Chapter 40

Cass jerked upright, blinking at the shadows of the room glaring back at her. For a horrible second uncertainty raked her scalp. She'd no idea which chamber she was even in. There had been so many over the last few weeks. Barwych, the monk's cell, Chessington. Moonlight lay in cold pools among the silver brushes on the dressing table and her heart sank like a stone. Damn, bloody, Chessington.
A noise came from beyond the linked door. A steady rattling. As if...? Well, she didn't like to think now she'd a fairly good idea. My God. Disbelief flickered along her veins. She threw the covers back, then paced to the door, to the self same spot she'd stood in last night. How incredible was this?
Devorlane Hawley had a woman in there. In-since it was his bedroom, he was entitled to do what he wanted in it. With who too. Should she stand for such lowness though, when the man was also doing it with her?
She hesitated. She could let this go. How easily she could let this go. The morning would be the time to tell him in no uncertain terms the deal was at an end. He gave her the papers and she went home. He never darkened her door again.
Devorlane Hawley had taken more dealing with than a bag of cats though. He'd deny it unless she caught him red handed. Then where would it leave her? Certainly in no position to haggle over a breadcrumb, let alone a wig receipt.
Besides how damn dare he bring another woman in here beneath her nose? Who was it? Etti? Some of the other maids? God in heaven, it couldn't-oh, nothing would surprise her, although it would be amusing if it was-it couldn't be Belle he was clattering off the bedrail?
Straightening her spine, Cass set her jaw. Then she marched to the fireplace. The embers were cold, but not so dead she couldn't light a candle. That her hands shook was unfortunate. Obviously she was not enough for the damned man though. He'd chosen, after that session earlier, to take his clothes and go. Was this why?
Setting her jaw harder, she swept to the door. Now she could hear voices. At least she could hear a voice. Sure enough he wasn't alone.
"Christ, Guv, bleedin' stop biting will yer?"
Charlie?
"Or I will bleedin' make yer."
Charlie? Charlie and him?
"Yer ain't in the soddin' army now."
Impossible.
And yet, when she considered it, why not? The man was a rou? In every respect. Look at that woman he'd arrived with. The only surprise was he hadn't demanded more of her. So now? Now ... Her intention was to catch him red handed, wasn't it, so she could have these papers for nothing? This was her chance. Swallowing a gulp, she threw open the door.
"Jeez."
She was surprised by Charlie's startled exclamation. Surprised to see Devorlane Hawley hadn't locked the door. Surprised too by the sight of the man in the bed.
Seeing Charlie's pale face turned toward her in the candle arc, she couldn't think what else to say, except the obvious. "What on earth? What is going on here, Charlie?"
"It ain't bleedin' preparations for Christmas, that's fer sure."
She clamped her mouth shut. This was none of her concern after all, but her lips parted anyway. "I can see that and I should hope not. What is wrong with-"
"S'all right. Dev'll be fine by morning. 'E always is."
"He doesn't look fine to me."
Cass advanced across the Turkish rug and set the candlestick down on the scrolled bedside cabinet.
"Miss, please, 'e won't want you 'ere. 'E's particular about all this. Truly."
Perhaps he was. But in this instance? She gazed at Devorlane Hawley's juddering form. How could this be the same man whose wrist she'd attempted to tie to the bedrail earlier. Who'd sat against it when she first opened her bedroom door, as if he owned her. Gray sweat glistened on the sharpened contours of his handsome face. He twitched, moaning as his body contracted.
"'E don't even want me 'ere, when 'e's loike this. That's the truth. So you better just go back, I'll see to 'im. I generally do. Don't worry your 'ead about it."
"Well, I am worried. What's wrong with-" Her hand acted independently of her brain and touched his burning forehead. "Why is he like this?" And yet, if he was dying, was it anything to her? If he was dying, just think how she'd be free. Only the shaking, the gray pallor, the muttering? It could have been Matthew lying there. How could she walk away, close the door, and pretend she never saw this?
"Look, Miss-"
"I am looking and if I liked what I saw I'd go. But I don't." Not only that but his forehead hotter than a warming pan. Before she could stop herself, she edged down onto the bed, grasped his hand. "Lord Hawley, can you hear me?"
