Autumn Rain (25 page)

CHAPTER 23

While Longford slept, Elinor sat by the window reading Charles's journal for the third time in as many days. The first time, she'd wept bitter tears, the second, she'd tried to picture him as he'd written it, and now she listened as his voice seemed to echo in her ears. Her heart ached terribly, but as she imagined he spoke to her, his words were a sort of catharsis, a healing purge, giving her not memories of a sealed box being lowered into the ground but rather of a boy full of life.

Mrs. Peake entered the room, her mouth pursed in disapproval. "Lord Townsend is most insistent, my lady, and he will not be denied."

Bellamy Townsend. Elinor colored guiltily, thinking of how many times she'd sent him away in these ten days past. She started to rise, then thought better of it. "Send him up—no doubt he will wish to see how Longford fares."

As she heard his footsteps on the carpeted stairs, she laid aside Charles's journal and waited. He crossed the room quickly, his concern evident, and took both her hands.

"Dear lady—" He stopped, shocked by the fatigue etched in her face. "Oh, my dear—had I only known—"

"I am quite all right, my lord," she murmured, repossessing her hands. "At least he rests comfortably enough that we can sleep at night."

"You should have allowed me—or hired assistance," he chided her. "It's beneath you to nurse a man of his stamp."

"He was dear to Charles," she replied simply. She gestured to the journal. "Charley idolized him, you see. That was what made him wish to be a dragoon."

From the moment he'd heard that the earl had collapsed at Stoneleigh, Bellamy had denied his jealousy, telling himself that Elinor Kingsley was a paragon merely doing the decent thing. Still, he felt an acute unease. It was one thing to rival a dead man, quite another to have to compete with a wounded hero who had the advantage of the field.

"Yes, well, the boy was an innocent—too decent to know what he was about yet. Terrible, terrible tragedy— my heart aches for you—and for Arthur, of course." Pulling a chair up beside her, he sat down. "How is Kingsley, by the by?"

"Better, I think. He seems less inclined to blame and more intent on disappointment."

He couldn't follow her. "Disappointment?"

"Yes. Now he is obsessed that he has none to leave his fortune to but me, I think."

"There must be other heirs surely."

"None that I have heard of." She sighed. "It's all so pointless, isn't it? After all these years of currying favor, of striving to be other than what he was born, he has achieved a title he is unable to pass on and a fortune he cannot take with him."

"Poor devil."

She looked up at that. "I suspect his awareness of those circumstances will make him determined to outlast all of us."

"I had thought him in serious decline."

"If I had learned naught else, my lord," she said tiredly, "it's never to underestimate my husband." Then, realizing how she must sound, she smiled wryly. "You must forgive me—I did not mean that I wish him to die."

"You could not be blamed if you did."

She was too weary to dissemble. "Oh, I cannot deny there was a time—when first Papa forced me to wed him—that I quite counted on his demise. But now—"

"Yes?" he prompted.

"Now that Charley is gone, it does not matter."

Once again, his hand sought hers, clasping it. "While that first youthful passion is seldom entirely forgotten, Lady Kingsley, I assure you it can be replaced with something far more lasting. Indeed, but I—"

He got no further. Longford roused, moaning loudly, crying out, "I thirst."

She pulled away and rose to tend him, leaving Bellamy Townsend in the awkward position of intruding in the sickroom. He rose, saying rather stiffly, "Under the circumstances, dear lady, I ought to take my leave. Perhaps on the morrow you would care to drive out? You have been cooped up far too long, you know, and the air would do you a great deal of good." When she did not answer immediately, he came up behind her as she poured a cup of water, putting his hands on her shoulders, massaging them lightly with an intimacy that ought to have gotten him a sharp set-down. "It will be fall before you know it. Come out while the flowers are still on the hillsides," he coaxed.

She had scarce breathed any air beyond the sickroom and certainly had had no conversation beyond Longford's illness and Charley's death. For a moment, she considered the invitation, then she nodded. "If it does not rain." As she looked up, she caught the warmth of his smile and added hastily, "And if you promise you will not behave improperly."

