Enticing the Earl (22 page)

“Laur–Mrs. Smith, how are you?” Marcus went quickly to her side and picked up one hand, feeling an immense need to touch her, make sure that he could feel the warmth of her skin, the rhythm of her pulse beating, just to be certain that she was alive. The immensity of his relief was almost shocking: his knees had gone weak. He felt as if he could fold up like a paper toy that the sidewalk conjurers made for children. Fortunately there was a chair beside the bed he could sink into, else he might have fallen, and God knows what they would have thought of him. If the colonel thought females were weak…

But she was speaking, and he wrenched his attention back.

“I don't know what happened, my lord.” She was being very formal in front of Colonel Swift, but he saw from the quick glance she threw the colonel's way that she did not care for the current theory. “I would swear that it was not fatigue or the heat of the day because I was not overtired and I was not too warm, no matter what the doctor may say—he seemed to think that females are fragile vessels, indeed.”

She grimaced, and Marcus swallowed a grin. He suspected that the doctor's visit had not been, perhaps, a totally felicitous experience for all concerned.

“But I suddenly found my mind—well, it's hard to explain, but it seemed to go strangely blank, and I felt as if I were floating away, and I saw almost a vision, similar to the images on the china in the ship's boxes we had been viewing inside, but these seemed to move as if they were alive…” She shivered. “I know it makes no sense.”

The colonel shook his head. “We had eaten some meat pies from a street vendor while we waited for you, my lord. Perhaps Mrs. Smith got a bad pie and the meat disagreed with her. At any rate, she collapsed, and we could not wake her for several minutes, not until we bathed her forehead with cold water, and even then, she was not really awake.”

Marcus felt a coldness sweep through him. This did not sound like heat exhaustion to him. “Were you—pardon me—sweating profusely?”

She looked at him in surprise, but she shook her head.

“Was your skin very hot?”

“No, chilled, if anything,” the colonel volunteered. “I felt her forehead, and really, I feared for her for a time.”

“It was not warm in the warehouse,” she said.

“The physician advised—” Colonel Swift began, as one duty bound to pass on the expert's advice.

“I am not going to take to my bed for two weeks!” Lauryn snapped. For a moment, she looked quite her old self, and Marcus felt more encouraged by her spark of spirit than he had since he had entered the house. “Nor do I choose to be bled for three days running.”

“We'll see,” he murmured, but he gave her a wink while the colonel shook his head in doubt.

“I think we've done enough for today, at any rate. And I think we should return to my lodge.”

He spoke to the colonel about setting up one of their men, in shifts, to watch the shop where he had tracked the Asian they had seen spying on the warehouse, and Swift agreed to assign someone to covertly take over this watch.

Then the colonel insisted on lending them the use of his small gig. That Marcus was happy to accept, and although Lauryn looked mutinous again, she had to admit she was still weak and perhaps not yet up to riding back to the hunting box. Slipping out of the saddle would not help her argument to be admitted back at the earl's side in the hunt for the answer to the mysteries of the recovered cargo.

So they tied the mare to the back of the gig, one of the colonel's grooms drove the vehicle, and Marcus rode his own mount just behind as they made their way out of town and back to his lodge. There he gave the groom a suitable beneficence for his assistance, and the man turned the gig around and started home.

Marcus's own groom took his two horses back to the stables, and Marcus offered Lauryn his arm as they went into the house.

“It was something else, you know, not just fatigue,” she told him. “And I don't really think it was the meat pie. It seems to me that would have turned my stomach if it were bad, not given me awful dreams!”

He observed the blanched hue of her skin and the effort it was taking for her to walk with a normal gait, not drag her feet. “I believe you. Something affected you, and it must have been something in the warehouse. I'm not asking you to stay in bed for weeks, just until you feel that you have regained your strength. I do want you to stay out of the warehouse, however.”

She opened her lips to argue, and he added quickly, “At least till we know more about what we are dealing with.”

Sighing as the footman opened the door to admit them, she went inside and took off her hat and gloves, both dusty from the time they had spent in the warehouse. She sneezed as she pulled off one glove, then another, and then for a moment, she swayed.

Alarmed, he reached to steady her, afraid she would crumple at his feet.

“I'm all right,” she murmured, but she allowed him to hold her shoulders until she drew another deep breath and seemed more stable.

“I'll see you up to—ah, which room?” he muttered. “Damn. Do you think our other guest will manage all right without you tonight? Surely she will. I think it's time you should be coddled, Mrs. Smith, instead of the contessa. And I'll have the maid bring you up a dinner tray.”

“If it's not too much trouble for the servants, I would love a bath first,” she said. “I do feel very grimy after digging through so many of those boxes and barrels. They were so covered in dirt and mildew and God knows what else.”

