Captive Scoundrel Page 2

  How Vincent loved to hear, “your grace,” in reference to himself, and about time. Vincent had waited his whole life for this, and he deserved it. It had been difficult to have his brother declared incompetent—Justin’s tenants needing care having won it. A new dilemma, however, sat across from him. The dratted nurse. Her abilities in the sickroom were damned near legendary, which was why he could not say no to hiring her. Well if she was so dedicated, dosing Justin would be primary, which he could applaud. It still infuriated him the way Justin’s Scoundrel friends—school friends, of all things—had other influential big-wigs stipulate that someone be appointed to Justin’s care.

  But alas, Faith Wickham could be his answer.

  He smiled. “The most important task you will execute…” He coughed, cleared his throat. “Your foremost task is to care for my brother. He had a carriage accident you know; went over a cliff. Catherine, his wife, died. My brother suffered untold damage. Brain fever. Irreversible.” He shook his head. “Can’t walk or speak. Lies there like a babe.” His voice quivered. “We must put food to his mouth, drink to his lips.”

  Closing his eyes, Vincent touched his brow before allowing himself to continue. “A medicine has been formulated for him. No cost has been spared. It is crucial to his welfare. Miss Wickham, do you attend me? Ah yes, I see that you do. The medicine is to be given without fail each morning and evening at eight. Eight precisely. Should you stray from this for even a few minutes, he could die. It is imperative that you follow this routine for the handsome wages I will pay you. My brother’s life is in your hands. I do not need to tell you how much that means to me, Miss Wickham.”

  “Am I to understand your brother could die at any moment?”

  “I didn’t say that. Did I say that? Listen carefully now. If given his medicine in the proper dose at the proper times, he may live for years. But he will surely die if you neglect it for even a short time. Obviously, the doctors could not say how long it would take, and we wouldn’t want to find out, would we?”

  “Certainly not.” She seemed to compose herself. “You previously mentioned a little one?”

  “Justin’s daughter, Beth. You will see to her as well. You will be caring in my stead for my family, as I shall be away.”

  “How did your brother survive such an accident?”

  Vincent looked down to see ink covering his hand. He took a calming breath. “Justin and his wife were thrown from the carriage. Catherine tumbled to the sea below, but Justin landed in an outcropping of bushes.” Vincent stared at his hand, detesting the need to recant something so painful. Again.

  “Thank God.”

  He swiped, uselessly, at the ink on his palm. “What?”

  “Thank God he was saved.”

  “He was not saved, Miss Wickham!”

  Her chin came up. “I see.”

  Leave it to Justin to have a champion, even now. “You don’t understand. My heart aches to see my brother suffering so.”

  She nodded. Her eyes glistened. “It does hurt to see someone you love suffer, and no matter how very much you try, you cannot…” She drew a ragged breath. “You just cannot….”

  Vincent experienced an alien stirring, but he shook it off. Deuced uncomfortable. “If you’re finished quizzing me….”

  The nurse looked up in surprise, ire replacing sorrow. Good.

  “My niece has a nursemaid…Sally, I think. You will oversee her work with the child. My brother’s man, Harris, will see to his personal needs. The servants will answer directly to you.” He rose to pace. “Even the housekeeper, Mrs. Tucker, will defer to your judgment concerning the running of the house.”

  “But certainly, it is the housekeeper, not the nurse—”

  “It is my wish, Miss Wickham,” he shouted. “That you bear the responsibility for everything happening in this house. You will answer for every person’s actions.” He narrowed his eyes. “Every person’s errors. This will be done as I wish.” He braced his hands on the desk. “If you are not in agreement, you may pack your bags, and your family may forfeit your wages.”

  The mantle-clock struck the hour.

  “It will be as you wish, your grace.”

  Those had not been the words behind her tight lips. Vincent was gratified she understood. He sat. “Hemsted, my man of affairs, will give you an allowance for household needs. He will be here often; he runs my estates. I leave tomorrow for France. I will return from time to time, though I cannot say when, nor if it will happen with regularity. If you wish to contact me, you may do so through him. If you have no further questions….”

  She stood, her beautiful self ramrod-straight, and Vincent smiled inwardly. “Your wages will be sent to your family as Vicar Kendrick requested. The dressmaker will be here this afternoon to measure you. No cost will be spared.”

  “The dressmaker? But I need no clothes—”

  “Yet you will accept them. We must not have anyone thinking I am clutch-fisted or would employ an unworthy to care for—”

  “But, I assure you—”

  “Miss Wickham!” He walked around her and hovered close enough to smell springtime. “If you do not do as you are told, on your first day, concerning such a simple matter, then I have made an error in hiring you.” Silence. At last. “I trust we understand each other?”

  Hands fisted tightly, the beauty nodded. “I will endeavour to do my best for those in my care.”

  Vincent chose a new pen. “See that you do.”

  When the door closed behind her, Faith knew if she were to respond to the turmoil inside, she would run and never look back.

