The Wedding Challenge (24 page)

“Ill—or just missing that rapscallion Bromwell?” Lady Odelia asked shrewdly.

“Lady Calandra had no expectations of Lord Bromwell,” Francesca replied smoothly. “Why, she barely knows the man. I believe she first met him at your birthday ball.”

“Yes, well, time isn’t always what matters,” Lady Odelia pronounced. “Damn the boy. I don’t know what got into him. I understand he has gone back to his estates. I had hopes for him and Callie. Ah, well…” The old lady shrugged. “She won’t be wanting for suitors long.”

“No, I am sure not.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Lady Odelia asked abruptly.

Francesca froze. “Um…I am not sure,” she murmured, stalling for time. She did not know why it was that her mind, usually so agile in concocting polite social lies, always seemed to jolt to a stop around Lady Pencully. “What time tomorrow?”

“The whole day. I have been meaning to visit the Duchess of Chudleigh. Your mother’s godmother,” she added, as if Francesca would not know whom she meant.

“Oh,” Francesca replied, with a sinking sensation in her stomach.

“Thought it might be a good idea for you to come along. She lives in Sevenoaks, you know, only a short ride. She would quite like to see you, I imagine, and you will be able to write your mother and tell her how the duchess is doing. She was in rather ill health this winter, you know.”

“I believe Mother mentioned it,” Francesca agreed weakly. The prospect of spending the day either enclosed in a carriage with Lady Odelia or sitting with the two ancient women as they shouted back and forth to each other—for the duchess was quite deaf, but refused to use an ear trumpet because she claimed it made her appear old—had no appeal for her.

However, as Lady Odelia had made sure to hint at, visiting the old lady would be what her mother would expect of her. It was her duty, and, like Callie, Francesca had been raised to do her duty. She knew that she could not look Lady Odelia in the eye and tell her that she was not going to visit her mother’s aged godmother, no matter how much she would like to. Even if she could bring herself to do it, Francesca knew that Lady Odelia would soon wear her down with argument and wrest an agreement from her. She might as well give in gracefully.

“Well, I suppose that Callie will be all right by herself for a day,” Francesca began reluctantly.

“Of course she will,” Odelia told her stoutly. “She has a whole houseful of servants to look after her. She will be fine.”

“Very well,” Francesca capitulated, suppressing a sigh. “I will go with you tomorrow.”

“Excellent!” Lady Odelia beamed at her. “I shall be here to pick you up at nine o’clock.”

“Nine?” Francesca repeated hollowly. “In the morning?”

“Yes, of course, in the morning.” Lady Odelia sent her an odd look. “It will take the whole day—best to get an early start.”

“Naturally.”

Her mission accomplished, Lady Pencully did not remain long. She soon took her leave—no doubt, Francesca thought sourly, going off to bully some other poor person into doing something for her.

Francesca went upstairs to tell Callie, who immediately chuckled.

“Well, I am glad that my misfortune pleases you,” Francesca told her with mock indignation. In truth, she was pleased to see Callie laugh for the first time in days.

“I am sorry, truly,” Callie told her, her eyes twinkling. “I know it will be a misery for you. But I am so happy that you decided I should be sick.”

“You should be,” Francesca retorted, unable to keep from smiling. “Else I would have dragged you into going with us.”

Callie gave an exaggerated shudder.

“Are you sure you do not want to go anyway?” Francesca teased. “We could say you had a miraculous recovery. ’Twill be very boring for you here alone, after all.”

“Better lonely than riding half the day in a carriage with Lady Odelia,” Callie retorted heartlessly. “Do you think she will bring that horrid snuffling dog of hers?”

“That ancient pug!” Francesca looked horrified. “Do not even think it.”

Callie dissolved into giggles at her expression, grateful for the opportunity to laugh. She was not someone who enjoyed dwelling on her sorrow.

Tomorrow, she thought, she would have to find some task to do, something to put her mind on other than her own problems.

