A Noble Regard

A Noble Regard

by Lindsey Brooks

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Lindsey Brooks

Published by Strict Publishing International

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One

Helena pointed the gun and pulled the trigger. The roar of the pistol firing was deafening within the carriage. Her attacker cried out and staggered back from the open door. As his snarling face disappeared behind a cloud of gunpowder smoke she heard the other door being wrenched open. The horses whinnied and stamped their hooves in alarm, jerking the carriage just as Helena turned towards her second assailant. She overbalanced, bounced off the seat and landed face down on the floor. Strong fingers clamped tightly around her ankle.

Fear gripped her as fiercely as her attacker’s hand. The pistol had fallen somewhere beneath her. Frantically groping for it, she fought her confining skirts to kick out at the man. He gave a grunt as one of her sturdy walking shoes made contact and Helena struggled to turn her head to aim more kicks, but her bonnet was askew and covering her eyes. All she could do was continue striking out blindly, heart pounding and terror rising inside her.

Her attacker was dragging her towards the doorway with one hand while he tried to seize her flailing foot with the other. If he once got that iron grip on both ankles she was finished. Helena scrabbled again for the pistol, sobbing in frustration when her hand came up empty. She was weakening, her lungs burning so much she could not even scream. Blind panic was an instant away.

Enough! Release the lady!

The grip on Helena’s ankle vanished. She pulled off her skewed bonnet and looked breathlessly at her attacker. His kerchief mask had slipped to hang loosely around his neck and his eyes were wide in surprise. With fleeting satisfaction she saw that his cheek was reddened and his lip swollen where her kicks had struck home.

Hands up and turn around slowly, the harsh voice beyond the carriage ordered.

Helena saw her attacker shiver as the twin barrels of a shotgun appeared beyond him, held by someone she could not see from where she sprawled on the carriage floor. Her breath still catching in her throat, she rolled over and shuffled towards the door.

I regret that I am unable to assist you, ma’am, her rescuer said, but I must hold this vermin at gunpoint. I hope you are not injured.

Helena managed to lever herself upright, legs hanging in the carriage doorway. Her hair was an unruly mess covering her eyes and she swept it back with a shaking hand to see the man who had saved her.

Sir, I -. Her heart was already beating fast. It began to beat even faster. Overwhelmed by the terror of the attack she had not recognised his voice. Swamped by a sudden surge of conflicting emotions, her mind abandoned logical thought. And though her eyes could still see, what they saw only further confounded her ability to think. It was Kit!

But this Kit was thinner, paler and older than the one she had known. His face was colourless, his cheeks hollow and his eyes, so bright and lively in her memory, were dull and rimmed by dark circles. Only his dark hair seemed unchanged, with the same unruly locks covering one eyebrow and inviting her hand to reach out and smooth them back into place, as she had so often done before.

Something clenched tightly within Helena’s chest while she stared at Kit and he stared back. She saw his lips curve into the semblance of a smile.

Helena.

She drew a ragged breath. Kit.

She said no more. The gun wavered in his hands. The man it no longer pointed at moved suddenly, pushing the barrels downwards and forcing its butt against Kit’s chest. He grunted in pain as he staggered back, the gun falling as he clasped his right hand to his chest. His attacker took to his heels, casting frequent looks backward as he ran.

Damn it all, Kit cursed through clenched teeth and seemed to find it hard to raise the shotgun to his shoulder.

Helena came to life at last as he aimed at the fleeing man. Oh, don’t shoot him! She was surprised when Kit barked a laugh, still pointing the weapon at the fleeing figure until it was clear he was intent only on escape.

Don’t worry. I’ve never yet caused any man harm by pointing an empty gun at him.

Her pulse and mind were still racing. You mean… you came to save me with an unloaded gun?

He cocked his head towards the running man, who promptly disappeared around a bend in the road. He didn’t know that.

What if he had had a gun of his own? she asked, stunned by his indifference to the danger he had placed himself in.

But he didn’t. Kit grinned, the skin stretching across his too-visible cheekbones into an expression Helena did not like at all. Besides, you were keeping him far too busy. He laid the gun down. That was your pistol I heard, I assume. There are plenty of shotguns around here but no one needs a pistol for everyday work. Then I heard the horses whinny and knew something was amiss. Are you all right? You’re not hurt?

