The Captain's Lady. Louise Gouge M.

      Jamie blinked, as if struggling to focus his eyes. “It is sufficient to say that Moberly’s gambling luck did not follow him into the streets.”

      “Footpads?” She could not think anyone would attempt to murder the son of an earl. It must have been true criminals, not bored aristocrats up to no good.

      “Aye. And a scurvier bunch I’ve never seen.” He grimaced. “Forgive me.”

      She laughed softly. “I am not so fragile that I cannot bear such words. My brothers—”

      “Lady Marianne.” Blevins marched into the library wearing his usual black livery, but his sleeping cap instead of his periwig. Behind him, John carried the requested items and more. “Please permit me to attend Mr. Moberly.”

      “Yes. Thank you.” Marianne stood and moved back.

      Jamie struggled into a nearby chair, grasping his left forearm with his right hand. His blue wool coat was torn in several places and lightly splattered with bloodstains.

      “Jamie!” She reached toward his arm, but he pulled it away. “You must let me look at your injury.”

      “Just a scratch or two.” His eyes still did not focus. “I’m not injured.” Belying his words, he touched the back of his head and winced. “Not badly, anyway.” He glanced at Blevins and John, who were huddled over Robert, and sent her a warning frown. “Please, my lady, go to bed.”

      She settled into a chair next to him. “When I am assured of Robert’s—and your—health, I shall retire. Until then, you will have to endure my company.” She would have given him a mischievous smirk had not Robert been lying there having his side sewn together by the incomparable Blevins.

      Jamie watched the butler’s doctoring methods with interest and growing respect. He himself had stitched up numerous wounds during his whaling days. But he was in no condition to do this job. He’d certainly not expected to see such violence on the streets of London, especially against the son of an earl. Jamie couldn’t be altogether certain Tobias Pincer had not orchestrated the attack. At the very least, the man proved to be a worthless coward. If Moberly recovered, as it now seemed he would, Jamie would give a full accounting of his gaming companion.

      After they had eaten supper at Lady Bennington’s table, the three of them had attended a strange gathering at a large private home, one of those routs, during which a throng of people milled about with no apparent purpose. Jamie met several people but was never presented to a host. Afterward, Moberly and Pincer insisted their next stop must be a gambling establishment. While Jamie stood near a window in the dim and smoky room, the two sat at cards downing drink after drink. Or perhaps Pincer didn’t drink all that much.

      With minimal knowledge of the game, Jamie still could sense that Pincer was helping Moberly to win. When they decided at last to leave, Moberly’s pockets bulged with notes and gold coins. And it was he whom the footpads attacked. If Jamie hadn’t been last out the door, he might have suffered the same fate. As it was, he’d been able to drive away the scoundrels with a few blows of the ebony cane Moberly had loaned him for the evening. As many attackers as there were, perhaps three or four, Jamie thought he and Moberly had come out of it fairly well, especially since Pincer disappeared the moment they exited the gaming hall. But then, footpads generally proved to be cowards if their victims fought back.

      Sitting in Lord Bennington’s library generated an instinct in one part of Jamie’s mind. He should be trying to locate a chest or hidden compartment where maps or plans or royal communications might be kept. But another part of him could think only of Moberly and his near encounter with death.

      Jamie’s dizziness began to clear, but the injury on the back of his head still pounded deep into his skull. He touched it, drawing Lady Marianne’s anxious gaze. Dropping his hand to the chair arm, he decided he’d have to ignore the sticky lump until he could get to his quarters and have Quince check the damage.

      Still, a surge of pride rolled through him. He’d never imagined Lady Marianne would be awake, much less that she would view her brother’s injuries without swooning. His lady had courage and pluck.

      His lady? Try though he might, he couldn’t dislodge the pleasant notion nor stop the accompanying warmth spreading through his chest. If not for the blood on his hand, he might have reached out to grasp hers. Thank the Lord for the blood.

      Before a new day dawned, he must speak to Moberly about his eternal soul, which so far the Almighty had mercifully spared.

      Marianne insisted upon overseeing Robert’s transfer to his bedchamber, and informed Blevins that she would sit with her brother until morning. “You and John must retire for the night so you both can see to your duties tomorrow.”

      In the dimly lit room, she noticed just a tiny flicker in the butler’s eyes, perhaps wounded pride, for he never failed in any of his duties no matter how late he had labored the night before. But he gave her a perfect servant’s bow. “Of course, Lady Marianne. Shall I summon Miss Kendall to accompany you?”

      Marianne glanced toward the small side chamber where John had gone to wake Ian, Robert’s young valet. If she, Jamie and Ian were to keep watch over her brother, propriety demanded the presence of another lady in the room.

      “Yes, please.”

      Ian soon emerged fully dressed and began to assess the situation. Like Blevins and John, he demonstrated no emotion, but Marianne could see concern in his eyes as he arranged Robert’s dressing gown, pillows and covers.

      Jamie excused himself to wash up, and Marianne settled into a chair beside Robert’s bed just as Grace joined her for the vigil. Within a half hour, Jamie returned, but gently refused Marianne’s request to check the lump on his head.

      “Quince cleaned it and says it’s nothing, my lady.” Jamie settled into a chair across the room. When he fell asleep, with his long legs extended out in front of him and his head resting back on a pillow, Marianne spent half her time watching him and half watching Robert.

      In the early morning hours, her brother became delirious, thrashing and mumbling nonsensically. Jamie awakened, and he and Ian held Robert fast so the stitches would not tear. Soon he quieted. Marianne wiped his face and freshened the cool, damp cloth on his forehead. The crisis passed, but she could not be certain another would not strike. All the while, she was aware of Grace’s soft prayers…and her tears. Assured of her brother’s progress, Marianne moved to the small settee where Grace sat.

      A slim horizontal thread of gray appeared on the floor beneath the window, announcing dawn’s arrival. Marianne looked over to see Jamie stir awake, then walk to the bedside just as Robert opened his eyes. Relief swept through her, and she clasped hands with Grace.

      “Well, old man,” Jamie said. “I believe you got the worst of it.”

      Robert coughed out a weak laugh, then grimaced and grabbed at his wound. “Ahh. Hurts. Never thought—”

      “Shh.” Marianne rushed to him. “Rest easy, Robert dear.” She dampened another fresh cloth for his forehead. “You’re safe at home.”

      He turned his bloodshot eyes toward her. “Merry.” Then beyond her. “Miss Kendall. Ian.” A wry smile lifted one corner of his lips. “I say, have you all kept vigil? Am I going to die?” A sardonic tone accompanied his gaze around the room. “What, Father did not come to bid me farewell?”

      “No, Robert.” Her heart aching for him, Marianne applied the compress. “We did not wake him.”

      “No, of course not.” Robert grunted. “By all means, do not disturb the patriarch.” His bitter tone cut into her. “Fine Christian father that he is.” He closed his eyes and leaned into the cold cloth as she pressed it against his temple.

      She swallowed an urge to reprimand him. “Shh. You must rest.”

      “Hmm.” He rolled his head toward Jamie. “I say, Templeton, how did you enjoy your first night out in London?” He chuckled,