God knew, indeed. “That would likely be a very good idea,” he said, his tone low. He saw her into his own bedroom and resting on one of the chairs, then called a maid and gave orders to fill a a hip bath, which they set up behind a screen at one end of the room.

Then he went down to find his half brother, whom he finally located in the stable. There he gave him a brief account of their day and told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was responsible for the contessa tonight.

“If she has nightmares, you will have to calm her. If she is frightened, you will soothe her. If she is angry, you will appease her. I don't care what is wrong with the woman, you will take care of her, dammit. You brought her here, and Mrs. Smith will be sacrificed for her no longer.”

“Don't feel a bit strong about that, do you, Brother?” Carter asked, his tone sardonic.

“She's ill, dammit, and she can't even think about herself for worrying about others.” Marcus glared at his sibling. “So you take care of the contessa; I've had enough, and I will not have Lau–Mrs. Smith bothered. So do it.” He wheeled and went back to the house, meaning to bathe, too, after Lauryn had been seen to.

Lauryn found the warm water and scented soap a splendid treat. If she did not feel so terribly listless, it would have brought thoughts of other pursuits, she was quite sure. But just now, it was enough to get the sour scents of the warehouse out of her hair and skin. When she had scrubbed and rinsed and rubbed herself dry, she lay on the chaise on the other side of the bedroom and enjoyed the luxury of feeling clean again. The maid pulled back the screen so that the footmen could carry the bath out, then back again, and Marcus took his turn.

My heavens
, she thought. He'd dismissed the servants and had not bothered to put up the screen again, so she had an unfettered view. What a body the man had.

She watched him dunk his dark hair into the warm water and rub soap into it, then dunk it again. As he poured warm water over his shoulders and arms she watched the muscles ripple as he scrubbed each arm in turn, then did his stomach and thighs.

Sighing, she leaned back and wished she did not feel as washed out as last week's laundry. What on earth had induced her sinking spell?

Even now, she felt barely connected to the earth, and it was easy to doze off for minutes at a time. If she did not concentrate, she could almost close her eyes again and drift into a dream that was not quite—

Why did that jolt something in her memory?

As she pondered that idea, she felt someone sit down on the chaise beside her, and she looked up to see the earl bending low over her. She smiled at him.

He wore only his robe. His dark hair was still damp, and his skin glistened with an occasional drop where he had hastily toweled dry.

“You smell like lavender, quite lovely,” he said, kissing her very gently. “And you taste even better.” His lips were warm, and she wanted him to linger, but after another moment he pulled away. “But you need to rest.”

She grimaced but could not disagree. “Better than the smells of the warehouse, at least. I'm not sure if I will ever get the odors out of the riding habit you were gracious enough to lend me, though I will do my best.”

“It doesn't matter,” he told her. “We will have a new one made to order for you.”

She smiled but shook her head a little at his extravagance. “And I will, at the very least, burn my handkerchief. It has a very odd stench.”

“Really?” He looked across to the pile of discarded clothes that the maid had not yet taken away, and to her surprise he stood and looked through the mound, finding the crumpled square of linen and picking it up to sniff for a moment.

His expression changed.

“What is it?” Lauryn demanded.

“The smell—I just realized where I have smelled that odor before, in the warehouse, and on you. I think you got it on your handkerchief when you wiped your hands earlier after digging through the boxes,” Marcus told her. “I believe I know what caused your illness!”

“W
hat was it?” Lauryn demanded. “It is a very
unpleasant feeling, I must tell you!”

His expression strange, the earl stared down at her, then spoke one word only. “Opium.”

Lauryn was so startled that she sat straight up. “What!”

“The strange dreamlike visions you had, the sleepiness, yes, it all fits,” he told her.

“But–but—” That was what she had been trying to remember—
opium dreams
! She had heard the term. She felt soiled, and she swallowed hard, suddenly nauseated at the very idea of having consumed such a strong drug. “Will I be all right?”

He nodded, taking her hand in reassurance. “The worst is likely past. Your hands were black from handling the cargo and boxes, and even though you tried to wipe them off on your handkerchief, when you ate the hot pie outside the warehouse, I think you ingested a bit of opium without realizing it.

“That caused the ‘opium dreams' you suffered. You may have some discomfort as it goes out of your body, but hopefully it will not be too bad. I would call a doctor for you once more except I don't believe there's anything that he could do.”

Lauryn held fast to his hand. She felt as if she might float away again, partly from shock, partly from the still present aftereffects of the drug. “Where did it come from?”

“I'm much afraid…” he hesitated, and then sat down beside her on the chaise; she drew up her legs to give him room. “I'm afraid it was present on the ship, my ship.” His tone had sharpened; she heard the effort it cost him to say the words.

“But—surely that must be illegal?” She stared at his face; his lips had flattened and his eyes—his eyes would have made her shiver, if she had been the person who had earned the enmity she saw there.

