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slightly, wincing. “Didn’t want to face Old ‘Swell—be all over the country in a sennight I’d been shot.” He caught his breath and grimaced again.
“We cannot just leave! My lord—think of it, I pray you! How’s it to look if we run?” she demanded.
“Do you—want to sign an affidavit?” he countered. “Only crime I can attest to—abduction by you.” Beads of either perspiration or rain shone on his brow. “Too much to explain.”
“But the bill—someone must pay the shot,” she protested.
“Told ’em we were robbed,” he reminded her. “Send it to ’em later. Promise.”
“Can’t find ’er, my lord,” Jem announced, opening the door. “Ain’t with th’ magistrate, and ain’t—” He stopped, seeing Kitty. “Oh—yer found.” He wiped the rain from his face. “Near thing—was afeard he meant ter ask me, but he was feedin’ ’is face. Said he’ll speak ter Smith first. Well, none’s the harm t’day. Where d’ye mean t’ take ’im, Miss Kitty?”
The baron’s hazel eyes were on hers. “Yes—where now, Miss Gordon?”
He was rumpled, his bloody shirt open over the bandages, his face in desperate need of a shave. The thought came to mind that he looked more like a ruffian than like Baron Haverhill. Then she looked down again at her soiled, torn gown. And no explanation she could think of would suffice, she was sure of it. Indeed, by light of day, the whole affair seemed too preposterous for repeating.
“Well,” she sighed, exhaling fully, “I shall have to take you home, I suppose.”
“To London?” One of his eyebrows rose.
“No—to my aunt’s house, though what she will say, I cannot imagine. I hope, when she comes to understand why I have done it, she will not cut the connection entirely.”
Jem looked from her to the baron, shaking his head. “Take yer there, I will, but I ain’t stayin’. Yer can tell ’er I give m’ notice ere she turns me off.” He backed out of the doorway and closed it. “Ain’t stayin’ here neither,” he acknowledged, climbing onto the box.
She clasped her hands in her lap and stared downward. “I can only hope you will be persuaded to do the right thing were Jess is concerned, my lord. Then ’twill not have been entirely for naught.”
“Miss Gordon, I do not—” His words came to an abrupt end as the carriage lurched violently forward, throwing him back against the leather-covered seat. He went white, biting his lip against the pain.
“Are you all right, sir?” she asked anxiously.
“No. Be damned fortunate if I don’t bleed some more,” he gasped. “Got a devil of a head and a hole in my shoulder—of course I am not all right!”
“No, of course not.”
She looked even younger and smaller as she sat, her head down, and he felt goaded. “No Cheltenham tragedies, please—’tis I who am injured,” he muttered. “Only thing worse that ever happened to me was the ball in my leg.”
“Dr. Burke said you must have nearly lost it.”
“He was right.” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Damned thirsty.”
“You drank all the rum last night.”
“I know.”
There seemed to be nothing else to say to him, nothing to the point, anyway. Sighing again, she turned to look out the window into the dreary day. If she had it to do all over again, she would have asked Rollo to write him. It would not have been impossible, she supposed. She could have flattered her young cousin by reminding him that he was the head of the house, after all.
“No,” he said suddenly. “The leg was not the worst of it. ’Twas the suffering and dying of the others.”
“I beg your pardon?” She looked up, seeing a very different pain in his eyes, a pain that made them seem almost green. They were, she realized, quite the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen. “ ’Twas as Burke thought—you have been in the war?”
“I have been to hell, Miss Gordon.” His mouth compressed into an almost bitter line. “The
“We cannot just leave! My lord—think of it, I pray you! How’s it to look if we run?” she demanded.
“Do you—want to sign an affidavit?” he countered. “Only crime I can attest to—abduction by you.” Beads of either perspiration or rain shone on his brow. “Too much to explain.”
“But the bill—someone must pay the shot,” she protested.
“Told ’em we were robbed,” he reminded her. “Send it to ’em later. Promise.”
“Can’t find ’er, my lord,” Jem announced, opening the door. “Ain’t with th’ magistrate, and ain’t—” He stopped, seeing Kitty. “Oh—yer found.” He wiped the rain from his face. “Near thing—was afeard he meant ter ask me, but he was feedin’ ’is face. Said he’ll speak ter Smith first. Well, none’s the harm t’day. Where d’ye mean t’ take ’im, Miss Kitty?”
The baron’s hazel eyes were on hers. “Yes—where now, Miss Gordon?”
He was rumpled, his bloody shirt open over the bandages, his face in desperate need of a shave. The thought came to mind that he looked more like a ruffian than like Baron Haverhill. Then she looked down again at her soiled, torn gown. And no explanation she could think of would suffice, she was sure of it. Indeed, by light of day, the whole affair seemed too preposterous for repeating.
“Well,” she sighed, exhaling fully, “I shall have to take you home, I suppose.”
“To London?” One of his eyebrows rose.
“No—to my aunt’s house, though what she will say, I cannot imagine. I hope, when she comes to understand why I have done it, she will not cut the connection entirely.”
Jem looked from her to the baron, shaking his head. “Take yer there, I will, but I ain’t stayin’. Yer can tell ’er I give m’ notice ere she turns me off.” He backed out of the doorway and closed it. “Ain’t stayin’ here neither,” he acknowledged, climbing onto the box.
She clasped her hands in her lap and stared downward. “I can only hope you will be persuaded to do the right thing were Jess is concerned, my lord. Then ’twill not have been entirely for naught.”
“Miss Gordon, I do not—” His words came to an abrupt end as the carriage lurched violently forward, throwing him back against the leather-covered seat. He went white, biting his lip against the pain.
“Are you all right, sir?” she asked anxiously.
“No. Be damned fortunate if I don’t bleed some more,” he gasped. “Got a devil of a head and a hole in my shoulder—of course I am not all right!”
“No, of course not.”
She looked even younger and smaller as she sat, her head down, and he felt goaded. “No Cheltenham tragedies, please—’tis I who am injured,” he muttered. “Only thing worse that ever happened to me was the ball in my leg.”
“Dr. Burke said you must have nearly lost it.”
“He was right.” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Damned thirsty.”
“You drank all the rum last night.”
“I know.”
There seemed to be nothing else to say to him, nothing to the point, anyway. Sighing again, she turned to look out the window into the dreary day. If she had it to do all over again, she would have asked Rollo to write him. It would not have been impossible, she supposed. She could have flattered her young cousin by reminding him that he was the head of the house, after all.
“No,” he said suddenly. “The leg was not the worst of it. ’Twas the suffering and dying of the others.”
“I beg your pardon?” She looked up, seeing a very different pain in his eyes, a pain that made them seem almost green. They were, she realized, quite the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen. “ ’Twas as Burke thought—you have been in the war?”
“I have been to hell, Miss Gordon.” His mouth compressed into an almost bitter line. “The
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