It was over. She was safe. Abruptly she felt weak. A sudden flood of frightening images made her feel light-headed and she did not object when Kit helped her from the carriage and sat her down on the grass by the roadside.

Breathe deeply. It will pass. It’s quite normal after a fight.

He would know. He had been a soldier.

That was quite a struggle you were putting up. I fancy that fellow will shortly have a nice mess of bruises to cope with. He grinned again, wolfishly, with a baring of teeth that Helena found disturbing.

The other one. Did I…? Did I…? She felt the pricking of tears.

Kit got to his knees beside her and put an arm around her shoulder. No, you didn’t kill him. He took himself off just as I arrived, running for all he was worth.

Relieved though she was by the knowledge, Helena’s emotions remained in turmoil and she leaned gratefully into Kit’s embrace.

Where’s your coachman? he asked.

Helena felt the roughness of his jacket on her cheek and the warmth of his body beneath it. He ran off.

Groom?

There wasn’t one. It’s a hired carriage. It was cheaper without the groom.

Your maid? Kit persisted.

Helena lifted her head, all at once acutely aware of how close they were. With what seemed a great effort she freed herself from his encircling arm. I didn’t bring one.

Kit said nothing and Helena was too exhausted to care that she had flouted convention by travelling alone. And she was damned if she would tell him why.

She watched him get somewhat unsteadily to his feet and her fear rose again as he disappeared behind the carriage. A tremor ran through her. He reappeared almost at once holding a pistol in each hand, standing round-shouldered, as if he bore a weight on his back.

I found this in the carriage, he said, holding up one of the weapons. A pretty little muff-pistol. He gave the wolfish grin that seemed to have become natural for him. But no muff.

It was in my reticule, Helena said hoarsely and clasped her hands tightly together as another tremor shook her.

Then this one belonged to the fellow you shot. He made the other pistol safe with the ease of long practice and regarded her with his dull eyes.

Helena looked away, feeling what little control remained to her slipping. I… I’ve never shot anyone before.

Kit’s laugh had the same harshness she had heard earlier. "I should hope not. It’s not the done thing for young ladies of the ton to go around shooting people."

I tried to only wound him. Helena felt like screaming.

Then you succeeded admirably. There’s not much blood, Kit said offhandedly. The fellow may be hurting but I doubt he’ll die.

His image faded suddenly and Helena began to shake. Despite the fierce grip her hands had on each other, her arms were quivering and her teeth chattered as though it was a winter’s day.

Oh, I’m being a fool! she heard him say. Come on. I’m afraid I can’t carry you but we must get you home. Can you walk if I help you?

Barely aware of putting one foot in front of the other, Helena allowed herself to be led to the carriage, leaning heavily on Kit as she shivered with reaction. Awkwardly, between them they got her inside and Kit tucked the travelling blanket around her.

I’m afraid I can’t drive this damned thing, he said. I’ll have to lead the horses. You just sit back and we’ll have you safe in no time.

It seemed to Helena’s racing mind to take an age before the slow moving carriage finally came to a stop. She knew full well she should not be accepting any help from Kit Gerard, but it was just too great an effort to refuse. Not until she heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel and saw the footmen over his shoulder as he opened the carriage door, did she manage to rouse herself.

No, I won’t go in there!

Helena, this is no time for foolish notions about honour or pride, Kit said in a voice that would not carry to the waiting servants. I know how you feel but you will be safe here. He took her hand and tugged gently. You need rest, and perhaps later a bite to eat to restore your strength. Then you can resume your journey.

Weakly cursing her fatigue, Helena allowed herself to be led, half-supported, into the house she had sworn she would never set foot in again. Her surroundings were a blur and she only half-heard as Kit gave instructions that had her being helped to climb the great staircase by the housekeeper and two maids. Half-way up she looked back and briefly met the startled gaze of Viscountess Allworth, who had opened the double doors of the drawing room to investigate the commotion, and whose mouth had just fallen open at sight of her. Helena’s dulled senses allowed her no more than a twinge of embarrassment as they entered a bedroom and the housekeeper began to turn down the bed. One of the maids began to undress her.

No! I won’t go to bed. Aware that she sounded like a petulant child, Helena looked around and saw the day couch in front of one of the windows. She pointed. I’ll lie down there, if I may. Just for a little while. I’m sure I’ll be feeling better soon.

