Cold-Hearted Rake
Page 49Kathleen turned scarlet. “He was overwrought. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
“If you say so, my lady.” Mrs. Church’s slight smile faded as she continued. “I think we should save our worry for Mr. Winterborne. Just before Mr. Ravenel was carried inside, he said that Mr. Winterborne’s leg is broken and he’s also been blinded.”
“Oh, no. We must find out if he wants us to send for someone.”
“I would be surprised if he did,” the housekeeper said pragmatically as they entered the house.
“Why do you say that?” Kathleen asked.
“If he had anyone, he wouldn’t have come here alone for Christmas in the first place.”
While Dr. Weeks attended to Devon’s injuries, Kathleen went to visit West.
Even before she reached the open door of his room, she heard noise and laughter drifting into the hallway. She stood at the threshold, watching with a touch of fond resignation as she saw West sitting up in bed, regaling a group that included a half-dozen servants, Pandora, Cassandra, both dogs, and Hamlet. Helen stood beside a lamp, reading the temperature of a glass thermometer.
Thankfully West no longer appeared to be shivering, and his color had improved.
“… then I glimpsed a man wading back out into the river,” he was saying, “toward a half-submerged railway carriage with people trapped inside. And I said to myself, ‘That man is a hero. Also an idiot. Because he’s already been in the water for too long, and he won’t be able to save them, and he’s about to sacrifice his life for nothing.’ I proceeded to climb down the embankment and found Sutton. ‘Where is the earl?’ I asked.” West paused for dramatic effect, relishing the rapt attention of his audience. “And where do you think Sutton pointed? Out to the river, where that reckless fool had just saved a trio of children, and was wading after them with a baby in one arm and a woman on the other.”
“The man was Lord Trenear?” one of the housemaids gasped.
“None other.”
“Nothing to it, for a bloke as big as his lordship,” one of the footmen said with a grin.
“I should think he’ll be put in the papers for this,” another exclaimed.
“I hope so,” West said, “if only because I know how he would loathe it.” He paused as he saw Kathleen in the doorway.
“All of you,” she said sotto voce to the servants, “had better clear out before Sims or Mrs. Church catches you in here.”
“I was just reaching the best part,” West protested. “I’m about to describe my thrilling yet poignant rescue of the earl.”
“You can describe it later,” Kathleen said, standing in the doorway as the servants hastily filed out. “For now, you should be resting.” She glanced at Helen. “How is his temperature?”
“He needs to go up one more degree.”
“The devil I do,” West said. “With that fire stoked so high, the room is an oven. Soon I’ll be as brown as a Christmas goose. Speaking of that… I’m famished.”
“The doctor said we can’t feed you until you’ve reached the right temperature,” Pandora said.
“Will you take another cup of tea?” Cassandra asked.
“I’ll have a brandy,” West retorted, “along with a wedge of currant pie, a plate of cheese, a bowl of potato and turnip mash, and a beefsteak.”
“Broth?” he repeated indignantly.
“Come along, Hamlet,” Pandora said, “before West decides he wants bacon as well.”
“Wait,” Kathleen said, frowning. “Isn’t Hamlet supposed to be in the cellars?”
“Cook wouldn’t allow it,” Cassandra said. “She said he would find a way to knock over the bins and eat all the root vegetables.” She cast a proud glance at the cheerful-looking creature. “Because he is a very creative and enterprising pig.”
“Cook didn’t say that last part,” Pandora said.
“No,” Cassandra admitted, “but it was implied.”
The twins cleared the dogs and pig from the room and left.
Helen extended the thermometer to West. “Under your tongue, please,” she said gravely.
He complied with a long-suffering expression.
“Dear,” Kathleen asked Helen, “will you speak to Mrs. Church about dinner? With three invalids in the house, I think it’s best if we dine informally tonight.”
“Two invalids,” West mumbled indignantly around the thermometer. “I’m perfectly well.”
“Good idea,” Kathleen said. “Don’t forget to include a dish of lemon syllabub. As I recall, Dr. Weeks has a sweet tooth.”
“By all means,” West said around the thermometer, “let’s talk about food in front of a starving man.”
Before leaving, Helen paused to nudge his chin upward, closing his mouth. “No talking.”
After Helen had gone, Kathleen brought some tea to West and took the thermometer from his mouth. She examined the line of mercury intently. “A half degree more, and you may eat.”
West relaxed against the pillows, his animated expression easing into strained lines. “How is my brother?”
“Dr. Weeks is treating him. Mrs. Church and I saw an appalling bruise on his chest and side – we think he may have broken ribs. But he was conscious when he left the carriage, and he opened his eyes when he was brought to his room.”
“Thank God.” West sighed heavily. “It’s a miracle if it’s nothing more than broken ribs. That accident… my God, railway cars were strewn about like children’s toys. And the people who didn’t survive —” He broke off and swallowed hard. “I wish I could forget what I saw.”
Sitting on the bedside chair, Kathleen reached out and squeezed his hand gently. “You’re exhausted,” she murmured.
West let out a brief, mirthless laugh. “I’m so dog-tired that exhaustion would be an improvement.”