“Hold still, the pain will lessen.”
“It better,” she said between gritted teeth, “else I will shriek and then your servants will doubtless come running in here and shoot me.”
“No, I doubt they’d do that. Too messy, too noisy. They’d just see that you were clubbed over the head and buried in the garden.”
“Wonderful,” she said, and began to relax, at least until he lifted her foot again and began to wash it thoroughly. “Perhaps they’d consider just deporting me. I’ve always wanted to visit Botany Bay.”
“C
ome now, Caroline, I know it hurts, just hold on a little while longer. There, all clean. Now, some of my fine French brandy—no, don’t try to escape. I know it burns—”
Her fingers were white clutching the arms of the chair, her teeth gritted against the pain. She looked ready to scream, but managed instead to say calmly enough, “Burns, my lord? Let me tell you, North Nightingale, burning is but a small part of the agony. It’s ghastly, it’s stretching my bravery—”
“Don’t whine. There, all done. Now, just a bit of the bascilicum powder.”
He was gentle, she’d give him that. She hadn’t realized her foot was quite so bad. She gripped the arms of the chair as hard as she could when he began to wrap her foot in some white linen strips.
“I’ll never get my boot back on,” she said, observing the thick white bandage covering the top half of her foot.
“No boot or slipper. Indeed, you will walk as little as possible for a good week. After you’re settled in at Scrilady Hall, Dr. Treath can look at it. All right?”
She looked down at his dark head, at his equally tanned hands holding her foot. This was all very strange, she thought, wondering why, during the past minutes, she hadn’t thought once of her situation, of her aunt Ellie, dead, of herself, now completely alone.
It was there, of course, and she felt that wretched bowing pain again.
“Does it still hurt?”
“No, thank you, North.”
“All right,” he said, rising. “Let’s go have some breakfast. Then I’ll take you to Scrilady Hall.”
And there, she thought, she’d wait for her former guardian to come, and she knew he would come. It was obvious Mr. Ffalkes needed money badly, and she was the only pullet about for him to pluck. Yes, she’d think about him just as she would about who killed her aunt Ellie. Tears came again, stupid useless tears. She simply turned away, trying very hard not to sniff.
He said nothing, bless him, merely waited until she got control, then led her to the breakfast room. Let him think it was her foot that pained her, that was better than his pity.
9
SHE TRIED TO feel just a very small pinch, just the veriest dollop of compassion for the young man who was seated before the blazing fire in the drawing room of Scrilady Hall, his head down, his hands loosely clasped together between his knees, but she couldn’t find it. She drew on a sorely depleted store of patience. It wasn’t easy because, truth be told, she wanted to smack him.
“Cousin Bennett,” she said, limping toward him. “I know it’s difficult for you. It’s difficult for me as well. Come have some tea now. It will make you feel better. Mr. Brogan is here to speak to us about Aunt Ellie’s will.”
“Who cares about her bloody will?” Bennett said, not looking up at her. “I want to see my uncle’s will. That’s the important one, not hers.”
“Why? Your uncle died five years ago, or something like that. He left all his possessions to his wife, Aunt Eleanor.”
“I don’t believe it now. I never believed it. I’m his only male heir; he would have left everything to me. I know she must have changed it, hired Mr. Brogan to change it, probably became his mistress so he would do what she wanted.”
Her patience was dwindling at a rapid pace. She said sharply, “If you believed that, then why didn’t you act at the time?”
“I was only twenty-three when he died. Who would have believed me? I had no money, no important friends. It was that damned widow they believed. She was a strumpet, did you know that? I’ll wager she even slept with Mr. Brogan, who has the look of one of those damned little Cornish piskeys—all wizened and old. I’ll wager he lives in a tree trunk and not a house.”
“Yes, and no doubt he thrashes corn on moonlit nights. Now, mind your tongue, Bennett. Just be quiet. Stop acting like a fool. Why are you sitting there shivering? It’s not the dead of winter, it’s not snowing. Goodness, it’s not at all cold.”
“It’s cold enough in this damned savage backwater,” he said, finally turning to look at her, then rising. “God, how I hate this place and all the barren savage cliffs and those wretched ugly tin mines. This is the most desolate spot on the face of the earth. I hate it, do you hear me?”
“I think it’s the most beautiful place on earth, Bennett, so you see, your opinion is just one. Also, tin has been mined here for centuries, even back before the Romans came. The mines provide jobs. Stop being so critical, Bennett.”
“I still don’t understand what happened to your foot or how you got here or why you don’t have any clothes, and why there’s no female with you to act as chaperon. Another thing, Viscount Chilton brought you here. I remember he has the very devil of a reputation. Dark and brooding, like some Byronic hero, and all the local maids swooned over him, but he just looked withdrawn and mean and black-browed. How do you know him? It’s all quite improper, Caroline.”