So the next day, after she awoke and had a quiet breakfast alone downstairs, Callie rang for her maid and spent the next few hours going through her closet, choosing what dress or slippers she might refurbish with a bit of ribbon or some flowers, and what she should give away or just assign to the ragbag.

Unfortunately the job did not take long, as she had only the clothes she had brought with her from home or had only recently bought, so there was little to repair or toss out. By noon she was finished. If she had been at home, she could have gone through the attic, cleaning out old unusable things and getting pleasantly distracted by this or that old dress or well-worn toy. But she could scarcely do so in Francesca’s house.

After that, her mind began to turn in its too-well-traveled path of thinking about Brom. She was not going to do that, she told herself, and went to Francesca’s morning room to look for a novel to read. Perhaps a lurid tale from Mrs. Radcliffe’s pen would occupy her mind.

She was searching through the shelves when Fenton came into the room, his anxious face most unlike his usual unruffled expression. “My lady…”

“Yes, Fenton, what is it?”

“There is a man here. He says that he has an urgent message for you. He says, my lady, that…His Grace the Duke has been injured.”

C
ALLIE STARED AT THE BUTLER
, the blood draining from her face. “What? My brother?”

She pushed past Fenton into the hall and saw a man standing in the entryway, his hat in his hand. He looked travel-stained and tired. Callie rushed down the hall toward him.

“You have word of the Duke of Rochford?” she asked before she reached him. “Is he hurt?”

“He is alive, my lady,” the man said hastily. “But he was in an accident. Here is a letter for you.” He extended a folded and sealed sheet of paper to her.

Callie took it. Across the front of it was written
The Lady Calandra Lilles.

Quickly she turned the note over and ripped open the seal. With hands that trembled, she unfolded the letter. At the top right-hand side were written the words
Blackfriars Cope Cottage, Lower Upton
and the date. Her eyes dropped to the salutation and she began to read:

Callie let out a little sigh of relief and looked up at the messenger. “He is truly all right?”

“I haven’t seen him, miss. I only know what Mrs. Farmington told me. But she said to tell you he was fine.”

“I will go at once. If you can tell me exactly where this Lower Upton is…”

“It’s in Buckinghamshire, my lady. Mrs. Farmington told me to hire a chaise to take you there as soon as I brought you the message.”

“Thank you. That would be very good. I will just pack a few things, and we can be on our way.”

The man nodded and left, and Callie turned to find the butler standing a few steps behind her, his expression once again suitably under control.

“Good. Then you heard?” At Fenton’s nod, she went on. “I will pack a small bag and leave immediately. I will leave you a note to give to Lady Haughston.”

“Very good, my lady. I will send your maid to you.”

Callie nodded and flew up the stairs. Her thoughts were tumbling around in her mind, and her heart was pounding. How badly was Sinclair hurt? Mrs. Farmington had taken care to reassure her that he was all right, but the woman doubtless would have been reluctant to have written a bald statement of the truth if his condition was very bad. He could be seriously injured, even close to death. And though he might only have broken a few bones, Callie was well aware of how quickly such a thing could turn into a dangerous fever and illness, even death. Even if a worse illness did not develop, Callie was sure that he was probably in great pain and in need of the care of someone besides strangers. She was determined to reach him as soon as possible.

Buckinghamshire was not terribly far away, she thought, as she began opening her drawers and throwing clothes onto the bed to be packed. She should be able to get there by tonight.

Belinda popped into the room, her eyes big in her white face. “His Grace is injured, my lady?”

“Yes, but I am sure he will be fine,” Callie said stoutly. “He has broken a few bones. I am going to him at once.”

“Yes, miss, I’ll set to packing right away.”

“Just put enough things for a day or two into a bag,” Callie told her. “I am leaving immediately. But I fear that I might be there some time, so pack a trunk with more clothes, and you can bring it there to me on the mail coach as soon as I send you word to come. I do not know what the situation is. If it turns out we are able to move him, we will return to Lilles House.”

