It was with all these thoughts competing that Sophie finally made ready to leave the yacht. She wasn’t fool enough to believe Rotherby would wave her off with a smile, but this wasn’t Dover at dawn, and even he wasn’t brazen enough to throw a screeching female over his shoulder in the middle of a busy dock. Then, once alone, she would make her way to the nearest jeweller, where she intended to sell the miniature crossbow to pay for modest lodgings until she found work. She stared down at the pretty pearl-inlaid piece and felt a brief pang of guilt before reminding herself she wouldn’t need to sell it at all, if his lordship hadn’t acted like one of Matilda’s pigwidgeoned dunderheads. And even though he’d acted fairly honourably since discovering her identity, she was sure it was only because he feared further damage to his own name.
She scowled. Most people would think her very foolhardy indeed to refuse an offer from one of the most eligible bachelors of the ton with so much at stake. But despite every good reason to accept Lord Rotherby, she found herself unable to entertain the notion. He had teased her from the moment they met, and she had risked everything in return. How could she consider marriage to a man who brought out the very worst in her? Their match, no matter how sensible, would end in heartache and disaster.
She sighed heavily, just as the faint shouts of the deckhands filtered through from above.
‘Calais,’ she whispered, and after one final glance at her cloaked countenance, made her way up on deck.
Despite the promise of dry land, it was the chaos on board that stole Sophie’s attention at first. Not only did Lord Rotherby keep a far bigger crew than she’d first realised, they also seemed to know their way around the complex sails and rigging blindfolded. It was a comforting thought as they navigated their way into the busy port, which seemed to be spilling over with every kind of trader, vying to dock and unload their wares.
She waited tentatively, trying not to think of the coldness that had crept into her bones, and focusing instead on her plan. Yet as the first faint French words began to reach across the churning water, she became conscious of a shadow behind her.
‘Please don’t try to dissuade me,’ she murmured quietly, ‘for my mind is quite made up.’
‘That may be as you say, miss,’ came Horace’s perturbed response. ‘But it’s the guvnor, miss. He’s tak’n a turn for the worse.’
One look at Horace’s wide-eyed fear was enough to convince Sophie that this was not a ruse cooked up by Lord Rotherby to stall her plan.
‘Take me to him,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘And send for a doctor as soon as we dock.’
Moments later, Sophie was anxious to see that the wound had indeed become inflamed, and his lordship delirious with it. Instantly, she set about implementing all she’d learned from nursing Josephine’s lung spasms and feverish deliriums, but with minimal effect.
‘I am loathe to move him,’ she whispered to Horace, when she had settled him as best she could. ‘Yet I do believe we stand little chance of breaking his pernicious fever while he’s stuck in this stuffy cabin. We must remove him to a more comfortable lodging, just as soon as it can be procured.’
‘Right you are, miss,’ the fiery tiger acquiesced, his swift agreement only serving to make Sophie even more anxious. ‘I’ll send enquiries immediately.’
Sophie nodded before returning to Rotherby’s side in a much graver mood. Awaiting ruination as a debutante was one matter, facing the gallows as a murderess quite another.
ChapterThirteen
MISCREANTS AND GUTTERSNIPES
Several fretful hours later
It was one bumpy coach journey, two harried conversations– during which Sophie couldn’t recall the French forniecefor love nor money– and several fretful hours later when the doctor finally arrived.
Horace had secured lodgings on a quiet Calais street and while they weren’t the finest, Sophie was satisfied the sheets were clean and the surroundings respectable. The landlord also seemed happy to put things on account, especially when Sophie bestowed her most beguiling smile, restoring her faith that on most people, and on most occasions, it worked.
‘About time too!’ Horace scowled while watching the doctor’s ponderous approach out of the bedchamber window. ‘For ’ow long the guvnor has been talkin’ to hisself, no one knows.’
Sophie nodded, frowning. She too had heard Rotherby’s feverish mutterings, that had suggested something was playing on his mind.
‘He’s mentioned the wordmarka few times,’ Sophie whispered. ‘Might it have something to do with why he left London?’
She’d wracked her brains but could think of little that may have prompted a midnight flight by an established member of the ton. To her surprise, however, a shadow of genuine concern passed across Horace’s face.
‘That’s not for me to say, miss,’ he said, his lips set loyally. ‘Tis a serious matter, to be sure, but the guvnor weren’t r’sponsible of course. He was jus’ coming to Paris for time to sort ’t out.’
Not for the first time, Sophie wondered at a world in which a notorious rake of the ton earned the undying loyalty of a dockland tiger. And yet, with this cryptic utterance Sophie had to be content, forle médecinhad finally arrived at the bedchamber door.
The doctor turned out to be a portly gentleman of advancing years who smelled of tobacco and bourbon. He pronounced Lord Rotherby’s wound to betrèsenflamé, and recommended a thin oxtail gruel and a course of leeches.
‘Leeching always seems a barbarous practice to me,’ Sophie whispered upon spying the bottle of creatures in the doctor’s open bag.
‘May look it, miss,’ Horace growled knowledgeably, ‘but works better than bloodlettin’ and cuppin’.’
As Horace predicted, the prescribed course turned out to be surprisingly calming, and once the doctor had left, Sophie returned to his Lordship’s side.
‘I’ll have you know I am a Rotherby!’ he muttered, turning his brow into her hand unseeingly.