  New clothes? Oh foolish squandering of money—money better spent in Justin’s room or the hall. But she must do her employer’s bidding; too many depended on her.

  With dirt-water gray eyes and thin blond hair, Vincent had nothing of the look of his brother. Justin Devereux, near death, looked more imposing than Vincent in his prime. And he hadn’t convinced Faith that he cared a jot about his sick brother. His words were correct, but his manner. She shivered. Yes, he faced a difficult situation, yet there was something she could not like about him.

  A few minutes later, anxious to meet her young charge, Faith approached the second room connecting hers, that door opposite Justin’s. Also dismal, Beth’s chamber was as much in contrast to Faith’s beautiful room as her father’s. And the child…a tiny, hollow-cheeked toddler with a crown of burnished ringlets, her striking blue eyes filled with fear. When Faith tried to embrace her, the child became frantic, so Faith let her go, and the child ran to hide in the corner.

  Faith regarded the nursemaid. “What is wrong with her?”

  “She’s afraid of everyone. I don’t know what to do, Miss.”

  “We need to teach her to trust, Sally. Tell her stories so she will know your voice.” Faith opened the curtains and Beth whimpered and turned away. “Above all, be patient.” Faith examined the grim room. “I’ll find her something to play with.”

  Faith endured her fittings; losing her position was not a risk she could take. She chose a few warm things, for it was brisk by the sea, and happily departed.

  That evening, Faith found dining with the duke both silent and tense.

  She poked at her turbot. “When will I meet your brother?”

  “You cannot meet someone who is unconscious. You may begin his care tomorrow. Harris is expecting you at precisely eight.”

  “What is this medicine I am to give him?”

  Her employer choked on his pudding and held a napkin to his mouth until his throat cleared. “What do you mean?”

  “What manner of medicine is he being given?”

  “Ah.” The duke indicated a need to have his wine glass refilled. He sipped it. “The medicine. Yes. The doctor had it specially mixed for Justin, as I believe I told you.”

  “How long have you been giving it to him?”

  “Since the accident.”

  Faith stopped pretending to eat. “If he hasn’t progressed in weeks
, I don’t see how you can believe the medicine will help.”

  The duke’s wineglass snapped in his hand. Glass shards sprinkled his plate and the goblet’s bowl bounced thrice at the foot of an unblinking servant. “Blast, can we talk of nothing else?” He signalled for another glass and more wine.

  Tense, Faith feared she would snap, if she didn’t speak. “Beth’s eyes are extraordinary. Whom does she favour?”

  Her host almost smiled. “Beth is a fetching thing. I rather think she looks like herself. My brother’s eyes are nearly black. Our nurse used to call them demon’s eyes. Be glad you shall never be pierced with the likes of his stare.” He placed his hand on hers. “Tell me about yourself.”

  Faith surprised them both by standing. “If you will excuse me, your grace, I am fatigued.”

  “A toast first,” he said. “To success.”

  A short while later, Faith calmed as she rocked Beth, who’d sighed in her sleep as they began. Odd this: Awake, Beth fears. Asleep, she trusts. She must have been secure and happy once.

  Caring for Beth, teaching her to smile, to trust, became an unexpected but welcome challenge.

  Lord, and didn’t she have her work cut out for her?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Faith’s excitement grew from the moment she heard carriage wheels on gravel. She opened her curtains to watch the crested bottle-green coach amble down the drive. If only in her heart, dawn brightened. Vincent Devereux, on his way to France.

  Not fifteen minutes later, down the hall she went, afraid no longer, for what could frighten her now?

  In Justin’s dismal room, Faith went to the window to gaze at Morecambe Bay, the Irish Sea beyond. Releasing the stiff latch, she pushed the casement out and breathed the salt-sharp air.

  As she turned, the rogue in the second portrait called to her. A handsome fellow, she thought, wondering who he was. The babe he held must belong to him, his smile having too much fatherly pride for it not to be so.

  She approached her patient. More dead than alive—an apt description. His cheek, fragile and transparent as rice paper, felt cool and waxen to her touch. His skeletal features, sunken cheeks, and skin stretched taut over bones, would make her think him dead, if not for the rise and fall of his chest.

  His hand, double the size of hers, had calluses from some long-ago tasks. Here was a man unafraid of hard work. She admired that and suspected he and his brother differed in this way also.

  His hair, black, with gray at the temples, badly wanted trimming. She swept it from his brow, letting her hand linger for a moment, then she combed though the thick main, top and sides, until her fingers rested behind his ear, and he sighed.

  Prickles assailing her, Faith snatched her hand away. Then she realized his sigh might have been a shiver, so she shut the window and stirred the embers in the fireplace.

  Chafing her patient’s hands, she encountered his ring. Big for the finger it encircled, someone padded it to keep it from falling off. The smooth emerald stone boasted a miniature crest formed by a thread of liquid gold. She ran her finger over the raised design and recognized it as the coat of arms on the coach door. Then it occurred to her. Who else’s portrait would hold pride of place beside Catherine’s, but her husband’s? Examining Justin’s face, it did not seem possible, and yet….