Lady Lyndon, the housekeeper said, you are quite done up. I don’t know what’s happened but whatever it was has left you in need of a good, long rest. His lordship has ordered you put to bed.

Helena’s stomach tightened. The housekeeper knew her and she remembered the woman too, from happier times.

No, Mrs. Palmer, I don’t want to go to bed. I’ll rest here. She gestured to the couch. I’m sure I’ll soon be quite recovered. I will be resuming my journey shortly. It really isn’t worth the trouble. She tried to force her stiff features into a smile.

The housekeeper regarded her for a moment, arms crossed on her bosom and concern on her face. Her expression softened and she bustled forward. Get you settled then, she said, easing Helena onto the couch. Deftly, she whipped the counterpane off the bed, laid it over her charge and tucked it under her armpits. You rest there, lass, she said gently. Whatever’s given you such a fright, you’re safe now.

When housekeeper and maids had departed, Helena lay still for all of a minute. Then she threw off her covering and got to her feet. Her thoughts were still utter confusion, her emotions hopelessly tangled. If only she could think! She began to pace the room, occasionally thrusting back from her cheeks the tousled mess her hair had become. Abstractedly she counted – fifteen paces to the dressing room door, fifteen paces back – and all the time her mind was racing, overflowing with splintered images of the attack, unearthing other things she had hoped were long buried and knew were better so.

At last her ill-used body could take no more. She sank to the floor beside the couch, laid her troubled head upon it and wept. She was still weeping when she fell asleep.

* * * * *

Why the devil didn’t you do as I said? Kit demanded, suppressing his temper just in time to whisper the words. He watched the footman he had directed to pick Helena off the floor lay her as gently as he could on the broad bed. Have a care there, Kit growled, wishing he could do it himself, though the man was being as careful as anyone could and avoiding any of the lady’s body parts it was not absolutely necessary to touch. Once he had her on the covers, he released her as if she was hot iron and hastily retreated from the room and Kit’s stare.

I’m sorry, my lord, Mrs. Palmer whispered into the silence that followed. I was sure she’d go straight to sleep, poor girl. She looked exhausted.

And you couldn’t look in on her? Kit hissed.

It’s only been a half-hour, my lord. I’d have been back sooner but for the fire in the kitchens. The whole house could have gone up in flames.

As if Helena’s presence was not enough to send Kit’s mother up in the boughs there had been a minor fire in the kitchens to further upset the smooth-running of her household. Still, it had saved him having to explain about his guest – for now. Kit let his anger cool.

Yes, I know. I’m sorry, Mrs. Palmer. Even you can’t be in two places at once.

I’m sorry too, she replied. If I’d not been so sure she would sleep I would never have left her alone.

Well, help me give her this draught. Kit cradled Helena’s shoulders while the housekeeper took the cup from the tray by the bed and held it to the girl’s lips.

She stirred, moaned. No. Not there. I won’t go in there. Her hand lifted restlessly and Kit took it in his own, feeling the coldness of its slim fingers.

Now, now, child, Mrs. Palmer soothed. Just drink this and you’ll be all better.

Helena’s eyes half-opened at the touch of the cup on her mouth and she obediently drank. When half was gone, she sighed, mumbled something unintelligible and drifted back to sleep.

Kit got to his feet, grimacing at his awkwardness with only one arm that could bear his full weight, and looked down at the slender, recumbent figure on the bed.

I’ll get her seen to, my lord, Mrs. Palmer assured him. I’ll have her put properly to bed. And I’ll see the fire’s lit. Someone will stay with her through the night.

Bracing himself, Kit went off to find his mother.

Her ladyship has gone to her room, my lord, Alexander the butler told him. She will be dining there, I am informed, though she is certain that she will not manage a bite. Alexander raised his eyebrows the barest fraction of an inch and kept the rest of his face entirely expressionless. Will you be dining as usual, my lord?

Disguising his amusement with an effort, Kit agreed that he would. Alexander was an old family retainer and knew very well what liberties he could take. Neither he nor Kit expected anything except that the Viscountess would eat as heartily as she always did. She was having one of her sulks. It suited Kit. He was not in the mood for explanations, nor the censure he expected to receive from both parents for his actions. His mother in particular, behind her façade of emotional instability, was shrewd and calculating when it came to what she judged to be her family’s interest. Pretending to sulk was just one among a repertoire of manipulative ploys that she used regularly to achieve her ends.

