Fallen Angel

Dumas squeezed Brenna’s hand and she watched him leave, using the small space of time to plaster a smile back on her face. She did not want to worry Michael with her own fear. He nodded at her weakly as she rejoined him, taking the hand he offered and bringing it to her lips. ‘Michael, you’d be cross with me if I’d just lain there as you have and demanded no help at all, and at the moment I feel like strangling you for your carelessness.’ Fluffing the pillows up behind him, Brenna ordered hot water to be added to the camphor to try to create an inhalant to ease him. The minutes ticked on, each one inexplicably longer, Brenna’s ears listening.

At last there was the sound of a carriage drawing up to the front porch, then she heard footsteps upon the paving.

‘The doctor’s here.’ She sighed in relief, leaving Mrs White to watch Michael as she hurried to the front door to let him in, pulling it open in one quick movement, almost colliding as she did so with the Duke of Westbourne. Frustration and anger veiled manners as she gave him no greeting. Could she never meet him without this ridiculous blush?

‘I am waiting for the doctor,’ she said shortly, stepping outside to peer up and down the street for any sign of a returning Dumas. Fresh tears of frustration rushed unbidden to her eyes as she saw the street empty and Nicholas was both astonished and alarmed.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked brusquely, pulling her around to meet him.

‘It’s Michael,’ Brenna answered tightly. ‘He’s so sick and a doctor has yet to arrive.’

Hailing his waiting phaeton, Nicholas ordered his driver to Harley Street for help before returning to the house. He caught a glimpse of Brenna as she hurried to the second-floor landing and was beside her in a trice. Both came at the same time into Michael’s room. His breathing now was erratic, jerkily taken and noisily completed and Nicholas went to his side, loosening the nightshirt from around his neck and pulling him from the bed towards the window.

‘Get the chair, and bring it over to the balcony,’ he said to Brenna, throwing open the doors to the frigidness of the late afternoon. Cold winter air came rolling on to Michael in icy waves and the change in temperature seemed to soothe him for, seated in the armchair by Nicholas, he regained at least a little measure of his breath, and his colour settled slowly into a more normal pinkness.

Brenna knelt at her uncle’s feet, her hand in his, tears streaming down her cheeks in relief at his improvement, her trance broken moments later when a well-dressed stranger appeared in the bedroom.

‘Clive.’ The Duke of Westbourne strode towards the new arrival, hand outstretched, and Brenna’s eyes strayed thankfully to the black medical bag he carried. Nicholas Pencarrow’s doctor and here so quickly? She stood with an uncertain gait, wishing Dr McInnes and Dumas present so that she might dismiss this pompous-looking newcomer, but one glance at Michael changed her mind for he still struggled for a normal breath. The man observed it too and quickly took control.

‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting downstairs, miss, I would like to examine my patient in private.’ His eyes moved to the Duke, who came forward and led her out of the room and down to the parlour he’d been in the first time he’d ever come here. His ministrations raised Brenna from the state of shock she’d felt ever since she’d seen the danger of Michael’s affliction and she shook free from his arm and seated herself on a chair near the cold and fireless hearth, raising her eyes to Nicholas’s as she did so.

‘I’m sorry.’ It was all she could say; she couldn’t even speak any more. She was sorry for herself and for Michael, sorry for all the huge and unsolvable problems that suddenly seemed laid at her door, sorry for Nicholas’s help given so freely even in the face of her own secrets, and sorry she could not lean into his strength and sob her heart out. Her chin wobbled and, as her hand came up to hide it, she cast her eyes down towards the floor, willing herself not to cry, not here and not now. She drew in a noisy breath and held it, struggling for a strength she far from felt.

Nicholas watched her efforts and crossed to a drinks’ tray, pouring out a liberal brandy and swirling it in his hand to warm it before turning to rejoin her. Effortlessly he came down on his haunches in front of her and placed the glass in her hands, a little distanced so as not to alarm her, but close enough to be able to speak quietly and try to allay all the fears for Michael he could see reflected so plainly in her beautiful violet eyes.

‘Brenna, Clive Weston-Tyler is a thorough physician and Michael already looked a lot better before we left his room.’ Her eyes strayed quickly to his, glad of his hopeful words, and she nodded as he continued, ‘I’m sure he’s seen lots of cases just like this one and he will be more than competent in dealing with your uncle.’

Taking a deep breath, Brenna tried to recover her scattered composure and tried also to still the shaking that seemed to have gripped her since leaving Michael’s room.

Seeing this, Nicholas pushed the glass to her lips. ‘Clive will be having to come and see you next if you don’t drink up.’

The words brought her eyes to his face. ‘He looks expensive,’ she blurted out before she had a chance to stop herself and Nicholas nodded, a smile in his voice.

‘He is.’

