Page 23 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
“He will act a gentleman with you, miss, or I’ll have a piece of his hide, I will.”
Graciela exhaled. The maid knew of Mr. Everly’s reputation and did not approve.
Strong fingers worked her scalp, easing her humors down to her toes. “He has not hurt me.”Yet.“And I do not wish at all to marry him tomorrow. I am not English. I will return to my own country and the scandal will not matter there, so far away.”
“You’re not English? I couldn’t tell it from your speech, miss. Where is home, if I may be so bold.”
“The new country of Mexico. My father was an Englishman who immigrated to New Spain. He is participating in the War of Independence there.”
“I have heard summat of it. Lady Sirena was not English either.”
“No?”
“She’s Irish. The Everly men seem to like... Well, you have naught to fear from our Master Charley.” A tap at the door stayed her hand. “And here is our salve.”
After a moment the door closed firmly.
Mrs. Windle pushed Graciela’s hair away, lowered the top of the robe, and muttered quietly.
Camphor stung her nose, but it was cut with something sweeter. “The smell is quite strong,” Graciela said.
“Aye. And it’ll sting your flesh for a moment. That’ll pass and you’ll feel relief.”
At the first touch, tears sprang to her eyes. But the sting, as Mrs. Windle had said, soon turned to seeping warmth.
“There now,” the older lady said. “I have a fresh new chemise for you here if you’ll take off the robe and stand.”
Graciela clutched the robe to her chest and glanced over her shoulder. “I thank you. It is our custom to be modest. If you will kindly leave it, I will dress myself.”
When the servant had left she quickly donned the clean chemise, wrapped herself in the velvet robe, and went to check the latch on the window.
Perspiration beadedCharley’s forehead as he sat in a matching wing chair opposite Miss Kingsley in front of the ebbing fire.
Thank the gods, she’d finally warmed and asked for no more coal. Mrs. Windle had returned the coat he’d wrapped around the young lady, but he’d thrown it over a chair and let the servant glare her disapproval of his shirtsleeves from her perch in the corner of the room.
“Have another sip of the brandy,” he said. “It will strengthen the blood.”
She looked at him from under her lashes and swirled the liquid in her glass.
“I’m not trying to muddle you. And Ihavesent for Francisca.”
Her hand shook when she lifted the glass and he beat down another wave of anger. Besides the bruise beginning to mottle her jawline, her wrist bore a band of bright pink that would bloom to purple, courtesy of her battle with Carvelle. And she sat as erect as the Virgin in a medieval Spanish painting he had seen somewhere.
He’d waited like a schoolboy out in the corridor, while Mrs. Windle had helped Miss Kingsley into some of his sister-in-law’s things. The housekeeper had said very little more than muttered oaths as she’d passed him the bloodied flannels and the pink-tinged water, grim-faced and frowning, and sent him on errands as if he were a footman.
He had no idea what Miss Kingsley wore under the velvet dressing gown. He tossed back his drink. Nor could he think about that now.
The girl was clearly hurting.
“We didn’t tell your people of our plot to rescue you at the party tonight. They were both collapsing from their worry, and we made them take beds in the nursery. Perry likely had to wake them and give them time to dress. We are a stretch away from Shaldon House, and they would need to travel through the late-night traffic. They’ll have to change to a different carriage and take a roundabout way, in case Carvelle’s injuries have been discovered and watchers set.”
She blew into her glass, studying the rippling liquid, making him smile. She would, perhaps, never fit in here with the Almack’s crowd. He counted that a good thing.
“And Reina?”
He heard the worry in her voice. “And that is likely the other holdup. Perry is persuading them that Reina will be safe with her.”
Her gaze shot to him.
