The Chadwick Ring Page 12

  Chadwick swooped down and caught her before her head could strike the oak planking. When he swung her into his arms and held her high against his chest, he could feel her pathetically light body twitch with exhaustion. Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder, and her bright hair tumbled down the front of his coat like military braid. His blue gaze took in Emma, whose resentment and defiance for once showed clearly on her face. His eyes swept to the doctor standing beside Bysshe, who stirred restlessly on his bed, and he addressed his friend in deep, hard tones. “Perrin, I leave the boy in your capable hands. Emma will assist you however you may wish. In the meantime I shall attend my wife.” And he carried Ginevra from the room.

  Richard Glover tugged the collar stud loose from his shirt and dropped it onto the untidy heap of coat, waistcoat, and cravat already piled on the chair next to him. He was glad he had decided to send Hobbs on to Queenshaven with the rest of his luggage, while he himself journeyed to Dowerwood with no more than a change of linen in his valise. Although it was true that he would probably have to summon his long-suffering valet in a day or two—by all indications the stay at Dowerwood would be lengthy—for the moment he was grateful not to have the man shadowing him, casting silent, reproachful glances his way each time he mussed the starched perfection of his neckcloth or creased the tail of one of his elegantly cut coats. “No man is a hero to his valet,” the Due de Conde observed once, and Chadwick’s hard mouth quirked in a wry smile as he admired once again that rare French aptitude for the epigram. To Hobbs he was certainly no hero, nor hardly a man; he was still the bewildered, resentful little boy who would hide in the cupboard in the butler’s pantry after being flogged for disobeying one of his father’s more arbitrary edicts, sniffling in the musty darkness until the then second footman would bribe him out with a piece of marchpane or a ginger comfit.

  Chadwick rarely thought of his father nowadays. He had put his memories of the stern and erratic eleventh marquess somewhere far behind him, somewhere where they could not hurt—the same place he had stowed his memories of his first wife. The two were forever intermingled in his mind. Since the age of sixteen he could not call to mind his father’s harsh admonition, “You will marry the Beecham chit, her old man’ll pay through the nose to make the little doxy a viscountess!” without also hearing his bride’s coarse, scornful laughter when, on their wedding night, before his trembling fingers could even pull her gown up over her parted thighs, his eager and untried member had spurted its seed into the virgin folds of his own nightshirt.

  He clenched his fist in exasperation. God! what had ever possessed him to remember that? And to what purpose? Rare indeed was the man who, if truth were told—as it seldom was—had not begun his own novitiate in the temple of Lord Priapus in equally inept fashion. Why should he think of it now? Why should he remember Maria?

  He knew why. The answer had been scorched into his brain ever since that instant when he flung open the door to the sickroom and found Maria’s son supine and half naked on the bed with his arms around the struggling Ginevra.

  Chadwick stood up and moved quietly to the bedside, taking care not to disturb his wife’s repose. She lay fully clothed on the bed, her slight figure unnaturally still, drugged by her exhaustion as if by opium. Thinking she would rest more comfortably if she took some nourishment first, before she dozed off completely, he had tried to feed her, but she had resisted him, and he succeeded only in spilling her soup. After that he left her alone; there would be plenty of time for her to eat when she wakened.

  When she wakened... Chadwick stared down at her, his blue eyes hotly intent as he surveyed her body outlined by the limp, soiled sarsenet of her dress. She had twisted restlessly before sinking into that profound slumber, and her dress was wrapped about her like a swaddling garment, delineating her burgeoning breasts, the sleek line of her thighs. Gently he reached down to tug her skirts out from under her, loosening the silk where it cut into her soft flesh. He brushed her burnished hair from her eyes. He had known her since she was a little girl, watched her blossom from a merely pretty child to a young woman of remarkable beauty. He had intended her for his son, would have welcomed her with all honor and respect as his daughter-in-law, but circumstance had decreed it otherwise. She was his wife now, a woman of courage and dedication and devotion, a woman in all ways but one. Like the princess of the fairy tale, she was still asleep to the promise of her own body. When he found her on the bed with Bysshe, it had been abundantly clear that she was only marginally aware of the effect she was having on the boy, that she had been stunned and dismayed by his declaration of love. She had run to the marquess as to a refuge, and even immobilized with shock he had in that moment been piqued to think that she considered him “safe,” somehow less of a threat than Bysshe. A fine blow to his pride, he thought with wry humor; a misapprehension he must clarify ere long. Chadwick’s fingers curled into the mouldering fabric of the bed curtain as he contemplated her inert form, his body already stiffening like his resolve at the thought of the moment when he would claim his young bride. Very, very soon he was going to awaken the sleeping princess.

