The Guardian Duke: A Forgotten Castles Novel Page 8

  The lieutenant nodded, short and quick, panic making his eyes wide and unblinking.

  "And I don't think you will be needing your horse." The man lifted his foot and kicked the lieutenant to the ground. He then put his black-booted foot on top of the lieutenant's chest and leaned over him. "If I ever catch you near this young lady again, I will finish what we have begun, understand? I, alas, do not send men to their Maker lightly." His voice was like the sword, deadly velvet, soft and strong. He cocked his head and flashed a mirthless smile. "Be gone!"

  The lieutenant nodded his agreement. The moment the man's foot rose from his chest, the lieutenant stood and backed away. He turned, his clothes in tatters, and ran in the other direction.

  Alex covered her mouth with one gloved hand to keep her mirth from showing as the lieutenant ran away like a scalded dog.

  The man sheathed his sword as he walked up to her. He looked at her for a long moment, with eyes that held a searching intelligence in them that made Alex both want to shrink back and rise to meet his stare at the same time. He took off his hat to reveal long, gray hair, bowed, an exaggerated movement but still, so full of grace that she couldn't help smiling.

  "Thank you," she breathed. "Who are you?"

  He placed his hat back on his head and pulled two apples from his pocket. He polished one on the front of his waistcoat and then held it out to her. "You may call me Montague. It would appear I am your guide to Whitehaven, for as foolish as our dear lieutenant is, he is right in one thing. It is not safe for mademoiselle to travel alone."

  "Oh, I'm sure that isn't necessary."

  "You don't think so?" He stared at her, waiting for her to admit the truth.

  "Perhaps that would be best. I thank you, kind sir."

  He reached out a hand and took her arm in a gentle grasp. "Can you eat your apple and ride? I find it a beneficial skill, eating while riding. Mayhap we can get this fearful beast of yours to take a nibble. Might calm him down too."

  Alex nodded, realizing she had started to shake from the ordeal. "Yes, I find the idea of an apple quite to my liking right now."

  He helped her mount and handed her the apple. "I thought as much. Shall we, Lady Featherstone?"

  She sniffed, a short and childish sound, then took a loud bite, the tart juice running down her chin. The horse stood docile as Montague fed him his apple. She swallowed hard and took a few calming breaths as they began to walk. The horse, too, seemed inclined to follow the man who held his reins, more docile than he'd ever been with Alex.

  "We will go to my house for some provisions. Then to Whitehaven. It isn't very far, my lady."

  Alex nodded, feeling the burden of being alone and solely responsible for her success lift from her shoulders. He was like an angel sent from above to help her.

  How had he known what the two of them needed?

  And how had he known her name?

  Chapter Nine

  The morning after the ball Gabriel woke drenched in sweat. He turned over and then sat up, running his fingers through the pasted hair against his scalp, pulling the nightshirt away from his chest and where it was plastered against his back. What was wrong with him? Maybe he was just anxious about traveling. He would have to take Meade along, of course, and it would be quicker to go overland. There was so much planning to do. The thought brought a bout of anxiety mixed with excitement to his stomach.

  What was she like?

  What would she really think of him?

  Should he hide his condition, or would she be the first one he told of his own accord? The thought of her, despising his weakness once she discovered what it really was, wasn't half as bad as the image of her feeling sorry for him. He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. This was his life now and he had to keep living it, whatever her reaction. She needed him.

  He swung his legs around and stood. Abrupt dizziness rushed through his head, making the room spin and tilt. He fell back on the bed with an exhale, as if all the breath had been knocked from his chest, and planted both hands on either side of the feather ticking for support. Slow, deep breaths. He concentrated on it.

  But something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

  The door to his dressing room opened; must be his valet. He turned his head. Too fast. The dizziness washed through him in another wave. "Get Meade." He directed his valet.

  "Yes, Your Grace. Right away."

