that’s all wrong! I have never known the practice to be of the least good—indeed, I believe it only does harm.”
Sykes gave a pained grimace. “In that case, I shall do my best to prevent it.”
She bit her lip.
“I daresay the guv won’t let the allow it either, that is, if he’s strong enough to argue.
” Sykes hoped he wasn’t doing it a bit too brown.
Seeing the look of distress that crossed Miranda’s face, he felt a momentary prick of guilt at taking liberties with the truth, but then quickly pushed such feelings aside with the reminder that he was only acting for the higher good.
Heaving an exaggerated sigh, he held out his horny palm for her preparations. “Thank you for your trouble, ma’am.”
Instead of handing over the medicines she shoved them into the pocket of her gown. “Please have Angus saddle the filly while I fetch my cloak, Mr. Sykes.”
The valet ducked his head to hide his smile. “Yes, ma’am!”
Nothing seemed to be of the least interest this afternoon, Julian noted with some dismay.
Not history. Not poetry. Not even the Bard was able to keep his attention from straying.
By the time he reached the end of even the simplest sentence, the beginning had already eluded him.
The elegant printed words stared back at him, as incomprehensible as his own inability to concentrate.
No doubt it was the sheer boredom of confinement that was driving him to distraction.
He should be feeling a sense of satisfaction, for he had accomplished what he had set out to do.
The ringleader was dead, and with the information supplied by the man’s terrified underlings, Lord Atwater was well on the way to tracking down the mastermind of the recent troubles.
Yet somehow, things did not feel entirely resolved.
With a snort of frustration, he tossed aside the leatherbound volume and stared at the stream of sunlight flooding in through the tall, mullioned windows of his bedchamber.
It looked to be a lovely day. He couldn’t help but wonder what Miranda doing.
Was she out with Justin, gathering herbs for her healing arts?
Or was she perhaps taking him for a ride, the breeze ruffling their hair as they cantered through the fields.
The devil take it, he missed her! He missed the way her eyes turned a shade greener when she laughed, the way her voice could drop to a smoky timbre, the way her lips crooked into a smile.
And he missed his son. He wished to be out there as well, wherever they were, sharing the warmth of their laughter.
Teeth set against the stab of pain, Julian gingerly flexed his leg.
Sykes was right. The improvement was noticeable and the discomfort was lessening with each day.
Throwing back the covers, he swung his feet to the ground, cautiously testing the weakened limb.
It still hurt like the devil, but the leg would bear his weight.
And there was something else. Missing was the sensation of a knife twisting inside his flesh every time he moved, something he had come to accept would be inexorably part of him for the rest of his days.
His valet had told him of what Miranda had done that night, of how she had refused to stitch him up until she had patiently picked out every twisted shard of metal she could find in his ravaged leg.
He hardly dared allow himself to hope it would make a difference, but the feeling was . .. different.
Good Lord, he might truly be able to hoist his son in the air without an awkward stumble. He might offer to carry Miranda’s basket without fear of falling on his rump. He might even waltz with a lady in his arms without feeling like half a man.
Emboldened, he tried a step.
Only his hand’s firm grip on one of the carved posts of his imposing bed saved him from ending in a heap on the floor.
With a rueful grimace, he eased himself back onto the soft mattress.
It would be a difficult task, almost like being a babe again learning its first steps, but he would start right away. As soon as Sykes returned.
Bloody hell. Where was the fellow? thought Julian. He had been gone a devil of a long time. No doubt he had been invited to stay and chat with his aunt—and Miranda.
Somehow the notion only served to increase his irritation at being confined to bed.
At the sound of footsteps in the hall, Julian hastily rearranged the sheets and sank back against the pillows with some relief, finding that even so paltry a physical effort had taxed his strength.
But at least the return of his valet promised a welcome respite from tedious tomes and chafing silence.
A game of chess might serve as a distraction, provided he spotted Sykes a rook and a knight.
And perhaps he might even convince the man to allow a thick slab of beefsteak to be sent up instead of that cursed boiled fowl, and a good claret instead of sugared tea.
It was time he set himself to making a full recovery.