While Belinda packed her a bag, Callie sat down to write a quick note to Francesca, explaining where she was going and why. Fenton would tell Francesca the general story of what had happened, Callie knew, but she thought it best that she relate the exact details and tell Francesca where Sinclair was. She ended the note with a promise to send word as soon as she saw Sinclair and could more accurately describe his condition. Even though Rochford and Francesca had not parted on the best of terms the last time he was here, Callie was certain that Francesca would want to know how he was.

That task done, she folded and sealed the note, and handed it to Fenton to give to Lady Haughston as soon as she returned. By that time Belinda had finished with her bag and the messenger had returned with the post chaise. Callie did not take the time to change into a traveling dress; she simply replaced her soft slippers with a sturdier pair of boots and threw her heavy cloak around her shoulders.

She climbed into the post chaise, and they set off only slightly more than half an hour after she had received the message. Callie settled a little breathlessly into her seat and for the first time allowed herself to think of something other than the practical problems of rushing to her brother’s side.

Her mind went first to his injuries. She pulled Mrs. Farmington’s note from the pocket of her dress, where she had stuffed it after she read it, and perused it again, more slowly this time. She could get nothing more from it regarding his injuries, unfortunately, and she was left to wonder how the accident had occurred and how badly he had been hurt. The dry recital of a broken leg and a few ribs did not really give a good picture of Sinclair’s condition. Of course, the woman had doubtless written the note in haste; Callie could not really carp about her not providing enough details. But Callie did wish she knew more about the matter. Had the break been severe? She had seen or heard enough about injuries around their estate to know that there was a great deal of difference between a simple broken bone, easily enough set, and a leg that had been broken in more than one place or had bone piercing the skin.

She shuddered at the pictures she was conjuring up and tried to think of something else. Had Sinclair been driving himself in his curricle? Or had he been in the grand ducal carriage driven by Haskell, their head coachman? Neither of them was the sort to have an accident, so she assumed that it was probably the fault of another driver, but Mrs. Farmington had not mentioned anyone else being hurt. But then again, the woman had clearly not taken the time to explain the accident in detail.

And what was Sinclair doing in Buckinghamshire, anyway? He had told her that he was going home to Marcastle, and though her geography was perhaps a little hazy, she was quite sure that they never passed through Buckinghamshire when they traveled from Marcastle to London. In any case, her brother had left far too long ago to have still been traveling home.

He could, she supposed, have been delayed somehow, but if he had been detained in London, he would have let her know. That did not make sense. Or he could have started toward Marcastle, then changed his mind and decided to travel somewhere else, though such impulsivity was not a mark of her brother’s character.

Sinclair usually did what he said, so the odds were that he had gone back to Marcastle and finished his business there, then left on some other sort of business. He had said that he would probably go to their house at Dancy Park, but, again, Buckinghamshire did not lie between the two places. There must be some other property that he had decided to visit; she supposed that if he had been going to his land in Cornwall, he could have traveled that way if he did not want to go through London. It would not usually be like Sinclair to avoid spending a few days in London on the way, so that he could visit with her. But perhaps, she thought sadly, he was still displeased enough with her for disobeying his orders that he had not wanted to see her.

But then again, maybe he had simply decided to visit a friend, or even look at a property to purchase. And, of course, it made no difference why he was there. The subject was, however, something that was far less worrisome than how bad his injuries were or how much pain he was in, or how long it was taking to get to Blackfriars Cope, which were the other things that occupied her mind throughout the afternoon and evening.

They broke their journey only to change horses, and on those occasions, Callie got out of the carriage to stretch her legs. At one of the inns where they stopped, she ordered a light meal of cold meats, cheese and bread, but she had little appetite for it and wound up leaving most of the food on the table.

She knew they were traveling as fast as they could, for they changed horses often enough that they were fresh, but still the trip seemed to take an eternity. It became even slower after it grew dark, because then she did not have the distraction of the landscape to look at from time to time. Time would have passed more quickly, she knew, if she had been able to sleep, but she could not manage even to doze off briefly. Her mind was whirling with doubts and fears and painful images of Sinclair lying in a bed, pale, bruised and bandaged.

