Page 35

“Merciful heavens!” Mrs. Calhoun, the newly installed housekeeper at Burnwick House, declared as Sebastian stepped into the kitchen. “What’s happened?”

Sebastian would have answered, but he was currently quite occupied with attempting to hold back the blood pouring from his nose. Though he’d had only the briefest interaction with the woman who’d hit him, he had no difficulty identifying her: She was a daughter of the house, a lady of Society.

He’d not always been well received by the London set. This was, however, the first time a fine lady had physically assaulted him.

Ewan, who’d been tasked by the Misses Wakefield to see Sebastian deposited in the kitchen, took up the tale. “Miss Wakefield and Miss Seraphina were undertaking the game of battledore and shuttlecock on the lawn. Somehow or another—I didn’t see the thing actually happen—one of them mistook Sebastian’s face for the shuttlecock and batted it heartily.”

It was a humorous version of what had actually happened, but not terribly far off the mark.

Cook arrived on the scene in the very next instant, with a fresh dishcloth in hand. She handed it to Sebastian. “Hold your nose tightly. See if you cannae stop the bleeding. Do you suspect it’s broken?”

Sebastian shrugged, pressing the cloth against nose. His voice emerged oddly pitched and toned, as was always the case when a person’s nose was closed off. “I’ve been prone to nosebleeds since I was a lad. Doesn’t take much for this to happen.”

Still, it hurt like the dickens. Whichever of the two sisters had been the racket-wielding assassin had done a fine job of laying him low.

Connall’s sister Glenna, a chambermaid at Burnwick house, wandered into the kitchen as well, and Mrs. Calhoun instructed her to wet a rag and bring it over. There’d be no salvaging his clothing without a truly thorough washing, but Sebastian hoped the purpose of the cloth was to help him clean some of the blood off his hands and face. He no doubt looked a sight.

Cook and Mrs. Calhoun fussed a bit over him. They assured him his nose wasn’t yet showing signs of bruising, which seemed a good indication it might not actually be broken. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, which they insisted was encouraging.

Through it all, Sebastian felt like a fool. He’d been eying the grounds to the east of the main house and hadn’t been paying overly close attention to his immediate environs. He’d stepped around a hedgerow and directly into the path of the racquet. His assaulter had not been overly aware of her surroundings either, apparently.

“Shall I fetch the laird?” Glenna asked. “He’s in the drawing room with Mr. and Mrs. Wakefield.”

Sebastian shook his head, slowly on account of the throbbing pain. “A laird doesn’t interrupt a visit with a fine family on account of an injury sustained by his home farmer.”

General nods of agreement rippled through the group. The locals were generally quite good at separating the role he played with the intricate interconnections of his actual life. But now and then, even they forgot.

“It is quite a coincidence that the both of you should call at Burnwick House at the same time.” Cook spoke as she worked at her mortar and pestle, no doubt creating a poultice for Sebastian’s nose.

“He knows the grounds of this estate were neglected for many years, and he thought I might have suggestions for improvements and grounds staff.”

Glenna stood a bit taller at that explanation. “My brother Archie knows all about plants and such. If Mr. Wakefield were to hire him on as gardener, Archie’d prove a fine choice.”

Though she was, no doubt, partial to her brother, she was also not wrong. The oldest of the McCrory siblings was, in fact, the very reason Connall McCrory had come to work on the home farm with Sebastian. He’d learned a great deal from his oldest brother, and that made him a godsend in the work that needed doing.

The next moment, two silhouettes appeared in the doorway to the kitchen and all activity paused. Sebastian knew the ladies the moment a spill of light illuminated them: the Misses Wakefield. The one who’d laid him low with her racquet looked markedly uncomfortable. She moved with stiffness and purpose. Her expression was prim and pinched, and her brown eyes swept the room with an evaluating gaze. He suspected she was the older of the two sisters, though likely not by much. Her younger sister moved more fluidly and with more eagerness. A soft smile touched the younger lady’s face. There was not a hint of such on Miss Wakefield’s.

“We have come to inquire after your injury,” she said to Sebastian, standing at more than a proper distance, and speaking with a directness not softened by any clear show of empathy.

“The general consensus is that it is likely not broken.” Again, his voice sounded so absurd owing to his continued pinching of his nose.

“I’m pleased to hear that,” Miss Wakefield said. “And I am quite sorry for my role in rendering it injured, broken or not.”

It was something of an apology, he would give her that. But it was offered in a tone of obligation that wasn’t precisely comforting. People of her station in life were not raised to be overly thoughtful toward those occupying the rungs beneath them. He could not entirely fault her for those predispositions which she had been raised to embrace.

Cook motioned him over toward the fire, her mortar and pestle nearby. He was not displeased to have an excuse for ending this incredibly stilted conversation. He joined Cook where she stood, lowered his handkerchief, and awaited her ministrations.

With careful movements, she dipped very narrow, short strips of linen into the poultice she had created and laid them with great care across his tender nose. He kept his winces to a minimum, somehow finding himself extremely reluctant to appear less than stalwart in front of the two visitors to the belowstairs.

Miss Seraphina moved to where he stood. There was a genuineness to the empathy in her eyes that he appreciated. “I do hope your nose isn’t broken.”

“I foster that same hope myself.” He had a tendency to speak roughly at times, especially when he was frustrated or in pain. It was something he was working on, but often failed.

Still, she didn’t seem overly bothered by the slightly acerbic quality to his voice. She simply smiled. “I feel terribly guilty, as I pressured Cordelia to play battledore and shuttlecock when she did not wish to. Had we not been playing, you wouldn’t have been injured.”

“Does your sister object to games?” Society misses, in his limited experience, reached an age very early on when anything deemed childish or unsophisticated was dismissed as undesirable.

“Oh, not at all,” Miss Seraphina said. “She is simply prone to silly accidents and tripping over herself. She’s a very graceful dancer, which makes it all the more odd that the moment we undertake anything remotely sporting, she inevitably makes a fool of herself.”

“Do her bouts of ungainliness usually end in someone being injured?” He bit back a wince as Cook pressed the poultice-soaked strips more firmly against his face, holding them in place so they would dry stuck to the skin.

“Hardly ever,” Miss Seraphina said. “Mostly her mishaps embarrass only her. She will be pleased to know your nose is not actually broken, though I don’t suspect she will feel any less humiliated.”

That was an interesting evaluation. Miss Wakefield did not give the impression of being humiliated by their unfortunate collision. If anything, she seemed rather dismissive of the entire thing, more annoyed than concerned.

Sebastian generally considered himself a good judge of character. Was it possible he had misjudged the lady?

Given enough time in her company, he might manage to sort out the mystery of her. As Cook finished her ministrations and the two sisters made their departure, he resigned himself to forever being baffled by Miss Cordelia Wakefield. Sorting her required he spend time in her company, but London misses did not socialize with home farmers.