  He heard a gentle knock at the door, and he turned just as Emma glided silently into the room. Her face had donned its imperturbable mask again. At his terse nod she curtsied and said, “My lord, I came to ask whether her ladyship needed anything.”

  Chadwick regarded her enigmatically. “I thought I instructed you to assist the doctor.”

  “Yes, my lord, and so I did. Your son is resting comfortably now, and Dr. Perrin is taking supper downstairs while a footman keeps watch over the boy. I thought you might wish to consult with the physician, and I could...”

  Chadwick noticed the way Emma’s green eyes flickered repeatedly toward the still figure on the bed. “Yes, yes, I understand,” he said abruptly, softening his tone with a smile of such charm that Emma quickly lowered her lashes. “You want to ensure that your chick has not suffered in the brutal clutches of the ravening wolf—am I not correct?” Emma would not look at him. He continued lightly, “You don’t like me very much, do you, Emma?”

  He could see the astonishment in her eyes. She lifted her chin and met his gaze squarely. “No, my lord,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I thought not, and truly I do regret your ill opinion of me. You appear to be a capable and sensible woman, and I think I would value your regard.”

  “I’m flattered, my lord.”

  He shook his dark head. “No, don’t be. I speak but the truth.” He paused before adding, “Think not that you must pretend to change your opinion of me. I do not require that you like me, only that you continue to serve your lady with all the care and affection you have bestowed on her in the past. Will you do that?”

  Emma looked again at the sleeping girl. “Of course, my lord, for as long as she needs me. I am surprised that you ask. I have loved Miss Ginevra since she was a child.”

  His fingers tightened on the folds of the draperies. Slubs of faded wool broke off in his hand. He concentrated on those shredded threads as he murmured, “Yes, haven’t we all?” After a pause he gestured to the half-eaten supper tray on the table. “I was able to make her swallow a few spoonfuls of Mrs. Harrison’s sustaining broth, but in the process her dress was irrevocably stained. I would have changed her garments myself, but I could not find a nightgown for her. The dressing room appears to be in disuse.”

  Emma nodded uneasily. “The staff her ladyship summoned from Queenshaven were only able to make a start at restoring the house to some semblance of order, and Miss Ginevra told them not to worry with the dressing room now. However, behind that screen there you will find a linen press, if you...” She hesitated for the first time.

  Chadwick suggested gently, “Why don’t you attend to her needs, Emma?. I am not the most adequate of ladies’ maids, and I am sure you could make her comfortable far more efficiently than I. While you do that, I shall consult with Dr. Perrin about Bysshe’s condition.”

  “Yes, my lor
d.” She kept her eyes respectfully downcast as he donned his waistcoat and pulled his jacket over his broad shoulders. He picked up the flaccid cravat and let it drop to the chair again. He made as if to stride from the room, but Emma halted him. “My lord, if I may trouble you about one last detail?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  She said, “Because of the limited time, only two bedrooms have yet been made habitable abovestairs: this one, and the once across the hall where Lord Bysshe is. That Frenchman—that is, the physician you brought—has already requested that the maids prepare for him the room adjoining his lordship’s, so that he will always be within easy call, should his patient require him.” Her mouth hardened, and Chadwick gathered that she considered the doctor’s request presumptuous. She continued, “However, that room is the master bedroom, the one used by Sir Charles Bryant whenever he was here at Dowerwood, and by rights it should go now to you. I must know, sir, may we give that room to Dr. Perrin as he wishes, or will you be wanting it for yourself? If you do not want it, then which room should we prepare for you?”

