Sometimes, God help her, she wished it was over, so she could surrender to pure, primitive grief. Other times she wondered how she would learn of his death. Would she be with him? Would Richard send her a message? Or would she arrive and find her brother’s bed empty, and know the worst?
Sally realized that the yarn had broken in her hands. Fingers shaking, she knotted the strand together again. You must be calm. David doesn’t need to deal with your grief on top of his pain.
She looked around at the dark, ugly room, hearing the distant sounds of suffering men, smelling the countless wretched odors of a hospital. It was a poor spot to die, but she supposed any place was.
That afternoon Jocelyn joined her aunt for tea in the sunny parlor that was Laura Kirkpatrick’s special retreat. After they had been served and were private, she announced, “You’ll be pleased to hear that my marriage problem has been solved. Aunt Elvira can resign herself to struggling along on Willoughby’s present income.”
Laura set down her cup, her face lighting up. “You’ve accepted one of your suitors? Which one? There’s just enough time for the reading of the banns, but it will have to be a small ceremony, I fear.”
“Better than that.” Jocelyn handed her aunt a sheet of paper. “The deed is done. Behold, my marriage lines.”
“What on earth?” Laura looked at the paper and became very still. When she glanced up, her face showed the beginning of anger. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Jocelyn had to pause a moment, remembering her last sight of David, before she could continue. “I found a dying man, and in return for a substantial consideration, he did me the honor of making me his wife.”
“But you’ve never even met David Lancaster!”
“I got the idea when I was visiting Richard Dalton, and he mentioned Major Lancaster’s condition,” she explained. “It’s perfectly reasonable. Major Lancaster’s sister will be provided for, and I have fulfilled the conditions of Father’s will. Richard wasn’t shocked when I suggested it, and neither was Major . . . my husband.”
Lady Laura’s eyes flashed with fury. “They are men who have lived on the edge of death for years. Of course they will see things differently than society will!”
Jocelyn’s mouth tightened. “Is that why you’re concerned—because of what others will say? I had thought you were above such things. Besides, most of the fashionable world will be amused if the story becomes known. They’ll laugh and think me very clever.”
Spots of color stood out on Laura’s cheeks, but her voice was level again. “I can’t deny that what people say is of concern to me. The Kendal family has already had more than its share of scandal.”
As Jocelyn paled at that reminder of the past, her aunt continued implacably, “But what truly bothers me is that you are using a fine man’s death for your own selfish ends. Why didn’t you discuss this with me first?”
Jocelyn tried to maintain calm, but the fear that her aunt would despise her was overwhelming. “You didn’t want to know what I was going to do!” she cried, her voice breaking. “Please, Aunt Laura, don’t be angry with me. I wouldn’t have married him if I’d known how it would upset you. It was an idea of impulse. Major Lancaster welcomed my proposal, and then it was too late to withdraw. I thought we would both benefit, with no harm done. Please . . . please try to understand.”
Lady Laura sighed, her anger fading into disappointment. “Perhaps I wouldn’t be so upset if your impulse had fallen on a stranger rather than a man I know and respect. David deserves better than to be used so . . . so carelessly.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Jocelyn whispered, aching at her aunt’s disapproval. “But the deed is done and cannot be undone.”
Lady Laura rose to her feet. “Tomorrow morning I shall go down to Kennington. It’s time to open the house and prepare for Andrew’s return from the Continent.” A trace of acid appeared in her normally soft voice. “Now that you’re a married woman, you no longer need me as a chaperon.”
“I suppose not.” Jocelyn gazed at a cake that she’d mangled into crumbs.
Her aunt paused in the door. “I’ll be back in a fortnight or two, and no doubt I’ll be over my anger by then.” After offering that olive branch, she left.
Shaking, Jocelyn sank into her chair. As if the last day hadn’t been difficult enough, now she’d alienated her dearest friend, the woman who was the closest thing she had to a mother. She saw her deed through her aunt’s eyes, and felt bitterly ashamed. Once again, as so often in her life, she’d got everything wrong.
Well, there was no help for it. She must lie in the bed she had made, even if it wasn’t a conventional marriage bed.
As she searched for something to cheer herself, she recalled that the Parkingtons were holding an informal ball this evening. Not too large and with most guests well-known to Jocelyn, it was exactly the sort of event she liked best.
It would be good not to spend the evening wondering how soon she would become a widow.
The gathering at the Parkingtons’ house was small, since most of fashionable society had already left London for their country estates. Yet despite Jocelyn’s anticipation, she found herself restless, bored by conversations that seemed frivolous compared to the stark realities of the military hospital.
Then a latecomer arrived, and she inhaled sharply, her pulse accelerating when she saw that it was Rafael Whitbourne, the Duke of Candover. Just looking at him made her feel better. It wasn’t only that he was very good-looking, although he was. What she found irresistibly attractive was the knowledge of how very well they would suit each other.
As she chatted with other guests, Jocelyn monitored Candover’s progress as he worked his way around the ballroom. She knew better than to put herself in his path. As a handsome bachelor duke who was rich beyond the dreams of avarice, he’d been pursued by countless females, which had made him justifiably cynical. However, she had a title and fortune of her own and didn’t need his. They were perfect for each other. If Jocelyn was to win him, it would have to be because of genuine attraction and a mutual recognition of compatibility.
