Enticing the Earl (24 page)

To his annoyance, the footman clad in highly trimmed purple livery who answered the door announced that his master was at his club and he “couldn't say” when he would return. He seemed about to shut the door in Marcus's face.

Annoyed—he could remember when Tweed had lived in rooms above a second-rate tavern—Marcus put up one hand to stop him. “You may tell him that the Earl of Sutton called,” he said distinctly. “I need to talk to him, and he will wish to see me.”

The footman had the grace to look abashed. “Oh, beg pardon, your lordship. I will tell him that you called. Do you wish to leave a card?” He stepped back to obtain a silver tray to hold out to receive the card that Marcus gave him, as he should have done in the first place.

Tweed needed to see to better training for his servants, not just fancy liveries, Marcus thought as he turned on his heel. He glanced up at the near obscured sun and shook his head. This was a waste of time. He knew Tweed's clubs; he could go by White's and see if he could catch him there.

But when he walked into the men's club and sent a servant there to see if the viscount was in attendance, he sat down long enough to accept a glass of wine and to remember that he himself had sponsored the man. He'd been a likeable if somewhat rough about the edges youth, and Marcus had tried to help him along. Tweed had been ecstatic to be voted a member.

He'd come a long way from the young man who'd started out with risky shares in a trading ship or two, scrabbling hard to make his fortune. When he'd inherited the title unexpectedly from an uncle, when two cousins as well as their father had died during an influenza epidemic on the Border, his life had changed a great deal. Now here he was wooing a young lady just out, and he seemed to be on the verge of a comfortable and settled existence.

The footman interrupted this reverie to report that the viscount had just departed.

“Dammit,” Marcus muttered. He seemed to be one step behind Tweed everywhere in London. He sent the footman to hail yet another cab, and when eventually one was obtained, put down his glass and set out once more.

It was back to the viscount's house, hoping that this was where he had returned. This time Marcus greeted the same footman, who at least was more courteous, but again, the news was not good.

“I'm sorry, your lordship. He has departed the city.”

“What?” Marcus stared at the man in disbelief. “Did you give him my card?”

“Yes, my lord. I did.”

“Didn't you tell him I was here, in London, and I wanted to see him?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Why didn't he wait?”

“I do not know, my lord. He said he must go at once.”

Marcus almost demanded to be allowed inside to inspect the house himself. He could hardly believe that Tweed had packed and departed in such a short time, and why, for the love of all that was holy?

How had he not understood that Marcus was here, now?

And then, to top everything, the heavens opened, and rain fell in heavy sheets—well, he hoped that Tweed had a sodden and miserable ride, Marcus thought, still angry.

He turned and stepped back into his hackney and directed it to his own address, where he dashed inside. As much as he wanted to set out himself, it would be utter folly. The rain fell so heavily that it was hard to see. Thunder rumbled outside, and thick gray clouds obscured the sun. The roads would be thick with mud by nightfall.

He gritted his teeth. Lauryn was there, and he wished to see her with his own eyes, be sure that she was continuing to mend. He wanted to hold her, feel her warmth and her sweetness. But as dearly as he wanted to depart, he would have to wait.

If he were a superstitious man, Marcus would have said that someone had set a gypsy's curse against him, as one of his old nannies had used to fear. It rained heavily for the next three days. By the time the rain let up, his self-control was showing signs of serious strain.

Even then, he debated over whether to take one of his carriages—he might need it if the rains returned. On the other hand, a horse might get through muddy roads where a carriage's wheels would be mired. He decided to take the horse, even if he could face the danger of being drenched to the skin if the rain deepened again.

So, with only a change of clothes and a few necessities in the bags behind his saddle, Marcus set out again to ride north.

The roads were still in wretched condition; the water had had little time to drain off, and the mud was still deep. He had to go slowly, allowing his horse to pick its way through much of the sticky mess.

Worse, when he was barely a third of the way into his journey, he was met with bad news. The river Ouse was out of its banks, and the bridge and roadway flooded. There was no way across.

Swearing, he knew there was no answer but to retrace his steps. He turned his tired horse and started back the way he had come, trailed by two other riders and a mud-stained gig with a father and his young son, and a farmer with a cart full of turnips.

But they had all trudged little more than a mile before an even sadder sight presented itself. A carriage had slipped into the ditch at the side of the road. The horses were still struggling in the traces, neighing and snorting in a panic, and he could hear shrieks of dismay from inside the vehicle, as well.

Sighing, Marcus knew he had no choice but to stop and do what he could to help. He pulled his gelding to a stop and slid off the animal's back, tying him to a nearby tree.

Where was the coachman?

“Ach,” one of the other horsemen shook his head. “Poor man. He got caught under the team when they fell, I would say.” He motioned to a figure lying very still at the side of the ditch. Marcus grimaced. He went down to check, just in case, but found there was nothing they could do, so he pulled the long cape out from beneath the quiet form and spread it over the body to cover him decently. Next, he went quickly to the carriage and looked inside.

He saw a woman with a trickle of blood on her cheek, and two children, who huddled against her. The boy was very pale, and his leg seemed to be bent at an odd angle.

“Are you hurt?” Marcus called.

“Mostly cuts and bruises, except for my son. I fear his leg may be broken,” the woman said. She sounded tremulous.

“Try to hold him steady; we must see to the horses first, or they may overturn the carriage,” he called to her.

Then Marcus went back to the front, where the farmer from the cart was already trying to catch the near horse's head, but the beast was frightened and hard to control.