More than once, Callie wished that Francesca had not gone away with Aunt Odelia today. Nothing would have been as bad if Francesca had been there to talk to and help her. She felt sure that Francesca would have come along to keep her company. But it was not just the company and the comfort she missed. Francesca was quite good at getting things done. She always knew just what to do, and with a smile and a few words, she could manage to get the best possible results out of people.

When the carriage pulled to a stop, Callie assumed that they had reached another inn and were about to replace their team, but when she pushed aside the curtain to look out, she saw that they had pulled up in front of a country house. It was not quite the little vine-covered cottage she had envisioned upon reading Mrs. Farmington’s note, as it was a sturdy two-story building with a stone lintels above the door and windows, but it was certainly no busy inn, and she realized that they must have reached their destination.

“Is this Blackfriars Cope?” she asked the messenger, who had ridden all the way on top of the coach and who now jumped down to give her a helping hand out.

“Yes, my lady. Looks like they’re still up waiting for you.” He looked toward the house, where the windows above the front door and to one side of it were bathed in a golden glow.

“Thank you,” Callie told the man, and though she felt sure that Sinclair must have given him money for the post chaise and the changes of horses, along with his own payment, she pressed a gold coin into his palm, as well. A light rain had begun to fall, chilling and sharp, and she pulled the hood of her cloak forward to protect her face as she hurried up the front steps and sounded the door knocker.

It was a few moments before the front door opened to reveal a short stout woman dressed in a plain muslin dress, with a white apron on top of it. “Aye?”

“Mrs. Farmington?” Callie asked eagerly.

“Aye, that it is.”

“I am Lady Calandra Lilles. Is he still awake? Where is he?”

“In the study, miss,” the woman replied, turning to point down the hallway to where light spilled out of an open door.

“Thank you.” Callie rushed down the hall, scarcely noticing the sound of the front door closing behind her. She pushed back her hood and took off her gloves as she went, tossing them onto a hallway table, then burst into the room Mrs. Farmington had indicated.

She came to an abrupt halt, staring at the scene before her, unable for an instant to make any sense of it.

Lord Bromwell was half reclining on a sofa, one booted leg stretched out in front of him on the sofa and the other leg bent, his foot planted on the floor. He was braced against the end of the couch, turned a little so that his torso was partly in the corner. His jacket and ascot lay discarded on the chair closest to him, and his waistcoat hung open, his shirt unbuttoned partway down his chest. Beside him on the floor sat a silver tray upon which stood a glass decanter half-filled with a dark liquid, and in one hand he held a glass containing the same liquid.

For a moment the two of them stared at each other blankly. He recovered first, exclaiming, “Callie!” He set his glass down with a thunk on the tray and rose to his feet in a smooth motion marred only by his swaying a little on his feet.

“What is it?” he asked, looking alarmed, and started toward her. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“What are
you
doing here?” Callie blurted out, finally recovering her wits enough to speak. Had Bromwell been involved in her brother’s accident? Had it not been an accident after all, but a fight between the two men? “I don’t understand. Where is Sinclair? Is he all right? What happened?”

“Sinclair?” he repeated blankly. “Who is—” His eyes widened. “You mean your brother? Rochford? Why the devil would he be here?”

“But the note!” Callie exclaimed and started to reach for her pocket to pull out the letter she had received, but she stopped in mid-action, her head suddenly whirling. Dozens of oddities tumbled in her mind, falling into place—the elegant handwriting on the note supposedly written by a country woman living in a cottage, the fact that this same woman had addressed the letter in precisely the correct way one addressed a letter to a duke’s daughter, the unlikelihood of her brother being in Buckinghamshire at this time, the fact that the journey had been so well-arranged and paid for, yet her brother had not even scribbled a note to her or written his name to assure her that he was well.