He dropped his hands and stepped back. "My dear Elinor, I shall be whatever you would have me. Indeed, but you must surely know of my regard—that I—"

Longford moaned again and tossed as though he were in great pain. "Your pardon, my lord," she murmured to Townsend.

"You know, I meant my earlier offer—I should be happy to attend him to spare you. For all that is in the past between us, I still count him a friend."

She started to tell him that there was nothing, then relented. "Perhaps you could help me clear his lungs."

"Anything, my dear—anything." He watched as she sat beside Longford and tried to lift him. "Allow me," he insisted, bracing Lucien while she held the cup to the other man's lips. "Weak as a newborn pup, isn't he?"

"Yes, but each day is better than the last one."

Longford swallowed, then began coughing, holding his sides against the pain. It was a deep, loose rattle. He looked up at Bell. "God's punishment for living," he managed.

She set the cup aside, ordering, "Lie him down and turn him over, will you? And if you do not mind it, I'd have his head over the side."

"Why?"

"We've got to bring that up else he will not get better."

Bellamy did as she asked, then watched curiously as she began pounding on Longford's back, cupping her hands so as not to hurt him, moving them rhythmically over his ribs. The coughing increased until the earl began to choke and spit.

"Catch that in the basin," she ordered brusquely.

"What?"

"The spittle. Dr. Beatty would see it."

The viscount was thoroughly revolted, but somehow he managed to slide a small basin beneath Longford's head. His eyes met hers. "Egad. I had no idea—is
this
what you do?"

"Yes. It's not precisely pleasant, but it helps."

"I'd think one of the maids—or a footman—"

"No. It must be done just so."

Finally, the earl ceased the awful coughing, and Bell laid him back. "Sorry, old fellow—didn't know."

"You'll need to turn him over and pull him up onto the pillows," Elinor advised him. "Otherwise he cannot breathe."

"And you do this by yourself?"

"Much of the time."

"You must be fagged nigh to death."

"Sometimes I think I am," she admitted. "But it keeps me from thinking of Charley."

"Yes, well, had I known it was like this, I should have been here to assist you, dear lady. As it is, I mean to come back in the mornings that you may rest."

"Oh, I don't—"

"Nonsense. I can contrive to keep him tolerably amused as he recovers, I assure you."

"But there is no need—that is, I—"

"Longford and I are old acquaintances, my dear." He reached to cover her hand with his. "And I do not mind it." He rose from the bed and started for the door. "Until the morrow, then. And if you have need of me, you have but to send to Leighton's." He looked to Lucien. "I shall look in on you in the morning. Is there aught that you would have me bring you?"

"No."

Longford dissolved into another fit of coughing, leaving Bell little to do but leave.
"Au revoir,
my dear," he murmured to Elinor.

She waited until he was gone, then turned her attention to Lucien. "This time, my lord, I think you are shamming it," she told him severely.

"Somehow the thought of Bell's declaring himself here and now seemed a bit premature, don't you think?" he inquired sardonically. His sunken black eyes nonetheless were alight with mischief. "Particularly since Arthur's mind appears to be on the mend," he added.

"You were listening earlier," she accused him.

"Well, as I could scarce go anywhere else, I could not avoid it."

"I thought you slept."

"Obviously." He closed his eyes, muttering, "Too weak for anything."

"Dr. Beatty says we may begin restorative jellies," she offered.

"What?"

"Restorative jellies."

He didn't open his eyes. "How very appetizing."

"Well, I expect it will be better than the gruel."

"Tell the old bonesetter that I require more food than he is inclined to give me."

"The 'old bonesetter' saved your life," she reminded him.

"My, how neither of you wishes credit for it," he murmured. "According to him, the blame belongs to you."

"Fiddle. I did but what he told me."

"Rather assiduously, I am told. A pity I was not awake to see you bathe me."

The bond that she'd felt she'd shared with him in his darkest hours had gone, leaving a self-consciousness in its place. He was fast becoming Longford again, Sally Jersey's "dangerous man," and she felt a pang of regret for it. For the last week and a half, she'd been needed, useful, something more than the crowning jewel in Arthur Kingsley's collection. Now Arthur was recovering his mind and Longford would soon be able to leave, and once again she faced being nothing beyond a possession.

