In the great room by the fireplace, she waited, studying a large old coat of arms hanging above it. The shield was partitioned into six sections. No doubt a grant from Queen Elizabeth, it contained a white field with three red falcons, each holding a rose in his raised claw. The Red Hawk. Arms for St. Evert?
Engrossed in her study, she didn’t hear Valen approach. “A hodgepodge, is it not?”
She started and spun around, almost colliding with him because he stood so close. “Hawks. Red hawks—” His nearness flustered her and she couldn’t put her question together properly.
He shrugged.
Rather than dressing up for the occasion of seeing his father, St. Evert had donned a pair of nankeen trousers, more suited for riding than the drawing room, and a plain cambric shirt with no neckcloth. Then she remembered. “I do apologize for ruining your only dress shirt, my lord.”
“Small matter. My father would be alarmed if I were to put on my best bib and tucker for a mere visit. He might think he’d passed, and was a ghost at his own funeral. Surely nothing else could induce me to put on finery at home.”
Before she could sort out this odd comment, he had Elizabeth on his arm, leading her up the stairs again. “Come along. With any luck we will arrive in his room before my aunt does.”
Lord Ransley’s bedroom was dark and smelled of close, fetid air and a heavy cologne, which had been sprinkled liberally to mask the odor. Servants were lighting more candles as Elizabeth and Valen entered.
Lord Ransley sat up in bed, an eager expression on his face. “Valen, my boy, delighted to see you. And you’ve brought your bride! How lovely she is.”
Valen’s feet suddenly stuck to the floor. He clamped Elizabeth’s hand in place on his arm with the strength of an iron shackle. They came to such an abrupt stop, she nearly stumbled. Elizabeth glanced sideways at him and saw sheer panic on his face.
Apparently the very notion of an alliance between the two of them struck Lord St. Evert dumb with terror. How very amusing. Insulting, but amusing. It would have only required a small explanation to set the matter right with his father. But she decided he might jolly well extricate himself from this little tangle without any help from her.
“I... no. She’s not my... we haven’t…” The fact that the high and mighty, overconfident Lord St. Evert stammered nearly moved her to laughter. All too quickly he recovered and stiffened to attention. “Has Aunt Honore been here already?”
His father shook his head. “Honore? No.” He gestured weakly in Elizabeth’s direction. “She’s not—?”
“No.”
His father’s countenance wilted.
St. Evert urged her toward Lord Ransley’s bedside. “That is to say, she’s an acquaintance. A friend.”
At least it did not put him to the blush to call her his friend. He presented Elizabeth to his father, leaving off her title, which she thought curious, but did not correct. She was, after all, his guest, and so she ought to cooperate with whatever subterfuge he deemed necessary.
“You promised.” Lord Ransley raked his pale fingers through the wispy brown hair above his brow.
Valen stiffened. “I assure you, my lord, I will keep my word. All in good time.”
“Sometime before the next age, I hope.” Lord Ransley coughed, his chest heaving as he struggled to suppress a spasm. “I’d like to be here to see it.”
Valen brightened. “That is the very reason I brought Miss Hampton to you. She is skilled with herbs. It is my hope she might strengthen your lungs with one of her concoctions.”
Elizabeth stared at St. Evert, wondering how he had divined her fascination with the medicinal characteristics of plants. However, she was not skilled by any stretch of the imagination, a mere novice at best. She tugged on his sleeve, trying to admonish him to stop inflating her abilities.
His father’s interest rekindled slightly. “You brought me an herbalist? A healer?”
St. Evert grimaced. “Not a healer, precisely. She’s versed in some herbal remedies, and aside from that, I thought you might enjoy her company. She has offered to play chess with you, read books, that sort of thing.”
“Read to me? You brought a young lady here to read to me?” Lord Ransley’s brows furrowed skeptically as he glanced from one to the other as if trying to decipher their true objective.
Lady Alameda swished into the bedroom, her silk skirts rustling. “Ah, William! So, you’ve met our Lady Elizabeth.”
“Lady Elizabeth? But—” Lord Ransley fell into a short paroxysm. “Valen said—”
“Told you everything, did he?”
St. Evert inhaled noisily, flexed his jaw muscles, and glared at his aunt.
His aunt completely disregarded his warning. “And did he mention that he’s been chasing after some demented French spy who is on the rampage in London? Fellow hangs close to the shadows, I can tell you that. I had a devil of a time finding out more about him.”
“A spy? What nonsense is this, Valen?” Lord Ransley started to cough but reached for a glass of water on the bed stand and sipped before continuing. “Are you putting yourself in danger again? We discussed this—”
Valen stepped in front of his aunt and placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. “It’s nothing. Don’t trouble yourself over it. Truly. It is a small administrative affair I must finish up—nothing more.”
Lady Alameda muttered under her breath, “Administrative affair, indeed. Is that what they call mur—”
He cut her off. “I told Lord Ransley that Elizabeth is versed in herbs and will try to ease some of his discomfort with her tonics.”
“Her?” Lady Alameda edged around Valen. “Fiddle faddle! Doubtful the gel knows a bluebell
