Charlotte had been an amusing companion in the beginning of her stay, but less so after a week. In Bath, there had arisen addition living expenses because of Charlotte—expenses far beyond Rebecca’s expectations or budget at that time. Charlotte had been distressingly slow to offer to pay her way.
During the most recent season too, Charlotte had continued to presume on Rebecca’s kindness and her pocket book.
Rebecca was widowed but not wealthy. Her jointure income only stretched so far. She had been very happy to use her family as an excuse to avoid the woman ever since.
Rebecca would write a reply tonight, thanking Charlotte for the invitation but explaining her intention to remain at Stapleton for the foreseeable future.
Besides, she was needed here until the new year began at least.
Rebecca left her room and headed down the hall, only to come to an abrupt halt at the vulgar profanities flaming the air.
Concerned, she rushed forward to see what was amiss. Servants were lingering outside Lord Rafferty’s bedchamber—listening in and laughing amongst themselves.
Rebecca scowled at them as she marched to his door, and they wisely fled back to their duties.
“Please, my lord. Just hold still a moment,” the Stapleton housekeeper was begging.
“A moment? It’s already been three damn long moments,” Rafferty complained, “and you say you are still not done sticking that needle into my skull.”
“But—”
Rebecca stepped into the room, noting there was only Mrs. Brown present to tend to the earl’s injury. She scowled at him. “Kindly mind your tongue, my lord. You are in the presence of respectable ladies.”
His gaze raked over her boldly and angry color flooded his cheeks. “Where the hell have you been?”
She shook her head at his question and met the housekeeper’s gaze. “I must apologize for Lord Rafferty, Mrs. Brown. He appears to have lost his manners in the accident.”
The woman nodded, but Rebecca suspected Mrs. Brown was quite upset and trying not to show it. She drew closer to the housekeeper, keen to offer her support and protection. Mrs. Brown was an indispensable servant for Stapleton Manor, Rebecca had relied on her since she was a young girl, and she did not like that she might feel threatened by one angry earl—even if he was hurt. “How goes the work on him?”
“I am almost done, madam. One more stitch, I swear.”
Rebecca turned toward Lord Rafferty and peered at the wound on the earl’s head. In this light, after being cleaned and half stitched already, it hardly seemed very serious now. Lord Rafferty was being difficult, but the wound really did need one more stitch. Her lips t
witched as she caught the housekeeper’s gaze. “Are you sure it shouldn’t be two stitches?”
Rafferty began to sputter and protest.
The housekeeper’s eyes widened in alarm at the prospect, but then Mrs. Brown glanced at the wound again. “Do you really think it needs two more?”
“No, one more bloody stitch will do and then get the hell out of my room,” Rafferty ordered rudely.
Rebecca clucked her tongue. “She’s only doing her job, my lord. I’m sure you want the wound to heal neatly. Why, it would be most embarrassing to have a puckering lump on your head.”
Rafferty closed his eyes with a sigh. “Cruel woman.”
Rebecca winked at the housekeeper and saw the woman relax at last. “You can begin again.”
Rafferty’s hand shot out and grabbed Rebecca’s wrist. “You will stay.”
Although she had no reason to remain except to protect the housekeeper from further verbal abuse, she indulged the earl. She patted his hand solicitously. “You’ve been such a brave earl.”
The housekeeper nearly choked on a laugh, but then devoted herself to the last stitch the earl needed. Rafferty’s hold on Rebecca’s hand remained painfully tight through it all.
“Nicely done,” Rebecca murmured when Brown had finished.
“Thank you, madam.” The housekeeper backed away from the bed quickly. “In a few days, I’ll look at the wound again and decide when to remove the stitches.”
“Excellent. Thank you.”