  As she suspected, the man in the portrait above wore the same ring. There on canvas, in his full, arrogant glory, hair black as the devil’s heart, stood the Justin Devereux who used to be. Here on the bed before her, scarred and fading, lay the Justin Devereux of today. The gilded frame had been engraved 1823—two years before—yet her patient looked as if he’d aged twenty.

  Faith smoothed his brow and fingered the scar at its edge. “You’re strong, Harris said. That’s a start. My name is Faith, Justin, and I plan to help you recover.”

  When the fire blazed, Faith reopened the casement and strode the row of sea-gazing windows opening curtains. Swatting at dust motes, she sneezed and turned back to the bed. To her surprise, her patient had raised an arm to shield his closed eyes.

  Light pierced him.

  Hell was not flaming light, but icy darkness. Yet light invaded. Justin contemplated the walls of his tomb. The huge black slabs, thousands of miles high, not so much as a name or date carved in their slick unblemished surfaces, stood straight and tall. Inviolable as ever.

  Were it conceivable to scale such smooth, upright surfaces, Justin knew he could never do so. He was too weak. Too dead.

  To Faith’s shock, her patient trembled and released a sob.

  She stroked his brow. “You have nothing to fear. Do you mind if I call you Justin? Mama would scold, but I won’t tell, if you don’t.” She removed his arm from his eyes and placed it beside him. When she let go his hand, he re-sought hers as if he’d lost something precious. His breathing became laboured.

  The scent of violets and the touch of silk in the blackness of hell. A hand offered in solace. Where are you?

  For the love of God, help me. I beg for life. Not death.

  Faith’s patient grasped her trembling fingers. When he calmed, so did her heart. Releasing her breath, she examined his square jaw, aquiline nose and arched brows. “I’ll wager you’ve broken a score of hearts.” Crinkle lines radiated from the corners of his eyes. Once upon a time the hawkish-featured Justin Devereux had smiled, and smiled often.

  Now the plea in his frenzied grasp alarmed Faith. Despite the warming room, ice needles shot through her. She yearned to run…yet there was no place she would rather be.

  Disconcerted, she shook herself. Her patient needed her and he would need his medicine soon. Again she tried to take her hand from his, but he held tight. In panic, she tugged it free.

  A wicked trick, Satan. No hope. No life. Just death. Death is forever.

  Faith watched a tear trickle down Justin’s cheek and she swallowed the stone in her throat. “Neither alive nor dead,” now rang false. Justin Devereux was more alive than anyone imagined.

  Then Faith’s knees went weak as she looked into those unseeing black orbs. “Justin.” Hope died. His stare was blank. He could neither see nor hear her. His hand, which had moved with need a moment before, stilled. He closed his eyes.

  How long had he appeared…alive? A minute? Five?

  Faith checked the mantle clock. The time! She ran to the bell-pull and tugged three quick times. She hugged herself as she stared at the door, willing it to open. And when it crashed against the wall, she jumped. “Thank God. Hurry.”

  White-faced, Harris lifted Justin to a sitting position, put an amber vial to his lips and poured the contents into him.

  Justin swallowed, for it was swallow or be drowned. A reflex intact that Faith saw as a good sign. She released her breath. “When I saw the time…I was told if he didn’t take it by—”

  “I know, I know. That damnable dog came tearin’ at me. Knocked the tray from my hands, broke the vial. Had to fetch another.” Harris’s hands shook as he replaced the stopper.

  “I hope he suffers no ill effects,” Faith said.

  “He’s taken it late a time or two. Gets skittish. In pain. Sicker, you understand, until he gets it.”

  Faith’s question was answered. Justin had responded before. She looked about, hope dimming. “Why has his room been neglected?”

  “They’re afraid of him below stairs.” Harris shook his head in sorrow. “They act as if he’s a ghost…of his old self, more like. But they haven’t been made to come and clean. And his high’n’mighty don’t so much as set a polished boot in here.”

  “What about Mrs. Tucker?”

  “Can’t bring herself to come, because it grieves her to see him. The maids won’t do it on their own, blast them.” He flushed. “Pardon, Miss.”

  “Harris, when we’re alone, instead of minding your speech, just speak your mind. I’ll see that someone comes to clean. Now I need to know everything about our patient’s care.”

  Harris’s embarrassment turned to doubt.
<
br />   “I won’t fail him, Harris.”

  The retainer grunted, an acknowledgment of sorts, Faith guessed. “If you please, I would like to know your routine.”

  He gave a half-nod. “After his medicine, I bathe and shave him then give him his milk for breakfast. I feed him three times between and again at eight when I give him his evening dose.”

  “Fine, I’ll let you finish.” She turned away, then back. “Have the door that leads to my room unlocked. Today, please.”

  Faith went back to see Beth. When she entered, Beth began to cry, until Faith took a gingerbread man from her pocket, stopping her mid-sob. A lone tear on the brink of falling, Beth popped a finger in her mouth, but she didn’t take the offered treat.