“Of course it is. But someone was smuggling opium into England on my ship, and I must find out who.”

“Is that what caused the ship to wreck?” Lauryn felt as if her head were spinning as she tried to put all the pieces together.

“No, I don't think that had anything to do with the shipwreck; that came from the storm,” he said. “The last thing they wanted was the ship to go down—so that they would lose their valuable cargo.”

“But what about the captain?” she pointed out. “Why was he killed?”

“Yes, we've got that,” Marcus admitted, running his hands through his still damp hair. She resisted the urge to reach up and push those dark locks into place. “Perhaps he found the opium—I'd like to think he wasn't involved. I knew the captain. He was a good man. Let's consider it that way, anyhow. He somehow came across the opium, was very angry, demanded of someone to know what was happening, perhaps, or else, simply started to jettison the drug, throw it overboard—”

“And he was killed!” Lauryn knew her eyes had widened as she imagined the dreadful scene.

“Yes. And perhaps then when the storm came, they were in need of his leadership and his sailing skills. Perhaps that is one reason the ship floundered, and the crew was drowned. A fearful irony, if so.”

“But why, if there are still traces of the opium in the warehouse, did it not all wash away under the ocean when the ship sank?” Lauryn asked reasonably.

“More than traces, if that is why the guards were attacked. If someone who knew it was there came to retrieve it!” the earl pointed out. He jumped to his feet to pace up and down as he spoke, working it out. “Do you remember that I told you the vases were filled with sawdust and sealed with wax to protect them from breaking?”

“Oh!” Lauryn saw it, too. “What if it were not sawdust inside them!”

“Yes,” he said, turning to smile at her. “Exactly.”

“When you came out of the warehouse, you had black tarry spots on your trousers,” she said. “Just as on my handkerchief, and that smell—”

“Precisely.”

Lauryn shuddered. “Oh, heavens. What a vile thing. Why do people take this drug, Marcus? I can't imagine doing it on purpose.”

“It's an escape, I suppose. I've been told that in the East it's an old man's drug, for someone who has nothing left to do with his life except sleep it away, dreaming instead of doing. In the West, the wealthy and bored sometimes do it for a lark, then find their body craves it again and again, and they can't get away from it.”

She shivered once more. “How horrible, like carrying your prison around with you.”

He came back to sit beside her and put his arms about her, holding her tightly. “I have arranged with Colonel Swift to assign one of our men to watch the shop I discovered when I followed the man you noticed observing the warehouse. We will see if this brings us any other information.”

She nodded into his chest.

“But just now, I only want you to recover,” he told her, kissing her ear, and her cheek, and the corner of her eye, and any other part of her face that presented itself. She turned her head so she could receive a proper kiss, and that one lingered pleasantly, but to her disappointment, he did not pursue it with more loverly activities.

“Rest,” he told her firmly, scooping her up from the chaise and carrying her across to the bed. He lay her down and pulled the covers up to arrange them comfortably. “I must dress and go downstairs for dinner, but I'll be back to join you soon.”

Lauryn had to admit that, in her enervated state, it was pleasant not to have to make the effort to dress and go downstairs. She still felt as if she were made of melting butter and barely able to stand. It was rare for her to be ill, but to have someone ready and willing to take over, willing to take care of her, was a heady sensation. It had been a long time since someone had been there for her—it was usually she who was tending to others.

She lay back in bed and tried to focus on the mystery of the opium smuggling. Who could have been doing it under the earl's nose and without his knowledge? It had to be someone who knew the schedule of the ships coming and going. Perhaps the earl was wrong about the ship's captain. Did the captain really not know about the opium in his cargo hold? Or was he in on the scheme after all, and had he and his fellow plotters fallen out, perhaps over the division of the profits? But—oh, it was too hard for her to think right now. Her thoughts all seemed to float away into nothingness…

Fighting the drug-induced lassitude, she shook her head, which still seemed not to function normally. Determined not to give in, she took up a book of poetry from the table beside the bed. She would read until her dinner tray came up.

Dinner was a masculine affair. The contessa asked for a
tray to be sent up to her, as well, so it was only Marcus and his half brother at the table.

“She is not yet ‘
tres belle
' enough to leave her room,” Carter reported, as he took a bite of his lamb. “Honestly, Marcus, how did you put up with this lady; she's a bit, ah—”

“Eccentric?” Marcus suggested, grinning. “Her mind is sharp, her knowledge and interests varied, and she has other charms as well.”

“I think I'll take your word for it,” his brother grumbled. He took another bite of his dinner and appeared to concentrate on his food.

Marcus looked at his sibling. “Carter.”

“Hmmm?” Mouth full, his brother seemed more interested in a plate of sweetmeats the footman held out for his inspection.