“They're in a panic,” Marcus said quietly. “Do you have any cloth with you, that we can tie over their eyes?”

“Aye, I've some empty feed sacks,” the man said. He went back to his wagon and returned in a few minutes with coarse bags, which Marcus ripped into strips. Of course, he still had to catch the animal's head and hold it still.

Marcus came up from behind the near horse, while the farmer took the animal on the other side. “Here now,” Marcus spoke quietly to the horse, who danced within his tangled leads, whinnying with fear. The animal had a gash on his right rear hind leg, but didn't seem to be badly injured. “Here now, it will be all right.”

The horse half reared once more, then shook its head and seemed to listen to the calm tone of his voice. With a smooth motion, he slipped the band around its nose and up over its eyes. Unable to see, the horse stood suddenly still. Marcus rubbed its head and neck for another minute, speaking quietly, then he leaned over and, with the knife he'd borrowed from the farmer, cut the tangled leads where they threatened to trip up its legs, so that they could lead the horse away presently.

On the other side, the farmer had settled the other rear horse in a similar fashion.

Of the two horses in the lead, one was on its side, too badly injured to be able to get to its feet. One of the other men, who said he was a courier, had a pistol with him; when the third horse had been separated from its mate and led away along with the other two, he brought his gun and put the poor beast out of its misery.

The gun blast sounded loud in the quiet countryside. Marcus walked back to reassure the people still waiting inside the carriage.

“Is it one of the team?” the lady inside asked.

He nodded. “The right front lead. It was too badly injured to save,” he told her.

She nodded. “And my coachman?”

He shook his head, and she paled. “Let's see about getting you out.”

“My son, first,” she told him.

With help from one of the other men, they propped the carriage door open and reached in to lift the boy out as gently as they could. The lad gasped when they jarred his wounded limb, and before they were able to set him down on the muddy ground, he had gone so white Marcus thought he might pass out.

The little girl came next, and then, with their assistance, the woman climbed out. She hastened to see about her son. “I need to get him to a surgeon,” she said, observing his wan face with a worried appearance of her own.

“If I may,” Marcus told her. “I think we should set his leg and make a splint to support it before he is bounced about any further. Otherwise, the journey will only cause more damage to his injury.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Do you have any experience?” she asked, twisting her bloodstained handkerchief, which she had been using to wipe her children's cuts, nervously between her hands.

“I have set my servants' limbs, and those of my troop, when I served in the army,” he told her.

He knelt down beside the child, who clutched his mother's arm when she hurried to him, the little girl on her other side. Marcus took out his penknife and ripped the cloth of the boy's trousers so he could check the wound as gently as he could, although the child still shivered. Marcus was relieved to see that it appeared to be a clean break.

He sent one of the others to find two straight tree limbs; when the man returned with cut saplings of suitable length, the farmer stripped the bark off with a small hatchet from his wagon.

Marcus turned back to the youngster. “All right now. What's your name, my lad?”

The boy looked at him with some misgivings. “Richard.”

“This is going to hurt, Richard, but I need you to be brave. We want your leg to grow straight when the bone heals itself, do we not? So you will be able to walk again and not limp forever?”

“Yes!” said, the lad who looked about six years old. “I don't want to be a bent over cripple. I will be brave.”

“It will be one bad pain, and we will not mind if you wish to yell,” Marcus told him. “Sometimes men even need to cry; it is no disgrace.”

“I will not cry!” Richard said, his tone stubborn.

The child blinked hard as Marcus took hold of his leg, and when he pulled hard on the bone, the boy grunted more than yelled. He had gone very pale, and then he had to wipe his eyes, but he said at once, “I didn't cry!”

“Of course you didn't,” Marcus agreed. “You were very brave, indeed.”

“Indeed,” Richard's mother told him, blinking hard herself and touching his cheek, while his younger sister looked on in awe.

Meanwhile Marcus worked rapidly to tie the pieces of wood on each side of the leg, to keep the bone from slipping out of place again.

He conferred with the other travelers. The gig was very short on space, but the wagon had no springs. In the end, they decided that putting the mother and boy in the gig was perhaps the best bet.

“How far do you need to travel back to your home?” Marcus asked Richard's mother.

“I have a sister whose house is outside the next village,” she told them. “I can stop there; she can get word to my husband, who will see about the carriage and”—she gestured toward the silent body beside the road—“our poor servant.”

One of her horses was tame enough to allow the gig's owner and his son and her daughter to ride astride and follow behind the gig so he could reclaim his vehicle when they were safely delivered to her sister's house.

After she had thanked them all profusely, Marcus saw them off. Then he and the rest of the travelers continued on their way, as he circumvented the flooded out highway and continued on his own journey.

By now, however, he had lost so much daylight, he knew he would have to spend the night at the next village, along with many of the other travelers. And when he and several others arrived, the only inn was sold out of beds. There was no hope of a private room as the inn was so crowded, but Marcus thought it just as well. Looking at the state of the tavern, he thought that he'd likely have left with a good selection of bedbugs.

He was able to buy an ale and a dish of stew for himself, but the public room was heavy with smoke, full of the scent of unwashed bodies and the bedlam of many voices talking, snatches of an argument here and a drunken song there.

When he finished his meal, Marcus went out to the stable to see to his horse, not trusting the local ostler. When he finished, he wrapped his cloak around him and sat down, leaning against a bale of reasonably clean straw, and shut his eyes. At least the stable was fairly quiet, as opposed to the taproom.