He knew by her silence that he'd gone too far. "I know what I owe you," he said quietly. "And while I am not at all certain I am worth your effort, I thank you for it."

"Sarah must think so."

"Sarah? Who the devil's Sarah?"

"I don't know—it was you who called for her when you were out of your head with the fever."

His forehead furrowed momentarily, then he nodded. "Oh—
that
Sarah."

"Your sweetheart?" she found herself asking, then wished she could get back the words. "Your pardon—I should not pry."

"Sarah Wilson—Leftenant Wilson's wife. She tended the wounded at Salamanca." He tried to turn over and dissolved into a fit of coughing. She proffered a cloth quickly and he spat into it. Lying back, he waited to gain his breath. "Wilson died there."

"Oh."

Both fell silent until he felt it incumbent to say something. "Sorry for the boy."

"I know." Her hands knotted the black skirt. "I know," she repeated softly. "I heard that often while you were sick." Again the silence was nearly deafening, broken only by the steady beat of the rain against the windowpanes. This time, it was she who felt the need to say something. "He wrote often of you, you know."

"A great deal of nonsense, I'm afraid."

"You mean there was no Spanish lady intent on wedding you?" she teased, trying to lighten the mood between them.

"He wrote of that, too—eh?"

"Yes."

He grinned ruefully, then winced. "Damned shoulder-too sore to move." Once again, he closed his eyes as though that would somehow help him gain strength. "Near thing—family wanted to get her out of Spain."

"But somehow the thought of trailing after you into battle deterred her."

"No," he admitted baldly. "It was the notion that I was a savage that convinced all of them. I wore every weapon I possessed, then announced that madness ran in the family."

"You ought to be ashamed."

"I told you—I make a damnable husband." He coughed again. "God," he groaned, "it's enough to make me wish I had died."

"You nearly did."

"Too mean to die. It's the good that go."

"Except Mad Jack." Once again, she could bite her tongue for the words that slipped out. He lay there, his eyes still shut, his jaw working, the only sign that he'd heard her. "I did not mean to pain you, my lord," she said finally. She turned to leave. "Mary will be here directly to feed you."

"No."

"You cannot manage it yourself."

"No," he repeated. "You did not pain me—I hated him."

"Well, there are times I cannot say I care very much for my father either," she admitted. "But I am tiring you with speech."

He waited until she reached the door, and when he heard it creak inward, he spoke again. "Don't want the girl—spills too much on me."

"Mrs. Peake, then."

"Gives me indigestion."

She closed the door after her, taking some small measure of satisfaction in the notion that he still needed her for something.

He dozed for a time, waking only at the sound of the door again. Forcing his eyes open, he was surprised to see Arthur Kingsley himself, his bony hand pressing heavily on the ebony cane, his steps slow and measured as he crossed the room. The old man stopped at bedside and dropped into the straight-backed chair there. Leaning forward, resting both hands on the silver-handled walking stick, he peered into Lucien's face, studying it before he spoke.

"Longford."

"There is no accounting for survival, is there?" Lucien murmured.

"No."

Without preamble, the old man admitted, "I read the boy's journal, though I collect you brought it to my wife."

"I thought he would wish it."

Arthur Kingsley nodded. "I gave it to her, you know."

The faded eyes watched Lucien, then the baron mused, "He was the first I ever heard of as had anything good to say of you."

"My lamentable reputation."

"Regrettable." The old man cleared his throat. "I collect you mean to live."

"Apparently I am too mean not to."

"I always thought you a ruthless man—did what you wanted and damned those as objected. I like that. Shows—"

"A decided lack of character," Lucien said, interrupting. "I know what I am." Once again the awful cough racked his body, hurting him. He winced visibly."

"Come by it honestly. In the blood, after all. I remember when your mother died and it was said—"

"I know the rumors," Lucien snapped.

"Any truth to 'em?" the old man persisted. "Don't mind the other, you understand," he hastened to add as Lucien's color rose. "Just don't want any insanity in m'heir, that's all."