The Return of Lord Conistone. Lucy Ashford

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      ‘Certainly, Miss Verena’. Turley nodded dourly at the valet. ‘Though I wouldn’t trust that one further than I can throw him’.

      Verena agreed heartily.

      Lady Frances appeared to be in almost as much need of attention as Lucas; she was clearly close to fainting at the thought of the Earl’s grandson being shot on Wycherley land. The fact that Verena had also been in grave danger appeared not to occur to her.

      Verena somehow managed to persuade Lady Frances to retire for the night. ‘You’ll do no good here, Mama. I will cope. And Deb will bring you your headache powders,’ said Verena firmly.

      Which disposed for now of Deb, also, and the likelihood that she too would have hysterics once she realised that Lucas was actually staying under their roof.

       But—he kissed me. He told me he was mad ever to let me go.

      One thing was for sure. Getting himself shot was definitely not part of Lord Lucas Conistone’s plan.

      It was close to midnight when Turley informed her that Dr Pilkington had arrived from Framlington. Squaring her shoulders—Lord Conistone must leave as soon as possible, I will tell the doctor so!—she went downstairs to the back parlour, which Turley, obeying her orders, had converted into the patient’s room.

      Bentinck was there, building up the fire with his back to her—hateful man. And grey-haired Dr Pilkington, who’d been their family physician for as long as she could remember, was bending over—

      Oh, no. Her hand flew to her mouth. Oh, no. She’d thought—what had she thought? That Lucas would be sitting up, laughing, talking? No. He lay prone on the day bed that had been covered with sheets. His eyes were closed—such pain, he must have been in such pain, how did he walk all that way with me?—and a sheen of perspiration covered his haggard features. His shirt had been removed entirely; Verena felt a shock run through her, her mind blurring wildly with an image of wide male shoulders and powerfully sculpted muscles. No hint here of the dissipated gentleman of leisure that society assumed him to be.

      Dr Pilkington swung round and quickly ushered her out of the room. ‘Miss Sheldon! You will want an account of his lordship’s condition’.

      She’d been going to say, He really must be moved to Stancliffe Manor as soon as possible, Doctor. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s not at all appropriate that he should be here…. but all her prepared words evaporated. She cleared her throat. ‘Will—will he be all right, Doctor? ‘

      ‘Lord Conistone is sleeping,’ answered Dr Pilkington, closing the door on the sick room. ‘It’s only a flesh wound, but there’s always the risk that a fever might set in. I will see, of course, about getting him moved to Stancliffe Manor in your carriage, within the next hour or so; I was told by David Parker that you cannot possibly have him staying here, you clearly have a good deal already to see to, and besides, it would not be suitable—’

      ‘No!’ she said, too strongly.

      He looked crestfallen. ‘You mean that you cannot spare your carriage? In that case, I—’

      ‘No! I mean he must stay here! At least—until he is somewhat recovered!’

      Oh, Lord. What made her say it? Was she quite mad?

      ‘My dear,’ said Dr Pilkington, looking happier, ‘that would certainly be for the best! It shouldn’t be long; he’s a strong young fellow, and the bullet passed cleanly through the flesh. We can, of course, hire a nurse from the town to tend him—’

      ‘That will not be necessary, Doctor!’ said Verena crisply. She had seen plenty of hired nurses when she and Pippa had visited the hospital for wounded officers in Chichester. They struck her as rough and unkind. ‘I mean,’ she went on quickly, ‘that his valet, and our own servants, will be able to tend him quite adequately. That is, if it is not for long?’

      ‘He should recover quickly; a couple of days and he’ll be on his feet. He’s clearly a survivor. This is nothing compared to another wound he’s sustained in the not-too-distant past’.

      ‘Another wound?’

      ‘Yes, a nasty one, must just have missed his left lung; done by a French sabre, I’d say’.

      Verena had been striving to be businesslike. But now she felt rather sick. ‘How can you know?’

      ‘Oh, I used to be an army surgeon, so I’ve seen similar injuries. They jab and twist—that’s how the French foot soldiers are trained—up through the ribs, to strike for the heart. Lord Conistone was lucky to escape with his life’.

      The army, of course. He must have been wounded in the army, before he resigned.

      But…

      ‘Well, now,’ went on Dr Pilkington, ‘I must go back in and dress his arm for the night. One more thing—though I gather Lord Conistone wants no fuss, I’ll have to make a report to the constables, but I fear those villains will be long gone by now. I will call on the patient again in the morning’.

      Nodding, she turned to go up to her room, her mind churning with confusion. Those men who shot Lucas must have been French smugglers, straying from their usual part of the coast, and they’d planned, perhaps, on demanding a ransom for her. That must be the explanation. Billy and Tom and the others had been caught up unintentionally in the drama; for their sakes, Verena was more than happy for the whole frightening episode to be forgotten.

      But why did Lucas want tonight’s violent incident kept quiet? And earlier, when he’d confronted her outside the house, he had said he was leaving for Stancliffe; why, two hours later, was he still so close that he had been the first to come to her rescue?

      People whispered that Lucas Conistone was a coward. But he had not been a coward when he rescued her. And then he had kissed her; and all her carefully built defences had tumbled as his embrace set fire to her yearning soul.

      Oh, you fool, Verena.

      That night she slept badly and woke long before dawn, her heart full of despair, wondering how she would endure his presence here.

       Harlot. Fortune-hunting harlot.

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