Kit dined alone and was glad of it. For once he ate heartily, surprising himself as much as the kitchen staff when his plates went back empty. He had had little appetite since returning from Spain and that applied to more than food. He could not explain it to himself, let alone to his parents, who seemed to have nagged him endlessly about his future ever since he had first shown signs of not dying from his wounds.

For weeks after he had begun to truly heal he had sat around feeling a lassitude he blamed on his wounds and a hollowness inside that he entirely failed to understand. In truth, he did not even try, for that in itself seemed too much trouble. The things that had seemed important before he went to the war were not any longer. Only in the last week had he begun taking a shotgun out to walk the grounds. Even then he only half-heartedly emptied it at the rooks that inhabited the tall trees on the estate, and, like today, seldom bothered to reload.

Alexander presented the port, another fractional raising of his eyebrows signalling his disappointment at the overindulgence he expected to follow. Instead of the usual growl he made at the butler’s unspoken comment, Kit gave him a rueful grin. Involuntarily, the man’s eyebrows raised themselves another fraction of an inch and he retired, looking rueful himself at his inexcusable display of emotion.

Kit knew he drank too much. It was not a habit he had picked up in Spain but it was about the only thing he had shown any enthusiasm for since his return. He sipped from his glass. It was utter, damned foolishness, but he missed the war. There he had lived at the edge of life, the brink of death. He had hated the dying and the hideous wounds, the sudden plucking from existence of men he had known and cared about. He slipped a hand inside his coat, fingers seeking the puckered hollow in his left breast where the Frenchman’s sword had struck. There was another scar across the bicep of his left arm where the steel had grazed bone as it slashed into him. Some of the flesh was gone, never to return, and the doctors told him he would never have the strength there that once had been. But he was lucky to still have the limb at all. He had seen too many others less fortunate.

His mouth felt suddenly dry. He stared at the glass on the table but saw again the flat, open stretch of parched, brown grass where his war had ended. It had been an insignificant skirmish, of no real importance among the manoeuvrings of the armies of Wellesley and Marmont, a chance encounter between two opposing regiments as the battle lines were drawn. Kit had led out his light company, fulfilling their usual role as skirmishers to hold the enemy at bay while the rest of the regiment formed line. Then, from a dip in the ground hidden by the shimmering heat haze, the French cavalry had appeared.

Kit heard again the warning cries as his men had retreated and behind him the regiment had formed square, the only defence for foot soldiers faced with cavalry. Then he had begun to run.

It was not cowardice but common sense. All around him his company were doing the same, panting hoarsely, sweat soaking the threadbare wool of their uniforms as they ran towards the square and life. Then the pounding thunder of the horses overtook them. Shots sounded, shouts of savage triumph as the horsemen rode them down, agonised cries as men died from bullet or blade.

Amongst all those sounds Kit heard distinctly the hammer of the hooves behind him. From the corner of his eye he saw the beast draw level with him, its breathing as harsh as his own, the metal of its harness jangling discordantly. Dirty white trousers tucked into dusty boots were alongside and Kit looked up to see a whiskered face, its teeth drawn back in a fixed grin as the rider raised his sword. Desperately, Kit hefted the pistol in his left hand, reflexively gripping more tightly the sword hilt in his right. He fired and the ball struck a fraction of a second too late to stop the downswing of the arm. The blow was aimed for Kit’s face, but death changed its direction and he felt searing agony tear across his chest and arm. As its rider tumbled, the horse staggered and caught him a blow that felled him.

Kit drew a ragged breath, as if sucking the life back into himself. He downed his port in one gulp and reached for the decanter, then stopped. There was brandy in the library. He hurried to the room. Only the desk lamp was lit. By its glow he poured a generous measure, drinking half the fiery liquor at once. He sank into the chair by the desk, perspiration prickling his face. For the first time since he had woken up in the makeshift hospital he had allowed himself to relive those moments. Every other time, and there had been many, he had shied away from the memory. Why today, of all days, should he summon the courage to face his demons?