Her patience was rewarded when Candover sought her out after the small orchestra started playing dance music. “Lady Jocelyn,” he said with obvious pleasure. “I’m glad to see that you’re still in town. Will you honor me with this waltz?”
“Only if you promise not to step on my toes again,” she said teasingly.
“That last time wasn’t my fault,” he protested, his gray eyes laughing. “When that drunken boor barreled into me, the wonder is that we both didn’t end up on the floor in a most undignified tangle.”
“I found it quite remarkable how you kept your balance while at the same time leaving the boor peacefully unconscious on the floor where he could do no more damage. How did you manage that?” she asked as he led her onto the dance floor.
“I merely assisted him in a direction he was already going.” The music began, and he drew her into waltz position. “Learning how to defend oneself is one of the hidden benefits of an Eton education.”
The pleasure she took in his company reminded her why she had refused other suitors and justified the painful ceremony earlier in the day. As they exchanged pleasantries, she studied his face, admiring the firmness of his features, the clarity of those cool gray eyes. He was known as Rafe by the handful of people who were his intimates, but she would never dare call him that without an invitation. Perhaps someday.
She thought she was laughing and talking in her normal manner, so it was a surprise when Candover asked, “Forgive me, Lady Jocelyn, but you appear rather out of sorts today. Is something wrong?”
It was the inquiry of a friend, not a mere acquaintance. Glad to see proof that her interest was not entirely one-sided, she replied, “It was an odd sort of day. I got married this morning and have not yet accustomed myself to the fact.”
Surprise showed through his usual detachment. “Indeed? I hadn’t heard that you were co
ntemplating the fatal step.” His gaze became ironic. “Surely the Parkingtons’ house is an odd place for a honeymoon.”
The time had come to inform him of her circumstances, and her availability. “It’s not generally known, but my father made the most ridiculous will, with the condition that I marry by the age of twenty-five or be largely disinherited.”
His brows rose. “How medieval.”
“Quite, especially when you consider that we were on the best of terms. But there was nothing to be done about it, so this morning I contracted a marriage of convenience.” A note of bitterness entered her voice. “I had hoped to have a real marriage.”
“If by that you mean a love match, you know how rare that is in our order, and how seldom it is successful,” he said dryly.
“I didn’t mean a love match in the sense of being so besotted that one has no true sense of the other person’s character,” she explained. “There should be attraction, of course, but from all I’ve heard, that fades in time for even the most infatuated lovers. Far better to base a marriage on respect and mutual affection. A partnership of friendship and shared values and goals.”
“How very reasonable of you,” he said, intrigued. “I wish more women had such a sensible attitude. It would make marriage a far more appealing state.”
From the approval in his eyes, she knew that she had just risen several steps in his estimation. If he was to marry, it would be to a woman like her, who would make his life run smoothly rather than causing painful, emotional scenes.
But marriage was merely a future possibility. Thinking of her current state, she said with a sigh, “I have had to settle for much less than I wanted.” She glanced up at him through her lashes. “I will have to look elsewhere for more rewarding relationships.”
“Your husband will not object?” he asked, gaze intent.
“He will not,” Jocelyn said firmly. In the arms of the man she wanted to marry, she had no desire to think of the soldier who had touched her life so briefly. “Our marriage is nothing but a mutual convenience.”
The waltz came to an end. Both of them lowered their arms from waltz position, but instead of moving from the floor, they stayed still, caught in a moment of acute mutual awareness. Candover’s gaze went over her with great deliberation, lingering on her low neckline and the curves visible through the gauzy summer gown.
Jocelyn recognized his scrutiny for a subtle, wordless advance. The implications were almost frightening. With a gesture, a faint withdrawal, she could let him know that she had no interest in proceeding further. Instead, she caught his gaze and smiled.
Expert in the ways of dalliance, he recognized her silent signal. With a slow, devastating smile, he escorted her from the dance floor. “I’m leaving London in the morning, but I look forward to calling on you when I return to town in September.”
She would be a widow by then and free to explore the promise in his eyes, though that freedom was coming at a higher price than she had expected. Suppressing the painful thought of the dying major, she replied, “I shall await that with anticipation.”
With a last, intimate glance, he withdrew. To dance with her twice in a row would draw attention. Instead, there was a tacit agreement between them that left her breathless with excitement. Finally, the only man she wanted was seeing her as a woman, and all because she was now married.
Coolly planning an affair made her uncomfortable, and she wasn’t naive enough to think his plans went beyond an affair. But she strongly suspected that it would take intimacy for him to fully appreciate how perfect they were for each other.
If she lost her gamble as well as her maidenhead—well, she wasn’t made of stone. Though it would hurt badly to have him decide he liked her well enough for his bed but not well enough to be his duchess, there would be compensations. She had a normal woman’s curiosity about passion, and she found Candover so attractive that she would surely enjoy what he had to teach.
