Must Love Breeches (18 page)

Meanwhile, she rushed to her room to fix her skirt. Thankfully, it wasn’t as bad as she feared, and she closed it with a few well-placed stitches. Her hands shook, though—what if she needed to use this needle on him? The specter of infection loomed in her mind, how
behind
medicine was. She could write her medical experience on the cotton batting of a medium Band-Aid, but it was better than some leech-wielding quack. She believed in germs, for Pete’s sake.

Skirt fixed, she returned to the parlor.

Lord Montagu marched toward her, all bristling male. “Miss Rochon, allow me to tell you, I believe you overreact. ‘Tis nothing but a scratch, and I am confident my valet can mend me when I return home.”

“What I saw was no scratch. I insist you let me look at it. I have all the items I need.”

“You insist?”

Isabelle put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.” He was going to make this difficult, male that he was.

Lord Montagu glared back. “Very well, Miss Rochon. To avoid further quarreling, I shall submit.”

Isabelle breathed a sigh of relief. Lord knew, having read about men of this time, what it cost him to relinquish, but she didn’t dare comment. That would call attention to it and make him change his mind.

The footman arrived with her supplies, and Lord Montagu eased his large frame into the armchair by an oil lamp. She poured some of the water in another bowl and when it had cooled enough, she washed her hands with the cake of soap.

She sat on a footstool next to him and leaned close, her skirts overlapping the cloth of his trousers with a soft
whisht
. His scent and heat enveloped her, and warmth crept up her neck and face. She struggled to ignore what he did to her and tugged on the knot on his bandage. She peeled it off.

Thank God, the wound was not as deep as she’d feared. She set to work getting out any dirt and debris she could find. The shadows cast by the lamp in the carriage had made it seem gruesome, but it was still serious enough, her imagination pictured infection setting in, no antibiotics, then fever, then gangrene, then losing the arm...

Sometimes, she wished she could take her imagination, drag it kicking and screaming outside, and stomp on it. Hard. With a spiked heel.

And, dammit, each intake of breath brought his heat, his scent, and her awareness of both, into her. Each time she moved, her skirts rustled against his trousers.

Hard. To. Focus.

She gently worked the wet cloth over his wound—a wound cutting across a heavily-muscled bicep, thank you very much. That flexed and rippled with her ministrations.

Would the cut need stitches? No way she’d have the stomach to sew his flesh together. If they were stranded in the Outback with no help in sight, sure, but...

“Does this hurt?” she asked, because she needed to break the silence.

No answer. She glanced up and caught his gaze on her mouth and then it leisurely traveled down her arm to her hands. His hands flexed on his knees. She quickly returned her own gaze to his cut, while her whole body lit up under his scrutiny.

“No,” his voice low, a puff of breath on her forehead.

What had she asked? Oh, yeah.

The wound cleaned, Isabelle escaped to the sideboard, relieved to be away from the sexy zone he emanated. She poured him a glass from the crystal brandy decanter and approached again, careful to remain outside The Zone. She handed him the brandy, his bare fingers brushing hers, and he drained it, his gaze steady on hers.

She pulled in a deep breath and broke eye contact. Now to the wound. She refilled the glass, bent, and poured a liberal dose over the gash.

Lord Montagu jerked. “Damnation, woman!” He glared at her. “An indication of your intentions would not have gone amiss.”

Oops
. “Sorry. I needed to disinfect it, and it was the only thing I had.”

She handed him the rest of the brandy. What else could she do? She wished she’d paid more attention to her former hippie roommate in Atlanta who’d always had some herbal remedy for everything, but this was all she could think of: clean the wound, sterilize it...

“Okay, it’s clean now, so we need to make sure it stays that way and you don’t catch a fever. We also need to make sure you switch the bandages often.”

She took a deep breath, stepped into The Zone, and applied fresh bandages. Oh—there was a little dark dot of a birthmark higher up. For some reason that felt like intimate knowledge, though in her own time, it would have been visible long before now if he wore a short-sleeved shirt.