  Gabriel's head shot up despite the need to sit very still to control the dizzy sensation. Had he just heard the man speak? Hope flared, so bright within him he dared not breathe for fear of mistaking the moment. The sound had been dim and as if he were under water, but it had been a sound nonetheless. He wanted to stand and rush over to his valet, grab him by the departing shoulder, spin him around, and demand he speak again, but he felt so dizzy and nauseous. Instead he yelled, "George, wait. Come back!"

  His man turned back to him, alarm on his face as he hurried over. "Your Grace, please get back into bed. You look pale. Do you feel faint?"

  Gabriel allowed him to plump up the pillows and pull the coverlet over his legs. He closed his eyes, trying to block the sensation of the room tilting. "George, I do believe, if you speak loud and clear, that I can make out what you are saying."

  "Sir!" The excitement in his man's voice was unmistakable.

  "I feel terrible. Dizzy, my stomach rolling, especially when I open my eyes. The room, it tilts back and forth. Call the doctors and Meade. Tell them to hurry."

  George's hand reached out and grasped his arm in a comforting hold. "Praise be to God, Your Grace. It is a miracle!"

  Gabriel shook his head as the words came together in his mind. Miracle. It's what he'd been praying for, begging for God in the quiet hours of the night when no one could see how ravished he felt by this new fate. Yes. A miracle. God had listened. He had really answered his prayers. Or maybe it was Alexandria's prayers? He would be able to hear her!

  Fear dogged his fledgling faith. Fear said it wouldn't last. That he knew something was not right. If his hearing was coming back, even if it remained this strange, clogged form of hearing, he would be eternally grateful. But if he couldn't open his eyes without feeling like he was going to fall on the floor—that was almost worse. A miserable thought, that. But the fact that something was changing, shifting inside, might be a good sign. Meade had better hurry. Gabriel clenched his fists and breathed hard through his nose. He had to see those doctors.

  It seemed an eternity waiting for them. George brought coffee and toast and then tea and then a cup of steaming chocolate, trying to tempt his palate, but just the thought of anything on his stomach made it churn all the harder. He could only cling to a precarious state of balance by remaining very still with his eyes closed.

  Suddenly he heard the door slam against the wall. He heard it!

  "Your Grace, is it true? Can you hear me?" Meade's voice was an exultant shout from across the cavernous room.

  Gabriel held out one hand, eyes still shut. "You sound ten leagues under the sea, but I can make it out." He couldn't help his grin. "Only problem now is an overwhelming dizziness. Can't seem to open my eyes without feeling the urge to retch. Get those ear doctors from Moorfields down here—Saunders and Curtis, wasn't it? And tell Bentley. The family doctor won't want to be left out of any credit for a cure."

  Sweat trickled down his face at the exertion. "And get me a chamber pot in case I'm sick. God, help me, this dizziness is almost worse than not hearing." But he had a smile in his voice as he shouted out the orders. He was hearing again! The other symptoms were temporary, of course. No one suffered from permanent dizziness. Did they?

  Meade said something but it was too low and muddled to make out, and he dared not open his eyes yet. "Say it again, Meade. Loud and clear."

  "I said right away, Your Grace. Just sit tight and I wil
l get the doctors."

  The man was probably shouting, but Gabriel didn't care. He could hear him. His face broke into a great grin. He started to laugh with the joy of it, but the movement made the falling feeling worsen, like he had jumped from a tall cliff and was falling, falling, falling. He grasped at the blanket with both fists as if to stop his fall.

  Within the hour, he had three doctors leaning over him, pressing and prodding and inserting metal objects into his ears. They were talking among themselves, but he could only catch a word here and there, as they were speaking too low and fast. He tried to tamp down his annoyance while fighting the fear. It seemed he could only hear when there was one person talking at a time, and then only if he spoke very slowly and clearly. Finally, he'd had enough.

  "If you please, doctors. What is the diagnosis?" He knew his voice was loud, but he didn't care.