Goodness, she thought. I hope he’s not too much longer then, the shock of the bill could harm Michael just as easily as his lack of breath. ‘He is your family doctor?’ she countered awkwardly, trying to fill in the gap.

‘Yes. I keep him on a retainer for any medical emergency. Tonight I’m getting my money’s worth.’ Laughter glinted in green eyes and embarrassment crossed into hers as she turned away. Had he guessed at her thoughts? Was this his way of saying that he’d settle any accounts? First the orphanage, and now in their very home. How far did his indebtedness to her extend? Surely he was beginning to feel the weight of all these unexpected burdens.

She put down her glass, uncertain as to the effects of the brew, for her mind seemed already apart from her body and she always liked to feel in control. Standing, she walked to the window, looking out towards the dusk as it fell over the rooftops, her thoughts racing across the last few months.

With a new resolve in her eyes she began quietly, ‘Thank you for your help tonight, your Grace. Michael is dear to me and without him—’ She stopped, unable to go on, and he nodded as he saw what it was she was trying to say to him, though she hurried on as she guessed he was about to speak. ‘I consider your debt to me paid in full. A life for a life, yours for Michael’s. It’s a well-fulfilled obligation and I hold you in no arrears…’ She hesitated then, unable to phrase the obvious final conclusion, though he stepped forward and did it for her.

‘So you’re saying that now you want me gone. Is that it?’

Said like that, after all that he had done, it seemed so callous she could barely agree, though when she lifted her eyes to his she was amazed at the wry amusement that had settled there.

‘I’ll bow out on one condition, Brenna,’ he said softly and a frown creased her forehead as she searched without success for his meaning. ‘I want both you and Michael to come to my ball.’

Another social gathering! Unsureness knotted in her stomach.

‘Why?’

‘Your life is too narrow and you’re too young to live like a nun.’

‘And you think it’s up to you to change it?’ She coloured, angry now as she tossed her words at him with little care. ‘Your title affords you lordship only over your demesne, Nicholas Pencarrow, and lies far from deciding what may be best for me.’

‘Then you won’t come to my ball?’ he countered lazily, a muscle ticking at the back of his cheek, making a lie of his carefully placed indifference.

She felt caught. He always made her feel like that. If she rejected his offer, he still might meddle in her life, and if she accepted, all the old dangers lay very close at hand. A room filled with the game of love, dancing and flirting. Hard violet shards raked across him.

‘If I accept, it will be on one condition only,’ she mirrored his words and his smile deepened.

‘What’s that?’

‘I won’t dance.’

Fresh merriment filled his voice. ‘As you wish.’ He held out his hand but she failed to take it, angry at his teasing in a way he would never understand.

‘I don’t have a dress.’ The words were out even as she thought them—childish, she knew, but she wanted to diminish some of his pleasure at having cornered her and let him worry about what it was she would wear.

‘I’ll send you one.’

‘You will not.’ Shock ran through her body at the intimacy of his suggestion.

‘Then come in navy. It always suits you.’ His face creased into a wide smile as he continued, ‘I’d even be happy with the paint-splattered white smock, just as long as you’re inside it.’

She blushed again, her whole body roiling at his unspoken meanings. Nicholas Pencarrow was flirting with her? Her, when he had the choice of every other London female? Without wishing it, she softened her tone, disarmed against the power he was so pointlessly offering, and deep dimples appeared.

‘I begin to think it would have made my life more tranquil had I just left you to the mercy of the highwaymen, your Grace.’

‘Tranquillity can sometimes be equated with boredom, Brenna. You have to take risks in life to get what you want.’ Gentling his teasing when he felt her withdrawal, he added, ‘I missed you at the ballet the other afternoon.’

She had the grace to look slightly guilty. ‘I had business in Worsley. We’re selling Airelies.’ She disguised the hurt well, she thought, her businesslike tones hard across the softer sorrow.

‘That’s the house I came to with your gun?’ Nicholas asked.

‘Yes, I was brought up there from the age of twelve.’ She added, ‘It’s home,’ before she could stop herself.

‘More so than this one?’ He gestured at the building they stood in.

‘Michael brought me there first after York…’ Halting in mid-sentence, she realised the extent of what it was she had just revealed to him, and cursed herself for the inadvertent slip of both tongue and mind. The arrival of Dr Weston-Tyler at that moment saved her from any awkward explanations.

‘Will he be all right?’ she asked, her legs readying for flight upstairs should his answer prove different from what she hoped.

The older man nodded. ‘He’s had a severe attack of asthmatic bronchitis, Miss Stanhope, due largely, I gather, from the fact that you were not here to send him off more quickly to a physician.’

Brenna’s face crumpled. ‘’Tis much the same as I told him. I’m afraid he’s very stubborn.’