The Captain's Lady Read online

  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, then coughed and again clutched at his injury.

  Standing on the opposite side of the bed, Jamie glanced at Marianne and then frowned down at Robert. “Can’t say I’d like to repeat it.” Again he looked at her, this time with a question in his eyes.

  Without a word spoken, she understood him and quietly resumed her place beside Grace. Surely after this night, Jamie would see how well they worked together. How they could communicate without speaking. How their very souls were knit together in purpose.

  A sense of urgency pulsed through Jamie. Many times he’d seen a wounded man become receptive toward God’s call at the height of his pain, only to recover and forget his mortality. Jamie had not a single doubt that the Lord had permitted this attack to capture Moberly’s attention. But where to begin? Jamie already had learned much from Reverend Bentley’s tutoring, especially that these aristocrats could take offense if wrongly addressed. But he must not lose this opportunity. Wisdom, please, Lord.

  “You must forgive us for not waking Lord Bennington. Our main concern was tending your wounds and seeing you rested.”

  Moberly shrugged against his pillow. “I doubt he would have been concerned.” The pain ripping across his face appeared more like damaged emotions than an injured body.

  Jamie sat on the edge of the bed, hoping to set a mood of familiarity. Hoping Moberly would not be offended. “My friend, even the tenderest of earthly fathers can disappoint us.”

  Moberly snorted, then cried out and grabbed his chest. “What is this? What happened to me?” Teeth gritted
, he shoved away the goose down cover and clawed at his nightshirt.

  Jamie grasped his hands. “I recommend you leave it alone, sir. You received a nasty knife wound, but Blevins stitched it together very nicely. Let’s don’t break it open.”

  Moberly’s eyes widened. He touched the area with his fingertips. “Right over my heart. I might’ve died.” He slumped back and looked vacantly toward the bed’s canopy. “I might have died.”

  “God’s mercy was on you,” Jamie said. “No mistaking that.”

  “Yes,” Moberly whispered. His gaze returned to Jamie. “Yes.” A stronger tone. “Thank God. And you.” His eyes grew red and moist. “You saved my life.”

  Jamie leaned a bit closer. “Perhaps. But I was merely God’s instrument. You’re right to thank Him.”

  Moberly gave out a mirthless laugh. “But why would He bother when my own father regards me as a parasite and cares not whether I live or die?”

  His words slammed into Jamie’s heart. How could anyone understand why Lord Bennington treated his sons so callously? “My friend, God desires to be a father to you. He longs to save your eternal soul. This is why you didn’t die in the street last night.”

  Moberly appeared to consider the idea, and fear filled his face. “No. I have waited too long, done too much—”

  “No.” Jamie gripped his arm as he would a drowning man’s. Moberly’s words indicated he comprehended his own sinfulness. Surely that meant it wasn’t too late for him. “Don’t believe that lie. The blood Jesus Christ shed on the cross covers every sin. God’s grace is offered as a free gift to you right now. All you need to do is accept it.”

  Moberly seemed to fold into himself. “No. It cannot be that simple.” His gaze hardened. “There are rules and rituals and righteousness.” His lips curled. “All the things I despise about religion and—”

  “No!” Jamie prayed Robert wouldn’t take his stern tone as an affront. “Christ’s death and resurrection are sufficient to save the worst sinner. If we were required to do even one small thing other than accept His grace, none of us could be saved. Did He not say to the thief who was crucified beside him ‘Today thou shalt be with me in Paradise’?”

  Moberly’s dark eyebrows met in a frown, and his left eye twitched. “I thought perhaps the man received a special dispensation.”

  Jamie shook his head. “I believe, in fact I am more than certain, that thief was meant for an example to us. As he was saved, so we can be saved.” He leaned close again. “Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, Moberly, and you will be saved.”

  A long, narrow swath of light shone from beneath the drapes onto the Wilton carpet at the center of the room. The smell of sweat vied with the scents of soap and lavender for preeminence. Moments passed without a sound in the room, not even a rustle. Some hours ago, a maid had started a fire in the hearth, and Ian kept it burning. A barely audible sigh came from across the room, and Jamie guessed both ladies were praying. He wondered how much longer he could sit up without rest.

  “I will try,” Moberly whispered.

  Jamie’s energies vanished, and his posture drooped. This was useless. The man did not grasp God’s truth at all. Jamie’s head pounded, and he ached to go to his own chambers, his own bed. He glanced at Lady Marianne. Her eyes reflected the same weariness he felt. But Miss Kendall, who always carried herself with reserve, now sat at the edge of her seat and stared toward Moberly with her jaw set firmly and fire in her eyes. Jamie shook off his lethargy, which he realized was nothing less than the work of eternal darkness. He would, he must, continue his struggle for Moberly’s soul.

  “Faith is not something you can try, Moberly. Accept God’s gift of eternal life, or reject it. There is no middle ground.”

  Moberly blinked. He opened his mouth…and closed it. Another moment passed. “I see. Yes, I think you are right about that.”

  “Well, then?”