“There.” She cleared her throat and patted his bandage, feeling stupid for doing so. “I’m afraid you might need stitches. I hate to admit it, but I don’t think I have the stomach for it.”

“I shall call my surgeon, in that case.”

“No, wait. Can your valet or butler do it?” She’d had a good look at his coachman and doubted he’d listen to her directions on cleanliness. His footman was just a kid.

“Yes.”

“Then can we go there now?”

“Go there? You cannot visit my lodgings, Miss Rochon. It would be inappropriate, as you are well aware.”

Actually, she wasn’t, but it figured. She must finish reading those etiquette books. She could sense another fight coming. “Then can you have your coachman fetch one of them?”

“Is this necessary? What is wrong with the Somerville footmen?”

“I need to train him on what to do when you’re at home.”

The front door opened and closed and soft steps pattered up the stairs. Isabelle poked her head out. “Ah, Ada! Just in time. Can you join us?”

After Isabelle explained what had happened, she finished by stating her idea of getting his valet.

“Excellent idea,” Ada said, settling into a nearby chair.

“I fail to perceive why I cannot simply return there myself and have my man do it.”

“As I said, I need to make sure he takes certain precautions.”

“Like what?”

“Well, wash his hands and boil the needle and thread, for starters.”

“Wash his hands?” He folded his arms, winced, and let them fall to his sides. “Miss Rochon, perhaps a surgeon would be best.”

Isabelle threw a pleading glance at Ada, though how Ada could persuade him, she didn’t know. Short of telling him
why
she knew better than some 1830s surgeon.

“My lord,” Isabelle started, “trust me when I tell you, I know what I’m doing. I have knowledge of this type of thing your surgeon does not. He’ll do more harm than good.”

“I am sorry, but I find that difficult to believe.”

Erg. How to convince him?
Excuse me, Lord Smarty Pants, but I’m from the future, so listen to me?
Ah, no. Isabelle took a calming breath.

Ada stood and knelt by Lord Montagu. She put a small, delicate hand on his knee. “Cousin, there are aspects of Miss Rochon’s background I am privy to and you are not. Believe me when I say she possesses knowledge we do not. That is all I am at liberty to divulge. I would heed her counsel.”

He peered at Ada a while, then swung his gaze to Isabelle, eyes narrowing. She squirmed under his fixed scrutiny. Finally, he said, “Very well, Miss Rochon, I shall heed your advice. But only because I do not believe the wound is all that serious. I shall fetch my man. At the first sign of inflammation, however, I will call my surgeon.”

Relief bubbled through her. “Thank you. Excuse me while I get prepared.”

“What do you need to do?” Ada asked.

“Find a needle and thread and boil them.”

Ada cleared her throat. “We shall ring for a footman.”

When would she get used to having others do things for her? It felt weird. “Oh, yes, of course.”

Lord Montagu left to tell his coachman to fetch his valet, while Isabelle told the footman what she needed.

By the time the valet arrived, Isabelle was ready. She directed his every move, from washing his hands to cutting away the loose flaps of skin. More brandy was used, for the wound and for Lord Montagu. Finally, he finished, and Isabelle bandaged it in fresh linen.

Isabelle turned to the valet. “Okay, make sure the linens you use to change this have been boiled first, and also make sure you wash your hands thoroughly with soap before you touch them or his wound. That is as important as changing them.” She finished tying it tight and straightened to clear away the leftover materials. She stopped and turned to look back at him, worried he would not take her instructions seriously. “Please promise me you will wash your hands with soap and hot water? And you will douse the wound with liquor?”

“Wash my
hands
?”

Before the valet could protest further, she said, “You know what? Never mind. Lord Montagu, you should come here every afternoon, and I’ll see to it myself. I don’t trust anyone else. Plus, I want to make sure it’s done right so you don’t have to ask for your surgeon.”

