Page 72 of With Love in Sight
Her fingers tightened on the delicate stem of her glass. If only Caleb would return. There were answers he owed her, answers he owed his family. She looked into the dark burnt orange liquid, swirling it in her glass, her jaw tensing as she watched the light struggle through it.
Once she saw him, she would get those answers or die trying.
Chapter 30
Dawn was just beginning to break when Imogen heard it: a pounding at the heavy front door, not loud enough to wake the entire household but with enough sound to capture the attention of someone who had lain awake all night long, listening for something just like it. Her eyes flew open and she threw off her covers, bounding from bed. She quickly donned her spectacles, night robe, and slippers before hurrying from her room.
Billsby was just opening the door when Imogen raced into the front hall. The sight that greeted her eyes, however, had her skidding to a shocked stop.
Large, jolly Donald Samson, proprietor of the Regal Swan Inn, was propping up a very disheveled, very inebriated Caleb.
“Dear me,” Imogen breathed. She stepped forward. “Mr. Samson, is Lord Willbridge injured?”
“Miss Duncan, lovely to see you, though perhaps not under the circumstances.” He grinned at her. “No, he’s not injured, though it’s not from lack of trying.”
“Perhaps we’d best get him to bed and you can tell me what has become of the good marquess.” She turned, Donald trudging along behind her, half guiding and half carrying Caleb.
Suddenly the butler intervened, his hands flapping frantically. “Miss Duncan, you cannot accompany Lord Willbridge to his bedchamber. It isn’t proper.”
“Nonsense,” Imogen said, stopping to face Billsby. Donald halted behind her, heaving a bit at Caleb’s weight. “Lord Willbridge is in need of care, and I would rather it not be common knowledge below stairs what has become of him. I also would not want to upset his mother any further with his behavior.”
Luckily the butler reacted to the note of command in her voice and dropped back. Unluckily, Caleb chose that moment to realize she was there.
He raised his head, gazing at her blearily. His eyes were red-rimmed and heavy-lidded, a day’s growth of coppery beard shadowing his face. “’S that you, Imogen? Donald,” he said in a loud whisper, “it’s my Imogen. I want t’ marry the girl but she wo—won’t have me. Can’t figure ’t out, m’self.”
Donald turned his head away from his friend and wrinkled his nose, presumably from the strong odor of liquor on Caleb’s breath. “I don’t know, I can think of a few reasons right now.”
He grunted as Caleb suddenly made to step toward her. The loss of balance almost sent them both tumbling to the tiled floor, but the larger man kept his hold on the marquess, widening his stance to provide support. Even so, Caleb was a tall man, and Donald was breathing hard from the exertion of holding him upright.
Imogen stepped toward Caleb, her face burning. “Now you listen here,” she said firmly. “You are going to help poor Mr. Samson as he brings you to your room, and you will remain quiet to keep from waking the rest of the household. Am I understood?”
To her surprise Caleb nodded meekly. Just catching Donald’s approving look, she turned and marched away, the two men lurching along behind her, slowly but blessedly quiet.
Several stumbles and near topples later and they finally reached the master bedchamber. As Imogen opened the door and made to enter the room, Donald stopped and made a distressed sound in his throat. She raised one brow in question.
“You shouldn’t be going in there I think, Miss Duncan.” His face was red, and not just from his exertions.
“I assure you, Mr. Samson, I am no milk and water miss. Lord Willbridge requires my help at the moment, and I have no qualms helping him into bed.”
She entered the room and Donald reluctantly followed. He reached the bed, heaving Caleb onto it. Caleb fell into the soft mattress with a grunt.
“M’ heads spinning, Donald. What the devil?” he said before his head fell to the side. At first Imogen thought he was unconscious, until a healthy snore reverberated from his chest.
Imogen sighed and took hold of Caleb’s foot, pointing to the other. “If you would be so kind, Mr. Samson? And while we’re at it, perhaps you can fill me in on Lord Willbridge’s whereabouts over the past day.”
“Well,” he began, grabbing Caleb’s leg and working at removing his boot, “as you probably know this one’s as stubborn as they come. He came to the inn early last evening, his horse in a lather, calling for drink. We sat about for some time talking, and before I knew it he’d gone through a good portion of a bottle of my best scotch. By then he was more than a bit drunk. Even though the hour was late and it was darker than the inside of a witch’s cauldron, he insisted on returning home. I tried to get him into a bed at the inn, but he would have nothing to do with it, said he wanted to return home.”
He’d finished with the boot and together they moved to his jacket. While Donald rolled Caleb onto his side, Imogen worked the material from his arm. “And so, though I hate to admit it, I kept him at the inn drinking, hoping he’d just pass out and that would be an end to it. It was either that or risk him toppling from that beast of his and breaking his damn foolish neck. Oh, my pardon, Miss Duncan.”
Imogen waved one hand in the air. “Please, think nothing of it. I am just grateful you were there for him.” She looked up at him. “You are a very good friend to his lordship.”
Donald blushed, dipping his head in acknowledgement before turning Caleb on his other side so she could reach his other sleeve.
They worked in silence for a time, the only sound their labored breathing as they worked to divest Caleb of a portion of his clothes, and Caleb’s own soft snores. Finally they had him down to his breeches and shirt. Propping him on his side with a pillow behind his back in case he vomited while sleeping, Imogen and Donald stood back, looking down at the blissfully slumbering marquess.
As one they turned for the door. Imogen closed it quietly behind them and they started down the hall to the main staircase.
“What I cannot figure,” Donald said in a hushed voice, “is what got him so riled up to begin with. I’ve never seen him in such a state.”
