Page 42 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
“Him, my lord. Not you.”
On shaky legs, Lando ventured closer as Jasper vacated the chair, gesturing for the earl to sit whilst he stood almost to attention beside him. Together, they gazed down at Kit’s waxy face.
“Is he…what did…”
Nausea swirled in his belly as Lando scrabbled to formulate the words. Kit’s lips were parted and his eyes closed, the thin lids covering them so fragile-looking they were almost blue. Tufts of thick hair poked out from a clean bandage circling his head. An angry bruise blossoming on his right cheek provided a grim splash of colour.
“He’s woken a couple of times,” Jasper added. “Once, when the physician stuck a great pin in his foot. And once, when he wafted a candle over his face and peeled his eyes open. Unconscious again now though. But his pulse is good and strong.”
Not caring that Jasper was there, Lando took one of Kit’s cool hands in his.
“He’s got cuts and bruises in tender places, and he’s done a few ribs, I reckon. Nothing time won’t fix. He’ll have a sore head when he wakes though. That took the brunt of it.”
Lando swallowed, his mouth dry. “What…what happened?”
“Silly sod went back to Sindell Street, didn’t he? Nearly lost him ’cos he ducked down the back way so as not to be seen. Trouble is, that Bow Street runner who’s after him had that beggar I told you about keeping a weather eye. By the time your man here came out, a ’scallion and his two chums were waiting to bash him. Poor bugger didn’t stand a chance. Two of ’em roughed him up while another went to fetch the boss. He’d have been right pissed off when he got there and found out I swiped him. Mind you, one of ’em got me right square in the ballocks. If you’ll pardon my French, my lord.”
Lando wasn’t entirely certain which part of his language Jasper was apologising for. None of it was fit for his employer’s ears, but he really didn’t care. Not only had the former soldier saved Kit’s life, but he was also completely overlooking the fact that Lando was clutching Kit’s hand as if he’d never dare let go.
“I’m forever indebted to you, Jasper,” he said. “You may go and rest. Tend to your own injuries. And I would be grateful if you would instruct Hargreaves to prepare for the arrival of my brother. I expect he will be with us tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord.” Jasper pointed to a glass bottle and wrinkled his nose. “There’s laudanum there for if he wakes and is restless, on the instruction of the physician. Don’t truck with it myself. I’ve seen too many men lose themselves to it. Brandy’s better. But I daresay a few drops won’t hurt.”
For a long while after Jasper left, Lando sat unmoving, never taking his eyes from the heavily sleeping man. Only time would tell if there was lasting damage, for all of Jasper’s bravado.
Twice, Pritchard came in with attempts to coax him away, offering one of the footmen to take his place so he could eat and rest, and twice, Lando refused. On the third occasion, Pritchard brought Jasper back with him in the company of two housemaids.
“My lord,” Pritchard said. “Your vigil is a credit to your fortitude, no doubt honed from hours of the vicar of Rossingley’s dreary sermonizing with your derriere perched on six inches of hard wood. And not of the pleasurable variety. But you are no nursemaid, and I would not be your loyal valet if I didn’t point out that the time has come to extract you from your crumpled travelling attire.”
Pritchard extended a finger towards his companions. “Gertie and Emily will wash Mr Angel and change his bedding with Jasper’s assistance, and you, my lord, will accompany me to your own chamber and will eat, rest, and bathe.”
“I am not hungry. Nor am I weary.” Neither did Lando feel in need of bathing, but there were serving girls present.
“But you are stubborn, my lord,” Pritchard countered. “And your stubbornness is overriding your intelligence. When Mr Angel awakes, he will not want the first thing he claps eyes on to be a rumpled, starving heap of creased wool and silk. And you are not yourself when you are hungry.” He treated Lando to a stern look. “As we have all found to our cost.”
Chapter Twenty-One
A MOST DISAGREEABLEchurning in his belly jolted Kit awake along with a dizzy hammering at his temples, compounded by his feeble attempt to move his head. Prising open one eye, he sensed he was not alone. A warm body lay curled next him, and for a moment, he had absolutely no idea where he was.
And then, as bitter bile rose to his throat and the warm body shoved a basin under his chin, it all came flooding back, and he closed his eyes once more.
The next time he awoke, the nausea and pounding were no better, but the dizziness had receded, and his mind felt more alert. When he dared open an eye, a blurry image of the window and hazy bronze sky beyond danced into two and then back to one again, indicating it was most likely early morning. And still, a warm body nestled against him.
On his third waking, the warm body had gone, though a person with a hand in perfect ratio to his own had their fingers entwined in his. The same person, he thought, was murmuring softly, promising him everything would be all right.Lando.He’d know that sweet voice anywhere, no matter how hard he’d been smacked around the head.
How Kit wished that were true. He wanted to reply, to tell Lando everything wasn’t all right, but a different person was rolling him from side to side, turning his peaceful bed into a choppy ocean and making him seasick. A soapy cloth was swished around private parts of his body reserved for no one but an intimate, and he didn’t care for it, certainly not while lying in bed and certainly not in front of Lando. The indignity!
If he’d been feeling more himself, he’d have protested. But he wasn’t, and so he didn’t. Instead, he accepted the sips of something wet and warm pushed through his dry lips and fell asleep again.
Two days after his beating, Kit roused a fourth time, and this time, he stayed awake for longer. The warm body was back in his bed, filling his battered senses with the delicious biscuity smell of sleep and freshly laundered linen. For a few minutes, he inhaled it while simultaneously trying to ascertain if he would cast up his accounts. Then, gingerly, so as not to cry out in pain, he lifted himself onto an elbow. His stomach complained—as did his head, his ribs, and his right hip—but ye gods, the effort was worth it.
Henry Orlando Fitzwilliam Albert Duchamps-Avery, Eleventh Earl of Rossingley, dressed in nothing but a stark white nightgown, was tucked up alongside him, his blond waves fanned across the pillow like a spilled sheaf of golden corn.
A sight almost worth taking a shoeing for.
After drinking his fill, Kit flopped down again. Though his head was spinning, and his eyes weren’t working entirely as they should, he knew the vision was real. He was in his bed in the comfort of the rose bedchamber at Grosvenor Street but with very little recollection of how he’d arrived there. He remembered the beating, being set upon by two ruffians as he exited his lodgings, and he had a fair mind as to who had set them upon him. He also recalled his efforts to fight back before being overpowered. But how he’d then escaped remained a mystery his poor ill-treated brain hurt too much to comprehend. Abandoning all efforts, Kit drifted in and out of sleep until his companion stirred a little while later.
The earl even woke elegantly, with a languid stretch of his long limbs and a soft sigh. When his leg brushed against Kit’s bare one, causing Kit to move, he started, and his silvery-blue eyes sprang open. For a second, they were unfocused, and then a slow smile spread across his features.