Would he be horrified or intrigued when he learned she was a virgin? She assumed he was clever enough to understand the implications of her spending her wedding night alone at a private ball. Her hope was that he would be pleased.
The two months until September stretched endless and empty before her.
Chapter 5
Sally tossed restlessly all night after she left the hospital, angry at the memory of the cool society beauty who had so casually used and discarded her brother. Even during her lessons with the Launceston children the next morning, her mind continued to churn.
As she left for her daily trip to the hospital, she realized she had been jolted out of her fatalism. For the last fortnight she had passively accepted the doctors’ verdict on David’s fate. Now her anger had given her a resolve not to give in so tamely. David was in no condition to fight for his life, but she was. If there was anything or anyone who might offer a chance of recovery, she would pursue it.
Before going to her brother’s room, Sally sought out her brother’s physician, Dr. Ramsey, determined to question every possibility. Dr. Ramsey was a solid man with an air of permanent fatigue. Unlike many of his colleagues, he was willing to admit the limits of his knowledge.
He blinked warily behind his spectacles when Sally caught him between patients, knowing from experience how persistent she could be. “Yes, Miss Lancaster?” he said with a rising inflection that implied he had very little time to talk.
“Dr. Ramsey, isn’t there anything more that can be done for my brother? He’s fading away in front of my eyes. Surely there must be something you can do.”
The physician removed his spectacles and polished them. “Major Lancaster’s case puzzles me. He’s holding on to life with remarkable tenacity, but there is so little that can be done in cases of paralysis.” He set his spectacles firmly on his nose. “Besides the paralysis, I suspect that he has sustained internal injuries which are beyond our present power to heal. All we can do is make his last days as comfortable as possible.”
Sally caught his wandering eye before he could escape. “I don’t wish to criticize your care. I know you’ve done everything you can, and I am profoundly grateful. Still—is there any physician or surgeon in London who might have a different approach, perhaps something that is radical by the usual standards? There is little to lose.”
Dr. Ramsey nodded. After a long moment of thought, he said, “There’s a mad Scot called Ian Kinlock at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. I hear that he just returned from Belgium and several weeks doing surgery after Waterloo. Very eccentric, but he’s done some remarkable things.”
The physician glanced at Sally’s modest dress. “He’s qualified as both physician and surgeon, and his fees for private consultations are very high. Apparently he charges people with money a great deal, then gives free care to gutter scum. Quite, quite mad. You’ll never persuade him to call on a patient at the York Hospital.”
“I have just come into some money unexpectedly. We shall see.”
She turned and strode down the hall. Behind her, she heard Dr. Ramsey mutter, “God help Ian Kinlock.” She didn’t dignify the comment by looking back.
Her mind was spinning as she walked to David’s room. Consulting a new surgeon was grasping at the thinnest of straws, but as long as there was any hope at all, it was worth trying. Besides, she liked the idea of spending Lady Jocelyn’s money in a way that might benefit David. St. Bartholomew’s Hospital was one of the oldest and busiest in London, and she recalled vaguely that it was a center for surgery. It was near St. Paul’s Cathedral, and she would need to hire a hackney coach. . . .
Distracted, she almost collided with a hefty young man in a powdered wig and blue livery outside David’s door. After a moment she recognized him as the footman who had been present at the mockery of a wedding the day before. Morgan, his name was.
“Come to see if your mistress’s husband is dead yet?” she asked caustically. She felt ashamed of herself when the young man flushed scarlet. He was too easy a target; it wasn’t fair to bl
ame him for Lady Jocelyn’s want of conduct.
“I came to take my brother home, Miss Lancaster,” he said stiffly. “Lady Jocelyn asked me to inquire after Major Lancaster while I was here.”
“Your brother is also a patient?” Sally asked in a more conciliatory tone.
“He was a corporal in the light dragoons, miss. Lady Jocelyn has offered him a position in her household and the chance to convalesce in her home,” Morgan explained. “She sent her own carriage to make the trip as easy as possible.”
The footman’s words were intended to demonstrate his mistress’s kindness to a woman who clearly did not value her ladyship. Instead, they sowed the seeds of an idea that burst instantly into full, radiant flower. This ghastly hospital was enough to make a well person ill, and she would have removed David if possible. But she couldn’t take him to her employers or have afforded to hire lodgings and servants to care for him.
Now, however, an alternative had presented itself. Under English law, David owned the no-doubt luxurious house in Upper Brook Street that the Lady Jocelyn called home. The witch had no right to refuse him admittance. Sally would take her brother to Upper Brook Street, and if her unwanted sister-in-law objected, she’d bring the place down around her ladyship’s shell-pink ears.
“How convenient that you have brought a coach,” she purred. “We can use it to move Major Lancaster to Lady Jocelyn’s house.”
Morgan looked first startled, then alarmed. “I don’t know, miss. Her ladyship asked me to inquire after him, but she said nothing about bringing him home.”
Fixing the hapless footman with the quelling stare she used on her students, Sally said, “No doubt she was worried about moving him. However, I just spoke with my brother’s physician, and he agreed that there was nothing to lose by a change.” Which wasn’t exactly what Ramsey had said, but she’d sort that out later.