Lord Montagu sighed. “Chandler, go to the kitchen and avail yourself of some refreshment. I shall call for you when I am ready to depart.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Chandler exited and Lord Montagu turned to her. Oh, man, he was going to protest more. Seeing the valet leave had given her an idea, though. She needed to speak to Chandler alone, somehow. But first, a diversion—from Lord Montagu’s protests, and to give her a chance to leave.

“Now, Miss Rochon―”

“What a great idea, my lord,” Isabelle exclaimed at the same time, cutting him off. “We should have a little refreshment as well.”

Ada rang for the footman. As they waited in silence, Isabelle jumped up as if she’d forgotten something. “Oh, if you will excuse me, I need to see to a few things.” She rushed from the room before Ada could tell her to ring for it.

She found the valet and a sleepy Cook in the kitchen and motioned for the valet to follow. She brought him into the empty scullery.

“Mr. Chandler, I have a favor to ask.”

“I shall wash my hands, miss.”

“Now?” Isabelle asked, confused.

“No, when I minister to his lordship.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you. But that is not what I came to ask.”

“Then how may I be of service?”

“I have some items, letters actually, I need deposited at Barclay’s with specific instructions. However, they won’t do as I ask—they insist a man handle the business for me.”

“Certainly his lordship would be only too happy to oblige.”

“I cannot ask it of him.” And she couldn’t, the risk was too great. A servant wouldn’t ask questions she didn’t dare answer. She had debated asking Lord Montagu for two seconds.

Chandler stood there quietly.

“Listen,” she continued, “it is something personal I do not wish for him to know about.”

Disapproval lurked in the valet’s eyes, so she hastened to add, “It’s something so silly, so minor, I would hate to bother him about it.”

He didn’t appear convinced.

“Please, this is important to me.”

“If it is a silly, minor errand, how can it be important?”

She thought servants in this time weren’t supposed to sass, dammit. “Okay, fine. It’s not minor. It’s extremely important. I can’t tell his lordship, though.”

“I am sorry, miss, that I cannot help you.” He did look sorry, poor guy. “I keep no secrets from him. My advice is for you to confide in him, if you do not mind me being so bold as to say. He is a reasonable, rational man, despite what gossips bandy about.”

Dammit. Clearly, he wouldn’t change his mind. She thanked him and returned to the parlor.

“There you are, Miss Rochon.” Lord Montagu approached her. “I must take my leave. It has been a long evening. Thank you for your ministrations.” He bowed.

“You will come tomorrow?” She braced herself for the protests he’d been storing. She glanced at Ada to see if she was ready to provide backup. She nodded.

His gaze dropped to her mouth and hands again. “Yes,” he said.

Wow, perhaps she’d worn him down. He did look a little pale. “Oh, God, tetanus. You could get tetanus!”

Lord Montagu stared at her. “Miss Rochon, if you have no further need of me, I shall leave you now and get some rest. Good night, Miss Byron.”

“Yes, of course,” Isabelle said. “Good night.”

He kissed Isabelle’s hand. The touch of his lips brought the memory of their carriage ride rushing back. Isabelle blushed and her heart performed several leaps.

Oh, no. That was not a good sign. She fought to keep herself under control. After the door closed, she looked down at her hand and brushed it lightly with her other.

May 14

Dear Katy,

Just a quick note to update you. Still no luck finding my case. For good news—I get to stay in London! Yeah! Ada talked to Mrs. Somerville and I’m to be her assistant. In exchange for room and board, I’m to help with errands, write letters and transcribe papers—she’s a mathematician and astronomer and has published two papers already: “The Mechanism of the Heavens” and “On the Connexion of the Physical Sciences,” which came out only a couple of months ago. Girl power!

You wouldn’t believe how overwhelming this time period is. Not at all as clean and orderly as the movies would have you believe. I bought a journal, but don’t find a lot of time to write in it. At this point, I’m not sure how I’m going to get these to you. Perhaps I can wait and see if I can trust Montagu. Asking Mrs. Somerville’s help is too risky.