  He chuckled, but winced as if the effort pained him. “A bit pushy, aren’t we?” Another chuckle, then he sobered as a tranquil expression smoothed the premature lines around his eyes. “I feel…there is…peace…here.” He touched his chest and spoke in a hushed voice. “Peace such as I have never felt in my life. It floods me, floods my very soul.” His eyes glistened with hope. “I have always known about God. I have seen His goodness in my stepmother and my sister. But now I believe. I accept Him. Why, Templeton, I think if I were to die at this moment, God Himself would take me up in His arms.”

  Jamie experienced his own flood of emotions—joy, gratitude, tranquility—and he cleared his throat. Before he could offer an affirmation to his new brother in Christ, Lady Marianne appeared at the bedside and kissed Moberly, pressing her cheek against his and blending her sweet tears with her brother’s. Beyond her, Miss Kendall stood with lifted chin, her tear-filled eyes ablaze with victory. Jamie gave her a nod. When his energies had failed, her prayers had infused him with strength enough to complete his mission.

  A sharp thump on the bedchamber door caused them all to jump. Before anyone could respond, Lord Bennington threw open the door and strode into the room, staring about at the occupants. Rage rode on his wrinkled brow, and his lips curled in a snarl.

  “What is going on in here?”

  Chapter Eight

  Marianne stood like a shield in front of Robert’s bed. Behind her, she heard his quiet groan, the sound of a man wounded deep within his heart. She had no doubt that if Papa had entered the room one minute sooner, her brother’s immortal soul would still be in danger, perhaps lost forever.

  “Robert was stabbed and robbed by footpads last night.” She grabbed a quick, quiet breath that she might appear calm. “If not for Captain Templeton, he would have died.”

  Papa stared at her as if she were crazy. “Footpads, you say? Common street ruffians dared to assault a son of mine?” He strode toward the bed. “Move aside, daughter.” His eyes blazed as he inspected Robert from head to toe as he would a piece of furniture. “Well, boy, are you going to live?”

  Marianne saw a flash of anger on Jamie’s face—fiery eyes and lips clamped shut. But she moved close to Papa and slipped her hand in his, hoping her presence might soften him. Robert’s eyelids drooped with feigned laziness, and his lips formed a smirk, the bored expression he wore when Papa was present.

  “I suppose I must live,” her brother muttered. “If only to show my gratitude to Templeton here. ’Twould be deuced bad-mannered of me to pop off after all his trouble.”

  Papa looked across the bed at Jamie. “Are you injured?” His eyes blazed.

  Jamie shrugged and returned a crooked grin that caused Marianne’s heart to skip. “I believe we did more damage than we received, my lord.”

  “Ha!” Papa fisted his free hand and pummeled the air. “That’s the spirit.” He looked at Robert again. “Do plan to survive as best you can. With these despicable wars going on, I do not have time for a funeral.”

  Marianne thought she detected a tiny crack in Papa’s voice, but perhaps it was wishful thinking.

  “Marianne.” He patted her hand. “You and Miss Kendall are dismissed. I commend your interest in your brother’s welfare, but in the future, leave such ministrations to the servants.”

  She bit her bottom lip to keep from responding with anger. This was the closest to scolding her Papa ever came, but it was inconsequential in light of Robert’s tragedy.

  “Yes, Papa.” She nudged past him and bent to kiss her brother’s cheek. “I love you, dear one. Please rest until you are healed.” The responding tear in the corner of his eye nearly undid her, and she hurried from the room to hide her own tears.

  If Jamie had held the slightest scruple against spying on Lord Bennington, it just vanished. No decent man should treat a son so callously, no matter how that son behaved. But, like their king, these English aristocrats seemed to think their ranks and titles granted them the right to use all other beings in any manner they chose. From everything Jamie had seen, he could only conclude that, instead
of seeing Moberly as a son to nurture and guide, Bennington had let him grow up like a weed and then despised him for it.

  “Captain Templeton.” His tone sounding almost jovial, the earl spoke across the bed as if Moberly were not there. “Lady Bennington has asked my permission to give a ball in your honor. She says your dancing master has given his approval for you to participate in some of the less complex dances. What do you say?”

  Remember why you are here. Swallowing his bitterness on behalf of Moberly, Jamie forced a smile and a bow. “I would be honored, my lord.”

  “Very good. Now, I am off to Whitehall.” The earl looked at Moberly with a bland expression. “See if you can keep my son from doing further damage to himself.”

  “Yes…my lord.”

  Bennington clearly did not notice Jamie’s clenched teeth, for he strode from the room with his head held high, wearing his importance like a crown.

  Moberly chuckled softly. “Let it go, Templeton. That’s what I have to do. The old man is…what he is.”

  Jamie regarded his friend. Weariness once again deepened the premature lines on his face, and his pale, blotchy skin gave evidence of many late nights and much drinking. But a soft new light shone in Moberly’s eyes, encouraging Jamie. He felt a pressing need to examine its cause.

  “Before Lord Bennington came in, we were having a discussion—”

  “Ah, yes.” Moberly breathed out a lengthy sigh and tugged his covers up to his chin. “About my new Father…” He yawned, then winced, perhaps in pain. “We must talk about that soon….” His voice faded, and his eyelids drooped.

  The young valet hovered near, so Jamie walked to the door. “I’ll leave him in your good care.”