  He cracked his eyes open and peered at them through the slits. They all stopped talking at once and took a step back. Dr. Bentley cleared his throat and looked to be shouting. "It seems you have some of your hearing returning, Your Grace. We are still consulting on the vertiginous nature of your current situation. Dr. Saunders recommends a hot tea made from linden, taken three times a day. It may help if you have water behind the ear."

  Water behind the ear? Gabriel pictured the anatomy of the ear and what he had read on vertigo. He'd done a study on anatomy years ago, one branch of science in a long course of study during his twenties, even going as far as visiting the famed La Specola Collection in Florence. He thought of the delicate makeup of the inner and outer ear. It was possible that a diuretic could help. He would try just about anything, of course.

  "Yes, yes, get the tea. Meade, send someone to Apothecary's Alley posthaste. Buy it all if you have to." He turned his head in a slow and careful movement toward the doctors. "How long will this infernal dizziness last? And will the hearing yet improve?"

  Dr. Curtis stepped forward. He was a young man with the Napoleon hairstyle of forward-combed waves that was all the rage in France and immaculate in his dress. "We don't know, Your Grace. Cases like this are rare. However, it looks promising and, in the meantime, you can use an ear trumpet to help facilitate the sound."

  An ear trumpet. Wonderful. Like an old man. But he shouldn't complain. He should be on his knees thanking God he could hear anything at all. And if the tea helped control the dizziness and nausea, well, he would be almost as good as normal. Good enough, by the Lord's grace and mercy. He would go back to church. Most sermons sent him into a dozing state of boredom, but now he would pay close attention to every word.

  And the opera! The faint hope that he might be able to hear music again gripped him in a sudden euphoria. He rubbed his face with a hand, hoping his lips weren't quivering. Just the thought of it made his heart pound in excitement. He would take the ear trumpet to the opera and not care how it looked. It would be worth it. He would go this afternoon if he could get out of this infernal bed and walk!

  But he couldn't leave his bed. The dizziness plagued him for three more days, sometimes so badly he did lose the contents of his stomach. He was growing thin and dehydrated—a new source of fear. If nothing else, he had to keep the liquids down, including the linden tea that made him run to the chamber pot more times than he could count, which was not helping his body's ability to hold enough of the water he was drinking. It was a cycle that wasn't working. Taking a diuretic for the inner ear and then not able to keep down enough nourishment to give him strength. He was fading . . . he could feel it. Little by little, no energy. He started to think he just might die of it.

  Then, the fourth day, the dizziness stopped as quickly as it had started. He woke up one morning and found he could turn his head without the room spinning. There was a dull ringing in his ears that made hearing a bit more difficult but still, he could hear if the person speaking was slow and concise in pronunciation and loud. It was a far cry from normal, but it was an improvement.

  Another two days of nourishment and his strength began to return. By the end of another week he was moving, slowly, through some of his routine. Now for a test. Before he could even consider the long tedium and endurance required to travel across half of England to Holy Island and his recalcitrant ward, he felt he had to successfully attend the opera. The place where the nightmare had begun.

  THE NIGHT AIR WAS CHILLY as he threw his greatcoat around his shoulders, the ear trumpet in one pocket, and strode toward the high carriage with the St. Easton coat of arms emblazoned on the side. The motto, his motto, stood in bold, scrolling French underneath the unicorn and bull. Foy pour devoir—"faith for duty." He paused as he thought of it. He certainly knew the duty part. Settling himself inside the carriage, he leaned his head back against the high seat and closed his eyes. The carriage started with a jerk down the street toward the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane.

  It was difficult, the anticipation, the half hope, half dread of facing people and more, facing the moment of whether or not he could hear the music well enough to be enjoyed. The carriage pulled up in front of the grand building and stopped. He didn't wait for his coachman to open the door but, rather, sprang out and clamped down on his hat in the stiff breeze, eager now, desperate almost, to have it over with.