"Miss ... Please ..."
"No. Lord Hawley, can you hear me?"
"'E can't. It's 'is leg, Miss."
"His leg?"
"Gives him proper gip it does. Even on a good day. I were trying to get 'im to take some water, ter cool 'isself down. But 'e won't open 'is bleedin' mouth. He gets awkward that way. Seriously, you leave 'im to me, I'll see 'im all right. I always do."
Leave him? Heaven help her, she'd like to. Leave him to the devil for that matter after what he'd done, and not just to her body, but the cheap way he spoke to her as if she was no more than a common whore. Not when she thought how immaculate, how controlled he always was though.
She drew back the blanket.
"Miss ... don't do-"
"Thank you, Charlie, but I'm not seeing anything I've not before."
Of course she might have known the damn man would disdain something so common as a nightshirt. Although the heat that came from him? Perhaps it was as well. She swallowed. Actually her attention wasn't riveted by what she'd thought. For the first time, looking at the inflamed wound that ran the length of his thigh, she suffered a pang of guilt for thinking he was with someone. How could she have missed this earlier? It wasn't as if she'd failed to observe that he limped, be it ever so slightly. She hadn't really wanted to look, look properly anyway.
Was this the real reason he didn't want to spend the night with her? Worse. Was it why he'd kept that sheet positioned a certain way? Been in bed when she'd come upstairs for that matter? Vanity? Or didn't he want her feeling pity?
She glanced around. "Soak that towel, the one on the washstand. Soak the cloth as well."
"Miss-"
"Do it will you?"
"Dev don't like-"
"I don't give too much of any one damn what he likes. Or doesn't." Flicking her hair back, she leaned closer. "Lord Hawley, it's Cassidy Armstrong. Can you hear me at all?"
He went on trembling. Behind her, the splash of water from the ewer into the basin at least said Charlie had done what she said.
"Lord Hawley, listen, I know you don't want me here, I know you don't want anyone, but I'm going to just place this cloth on your forehead." She took the cloth from Charlie. "That's ... that's it. Then, then we'll try to drink some water."
How often had she done this for Matthew? Although this man was in a worse state than ever Matthew had been in. "It's cool, you see, and you're burning."
"'Ere, Miss," Charlie whispered, handing her the wet towel.
"That wound needs properly cleaned, Charlie. I think it's infected."
"I try Miss, but you can see for yourself, 'e don't like bein' touched. Not by me at any road. Certainly not a place intimate as 'is leg."
He wouldn't, of course, although he wasn't in any way diminished by the fact he lay like this. His narrow hips were still a thing of beauty. As was his perfectly molded stomach. As for his chest and biceps? She'd already noticed how strongly muscled they were.
"Doesn't he have dressings? Something for the pain?" She eased the pressure for the briefest of moments on his forehead and he twitched. "No. Lord Hawley, it's all right. I'm going to stay." She glanced at what stood on the bedside cabinet. "If we pour some of that brandy there in the basin, we can at least clean that wound with it. Maybe even get some down his throat."
"'E will be all right in the morning, Miss. Truly."
Why did Charlie hesitate? His face turned a little paler in the candlelight?
"'E always is. But I don't think you should give 'im any of that. Knowin' Dev, 'e's probably 'ad a bucketful already. Do you want ter make 'im worse?"
"Whether he has or not, I don't see it would do any harm to clean this wound up. We can't leave him like this."
She reached for the bottle and pulled the cork off. The smell wasn't exactly what she'd expected. It was brandy, yes. But not as she knew it. The underlying odor was something she couldn't quite place. She sniffed. Then she held it to her nose and sniffed again.
Before Charlie could stop her, she yanked the cabinet drawer open. Why she reached for that particular one she didn't know. Only that she did.
What greeted her, the bottles clinking and rolling about inside, were things she didn't need to have had any personal experience of to know what they were. Why Charlie didn't want her seeing them either. She lifted her chin.
"So Charlie, just how long has Lord Hawley been an opium addict?"