  Chadwick looked down at her. The time had come to make his position clear, not only to his wife and Bysshe but also to the remainder of the household. Slowly his mouth widened into a lazy and disturbing smile. “By all means, give Perrin the master suite,” he said. “I want him to have everything he needs. As for me, trouble yourself no further. I shall be sleeping here.”

  The maid was just bearing away the tablecloth, leaving the doctor to his port, a dish of cracked walnuts before him, when the marquess strode into the dingy dining room. He pulled back a chair from the table and flung himself into it. “Well, Perrin?” he demanded harshly.

  Perrin bowed his head in mock deference. “Well, my lord?” he echoed.

  Chadwick pulled up short at the undertone in the man’s voice, and he grinned with self-deprecating humor as he realized how he had sounded. “Forgive me, my friend,” he said contritely. “I did not mean to sound bumptious. Tell me, do you have everything you require for your comfort? How was your meal?”

  “Everything is acceptable,” the doctor said.

  The marquess nodded as he plucked a walnut from the bowl. “How discreet you are! Acceptable ... but not really good. I’m sorry, but you must appreciate that the facilities here at Dowerwood are limited at present.”

  Perrin let his eyes roam over the peeling, mildewed wallpaper, the sun-faded draperies that looked as if they would fall apart at a breath. Even the flattering glow of soft candlelight could not disguise the decay eating away at the house. He observed, “Indeed the house is unique.” Chadwick reached for the decanter and splashed some sweet wine into a glass.

  “ ‘Unique’ is hardly the word,” he said acidly. “The place is a mouldering ruin. It has been neglected for years, and I am not sure that it can be restored now. I suspect it is riddled with everything from dry rot to water rats. Of course I dare not tell Ginevra that, not yet at any rate. She loves this old house, even in its present state. I intend to have an architect look over the premises with an eye to their restoration, and woe betide him if he informs her that the building should be razed.”

  Perrin pursed his lips sententiously. “I can sympathize with that,” he said. “Did you not tell me your wife lived here as a child? One becomes unreasonably attached to self the setting of one’s earliest memories. It is a common weakness. I know I returned to Beauclair more than once, even though once the mob had finished, there was nothing left of it but the chimneys and the foundation.” He paused, and his grey eyes darkened. “I went back one last time, just before I agreed to accompany your dear mother, Madame la Comtesse, on her journey to London. I discovered even the chimneys gone. An haut bourgeois silk merchant had built a very large, very vulgar new house over the old foundations. When I saw that, I knew at last that there was nothing left in France for me.”

  After a moment Chadwick asked, “How fares young Bysshe? Will we soon be able to remove him to Queenshaven?”

  Perrin spread his fingers wide in a gesture of indecision. “Only time will tell. For the moment I think it would be advisable to leave him where he is. He is reasonably comfortable, even if the rest of the household is not. He recovers rapidly from the fever. As for his hearing...”

  “Yes, the ear infection. What about it? Ginevra was very worried. Do you think there is a possibility of permanent damage?”

  “There is always a possibility,” Perrin said darkly. “Such complications are common after la scarlatine, but equally commonly they clear up with no lasting effect. The lad is of a strong constitution, and your wife has tended him with great care. I have lanced the eardrum to relieve pressure and reduce his pain, and if it heals without further suppuration, then probably all will be well.”

  “Thank God!” Chadwick swirled his port, noting the fruity bouquet and the way the syrupy liquid clung to the sides of the glass. After a moment he murmured, “I should have been here. I never should have left her to cope with all this.”

  The doctor popped a walnut meat into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “I believe others are of the same opinion,” he said mildly. “The pretty but forbidding lady’s maid, par exemple. Mademoiselle ... Jarvis—that is her surname, nest-ce pas?”

  Chadwick’s brows came together, as if the question puzzled him. “Her name? I really don’t know. Ginevra always calls her Emma, and I never thought to inquire further.” He glanced at the other man. “You’re interested in her?”

  Perrin shrugged meaningfully. “Peut-etre. You must admit, she is tres jolie, tres ... plantureuse.”