  The crowd was thin, a deliberate calculation as he was quite late. Head down, he rushed through the elegant reception room toward a back staircase, avoiding the wide, curving stairway where some of the elegantly clad members of the ton still loitered, hoping to see and be seen. He met a servant on the way up but ignored the questioning stare. He strode down the darkened hall where the boxes of the most affluent flanked the balcony that overlooked the crowd below. Almost there. Just as he thought it, a rush of satisfaction filled his chest and an acquaintance stepped into his path.

  He looked up in time to keep from crashing into the man. There was an elegant woman on his arm but her name escaped him.

  "Your Grace, so good to see you again. It's been some time since you've visited the opera. We were all beginning to worry."

  Gabriel watched his lips and tried to keep up with the steady, inane chatter. "Lord Berwin." He inclined his head to the man and then the lady. "I've been rather occupied of late, but I'm eager to hear tonight's performance."

  The man had the gall to clap him on the shoulder, which made his ears start to ring in that annoying way that blocked more of the sound. Despair and anger filled him, flagging heat into his cheeks. He blew out a breath and gave the man a stare that warned him not to touch him again.

  Berwin seemed to take the hint in a tirade of mumbled apologies and a backward step. With a bow toward Gabriel, he turned the woman aside and scurried away, coattails flapping.

  Gabriel pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. His box. He just needed to sit down in the quiet of his box.

  A few moments later he settled himself into the dark shadows of the back of the small enclosure. He pulled out the ear horn and held it loosely in his lap. Every muscle in his body strained as the curtain went up and the woman on stage opened her mouth to sing. It was faint, dulled, wavy.

  He rubbed his temples and then the aching spot between his eyes. God help him. His head began to ache and his heart pound. What if it happened again? He stared at the stage, willing himself to hear the beauty of the notes, willing the experience to produce the same emotion it always did.

  Dear God, I need this!

  The sound dulled further, as if falling down a long, narrow tunnel. It grew dimmer and dimmer. Gabriel pressed the ear trumpet further into his ear, mounting desperation gripping him. He was losing it again. He would leave this place deaf again. Oh, God. He gripped the trumpet in his fist, squeezing, hard. In some faraway place he felt it crumble into pieces in his hand. He opened his hand and looked down at the tortoiseshell. It lay in beautiful shards of blue-green in his palm, some falling to the floor.

&n
bsp; God, please. Don't let this happen.

  He had to get out. Run.

  He was just rising, panic thick in his throat, when he saw something from the edges of his vision. He fell back into the chair, afraid his head would burst open as it had the last time he'd attended the opera.

  He closed his eyes and took long, deep breaths. There was no pain. He couldn't hear more than a faint shadow of the music but there was no pain. His eyes fluttered open. Pinpricks and then faint streaks of color—blue, purple, green—streamed across his vision. He blinked, the colors pulsing in time with the music. It was coming from the stage, from the orchestra and the woman singing. The colors waved and undulated, pulsing around each other, streams of living color.

  God, what is happening to me? A strange, unknown fear washed over him. So beautiful. It wasn't the same as hearing the music, but . . . it was terrifyingly beautiful.

  Chapter Ten

  The October wind blew gusts of chilly air in her face and down her cloak as Alex rounded the bend in the road toward Whitehaven. It was a coastal town known for its coal and its harbor, Alex knew that much. Ships traded coal, tobacco, and rum from here, making it a crowded and growing little city. She drew out the note with the address Missy had given her and glanced aside at her traveling companion.

  He'd not said much since rescuing her, just trotted beside her on the lieutenant's horse as if he'd been riding him all his life and they were bosom mates. She was hesitant to be the one to break the silence, but there was nothing for it so she pasted a bright smile on her face and waved the note toward him. "I have to return this horse to a man named Paul Keys. His sister loaned him to me for this journey."

  "Ah." His striking blue eyes flashed toward the note and then back on the road.

  "I have the address here, but I must confess as to having no idea where to find . . ." she glanced down at the scrawled address, "43 Lowther Street. Do you know Whitehaven?"