With a hand now a good deal steadier he picked up the brandy, staring into its depths. The lamplight reflected on the curved surface of the glass and cast a glow into the heart of the tawny liquid. Did he really miss the war? He missed the comradeship of his fellow officers and of the men who had looked to him for command, and who he thought had liked him for his ability and even-handedness. He had valued too the respect of his superiors and their faith in his ability. But the killing? The misery and pain and wretchedness that dogged the armies and all they touched? Was he not sometimes ashamed of the things he had done and of the fact his only skill was making war? Grimly, Kit remembered the bad times; extremes of heat and cold, days and nights of endless rain, fatigue, hunger, sickness, uncertainty and fear. And bloodshed.

His tight lips relaxed into a wan smile. Where had he turned in his bitterest moments? To the memory of a slender girl, dark-haired and doe-eyed, who even now lay abed in a room above.

Without another glance at the half-full glass, Kit made for the staircase. He would just check she was comfortable. Reaching for the handle of the door to Helena’s room, quite clearly and distinctly through the thickness of the wood, he heard her voice.

Damned, bloody swine!

Chapter Two

Kit opened the door.

Get away from me! Helena shouted.

The maid who had been detailed to sit with her was standing by the bed looking alarmed. Her relief when she saw Kit was plain on her face.

I’ll shoot! Helena warned.

Oh, my lord, thank goodness you’ve come, the maid said. She won’t wake up. She started rolling about and when I tried to calm her she started shouting.

Helena thrashed her arms and kicked her feet. Get off me, damn you!

All right, I’ll see to it. You can wait outside.

The maid looked her gratitude and quickly made for the door.

Leave the door open and stay close by, Kit ordered. Helena would not want any of the servants to see her in her present state but he had to be careful of her reputation.

He had no doubt about the subject of her nightmare. He caught her flailing arms and pressed them to her sides, feeling a twinge of pain in his left arm and chest as she fought him. Helena swore evilly and he recoiled in surprise. The girl he had known four years ago would never have spoken so. She would not even have known the words.

I hoped to give you a night’s rest and it seems I’ve only made things worse, he said softly. Hush now. Calm down.

She groaned and fought him but he spoke soothingly, sitting on the edge of the bed and drawing her against him as he had earlier in the day, a protective arm around her shoulders. After more bad language and some struggling she seemed to settle.

There now, he said, smoothing her raven-dark hair from her hot brow. That’s better. That’s a good girl.

Good girl, Helena mumbled.

He watched her face as some unknowable emotion crossed it. Yes, good girl. A thin smile stretched his lips.

I try. I do try, Papa. Helena said more clearly.

I know you do. Kit humoured her in her delirium. You always do your best. She tried to push herself upright and he stroked her hair and eased her back, gentling her.

You’re not vexed, Papa? she asked suddenly. I hate to make you vexed.

No, I’m not vexed.

Helena made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. Oh, Papa, you were gone so long.

Kit found himself looking into the depths of two deep-brown eyes, gleaming in the light of the single candle.

You’re not Papa, Helena accused. Then, just as abruptly, her eyes closed. Two large tears squeezed from under her long-lashed eyelids and rolled slowly towards her temples. She gave a deep sigh. Papa is gone. Mama is gone too. I must be strong.

She tensed and rolled her head back and forth. Kit held her tighter until she quieted again. He was fully aware of the impropriety, but at that moment it did not seem to matter. Helena’s few disjointed words had held such sorrow and yearning. How alone she must have felt since the tragedy of her parents’ deaths and the disastrous events that had followed.

Lord and Lady Lyndon had been visiting friends in Ireland. When they had left Dublin Bay on the evening tide only a light breeze had been blowing from the Southwest. Within hours the barometer had dropped and the wind risen to a full-blown gale. The ship and all aboard were never seen again. Nothing was ever found. No wreckage. No bodies. Helena had not even had the meagre consolation of saying her farewells at her parents’ graveside.

Kit had comforted her as best he could and his parents had tried too, for that was before the events that had forced them all apart. It had not been enough. Helena’s uncle, Terence Lyndon, brother of the earl, had inherited the title. His interest had lain in the pleasures of London, not in the intimate house parties and country house balls that Helena’s parents had preferred. Certainly his interest had not been in his niece, to whom he had paid little attention. He had never been a frequent visitor while