  “Buxom? I suppose she is,” Chadwick said, looking surprised. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Why should you notice the maid? You have just acquired a beautiful new bride to keep your eyes occupied.”

  “Why indeed?” A fleeting vision of Amalie passed through the marquess’s mind, and he rigorously repressed it. He regarded his friend seriously. “Perrin, if you are serving notice that you wish to pursue the wench, you certainly needn’t ask my permission. However, I would advise you that Emma is very important to Ginevra, and I should not care to see her hurt in any way.”

  The doctor nodded. “Je vous ecoute, mon ami.” He smiled sardonically. “You need not worry. I do not think the lady likes me very much.”

  “I don’t think Emma has a very high opinion of any man,” Chadwick retorted dryly.

  “Quel gaspillage! What a waste!” Perrin sighed as he reached once again for the decanter. For a few moments he concentrated on his wine and the nuts; then he piled the shells into a little mound on his napkin. Looking up, he glanced around the decrepit room and observed airily, “You are ever an original, Chadwick. Dowerwood is certainly a most remarkable spot in which to spend a honeymoon. Formidable!”

  The marquess stared at him. “By God, man, I didn’t bring Ginevra here. I took her to Queenshaven, of course, which may be grim, but at least it isn’t falling down about our ears. She made her own way to this aging relic after I ... after I ...” He hesitated, uncharacteristically embarrassed by his own behavior. Considered under the wise and watchful eye of his friend, that headlong flight to London suddenly struck him as incredibly puerile.

  The doctor reproved sternly, “Glover, la petite marquise is very young.”

  “Yes, dammit, I know!” Chadwick gulped down his port, then grimaced at the cloying sweetness. He preferred claret after meals. He pushed the empty glass to one side and wound his long fingers together. When he spoke, he bit off his words savagely. “Don’t you think I am acutely aware that I am nearly twice Ginevra’s age? Don’t you think I realize I ought to have paired her off, not with me but with that boy she nursed so tenderly?”

  “Then why didn’t you?” Perrin asked reasonably. “For that matter, why don’t you now? I believe I am not incorrect in my assessment that it is not yet too late for an annulment. With your wealth and position, the matter could be handled discreetly, I am sure...”

  Chadwick’s blue eyes narrow
ed fiercely, and he brought his fist down on the scarred tabletop so hard that the glass stopper rattled in the decanter. “Never!” he shouted.

  The physician regarded him enigmatically. “You needn’t rage at me mon gars, I merely made a suggestion. But I admit I am curious why, if you are so sensitive to the difference in your ages, you did not marry her to your son.”

  Lines of strain appeared around Chadwick’s hard mouth as he said tightly, “Bysshe is far too young, barely sixteen. Hardly an age to take a wife, as I well know.”

  “The boy might dispute that. While I was treating him, he called her name repeatedly.” Perrin rubbed his big nose thoughtfully as he studied the man sitting opposite him. “I think, Glover,” he ventured, “that you have a very ... delicate situation here. ’Tis said my late king delayed some seven years before consummating his marriage to Marie Antoinette, which sorry fact no doubt contributed to that good lady’s peccadilloes. Louis’s problem was physical—a slight defect that would never have troubled him had he been Jewish—and a surgeon’s knife ultimately corrected it. I trust you suffer from no such handicap?” Chadwick’s dark brows lifted. Perrin continued, “Then, mon ami, it might be prudent of you to—as they say—stake your claim at the earliest opportunity.”

  “I ... intend to.”

  The doctor frowned. “I denote a certain hesitation in your voice. May I inquire its cause?”

  The marquess felt himself blushing, something he was sure he had not done since childhood. After a moment he rasped, “Damnation, Perrin, the girl is terrified of me! I ... I frightened her on our wedding night.”

  The silence in the room was emphasized by the erratic whirring of the pendulum clock someone had tried to restart. Rust had corroded the teeth of one of the gears, and the hands moved fitfully or not at all. Perversely the chimes struck seven at the quarter and half hour, and were mute on the hour. At last the doctor said, “You frightened the little one? I am surprised. You are not usually so clumsy.”