The earl waited for the footman to finish serving and then dismissed him with a nod. When they were alone, he waited a heartbeat or two, then tried again. “Carter, have you ever taken opium?”

His brother almost dropped the goblet he had raised halfway to his mouth. “What? Do you take me for a totally brainless jackanapes?”

“I think your brain is quite adequate, but that's not an answer to my question,” Marcus said quietly.

Carter had flushed, and he didn't quite meet his older sibling's eye. “I–I–I suppose you question my common sense, then, or my moral compass?”

“Carter?”

“Oh, hell's bells, Marcus.” He wiped his suddenly damp face with his linen napkin, and the words poured out. “My first season on the town, some fellows I thought were all the crack took me down to see a hideaway they said had something quite new. I didn't know what they were taking me to see!

“Turned out to be this rather dismal place, much of it underground, with fellows sleeping in camp beds and clouds of odd-smelling smoke in the air. I saw these strange pipes with clay bowls, and they told us we would try smoking opium like the sleeping chaps had done…well, I'd never heard of the stuff. They dared me to try it.”

“And you did, of course.” Marcus sighed.

“I was a green'un, don't you know,” Carter said, looking self-conscious, as if his current five and twenty years should be a mark of sterling maturity.

“And—”

“And it made my head hurt and gave me ghastly dreams, and cost me twenty quid, dreadful waste, considering it was only the middle of the quarter! I was sick as a dog the next day,” Carter told him, shaking his head at the memory. “Left me feeling off color for days, actually, if not weeks.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“And have you cut off my allowance for six months?” Carter gave a harsh laugh. “Send me to the country to twiddle my thumbs while I ‘learned my lesson thoroughly'?”

Marcus started to reply, but paused, keeping his expression mild.

Carter eyed him reproachfully, but still Marcus judged it wiser not to speak.

“It's true. You used to come down hard on me, y'know, in case you don't remember!” But Carter's repressed bitterness seemed to have ebbed a bit. “I recall, anyhow.”

“You often deserved it,” Marcus pointed out, refusing to back down too far. “I was trying to do my duty as an elder brother, since our father had passed away and you had no one else to guide you. I may have been too hard on you, Carter, but I meant it only for your good because I cared about you.”

The silence stretched a moment, and then at last Carter shrugged.

“Perhaps. I suppose I was a grimy little branchlet, at that age.”

Marcus was careful not to allow his private amusement over Carter's jaded conviction that he was so much more mature now to show.

“But the opium—did you do it again?” Marcus asked carefully.

“Do I
look
mad?”

Marcus considered him. Carter sounded sincere. And he met his brother's gaze, at least briefly, before looking back at his plate and continuing to pile in forkfuls of food. And perhaps it was true, perhaps he had matured a good deal since the naive lad who had been led guileless into the opium den. But nonetheless…

Could his brother have gotten involved, willingly or not, in smuggling opium? If someone had blackmailed him over his earlier, youthful indiscretion, threatened to tell Sutton what Carter obviously didn't want him to know?

Somewhat grimly, Marcus considered the possibilities, then put down his fork and knife. Somehow, his appetite had gone.

After dinner, they had a glass of port and then went into
the sitting room and played a few rounds of dice, for stakes Carter complained were insultingly low. But as Marcus pointed out that he didn't intend to take advantage of his own brother and he damn well didn't mean to allow his younger brother to fleece him, Carter was stuck with the penny points.

And since Carter claimed to be insulted by the low stakes, it gave Marcus a good excuse to end the game early and go up to bed, which he had intended to do all along. Lauryn, even if she did not feel inclined toward lovemaking, was still more enticing company than his half brother on his best night.

He didn't share this sentiment with Carter. Carter seemed to nose this out on his own, however.

“I suppose you just want to go upstairs and dally with your current lady of the evening,” he grumbled.

“Careful, Carter,” Marcus snapped. “Mind your manner when you speak of Mrs. Smith. She is a lady.”

“Since when did you start dallying with ladies?” Carter looked at him in surprise.

“It's a long story,” Marcus told him.

“I've got time; all I have ahead of me is a damned camp bed in the study,” his brother pointed out.

“That doesn't mean that I am ready to tell it to you,” Marcus noted. “Go read a good book; improve your mind. Your university stint did little for you. All I recall you doing is looking up all the willing barmaids in every inn near the university, before they finally tossed you out.”

Carter made a rude noise with his tongue, but Marcus ignored him and headed up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

When he reached the landing, he turned toward his own bedroom. He opened the door to the bedchamber gently and went in as quietly as he could, in case she was asleep. There were candles lit around the bed, but Lauryn lay back against the feather pillows, an open book abandoned on her chest, which rose and fell with her slow breaths. Her eyelids were closed, and her breathing even.