Angel of Mercy

Chapter 3

Being confined to a bed was the worst sort of punishment for a man like Ethan Northcott, Earl of Salisbury. Even reviewing estate reports would be better than this he thought dejectedly.

            He hurt all over. Particularly the throbbing in his head. With his left leg immobilized and his side bound tightly his movements were limited to ringing the bell on the side table.

            But she wasn't often away, that he required use of the bell. His nurse that is. Miss Rhodes. He still couldn't believe Huxley had called for one. He was certain he would have woken with or without her presence. Fairly certain anyway.

            As for his aunt and cousin returning to London under the assumption he would die, that he had no trouble believing. Isabelle had never shown much affection for him even after his parents died in that terrible storm at sea as they were returning home from the America's. He was only eight at the time but the heir nonetheless and Isabelle and her husband Laurence (his fathers' brother) raised him until he reached maturity. Not that Laurence lived long enough to see it.

            Reggie was a whiny thing always complaining or demanding one thing or another. And quite useless at just about everything: archery, musical instruments, penmanship, arithmetic. It certainly explained why he had so many tutors growing up.

            But something would have to be done about them, he decided grimly. He'd been kind over the years since he'd gained the title and full control of Lavender Hall but their frivolous spending and inconsequential care for his health and wellbeing was not justified by rearing him after losing his parents. His uncle left them well off, they'd need not plague him.

            He wasn't going to-

            "I've made you some special tea that should help with the pain in your head."

             Miss Rhodes had returned carrying a tea tray that she set down beside the bed. She was wearing gray again. He was beginning to think that was the only color of gown she owned. With a white apron tied around her waist and blond hair bound back in a tight bun she was every bit the taciturn nurse he had always imagined of those of her profession.

            First, she helped him carefully sit up in bed, then she handed him the delicate porcelain cup designed with swirling blue flowers.

            "Drink slowly," she cautioned, "It's hot."

             As if he'd never drunk a cup of tea before he thought, taking a small sip. Ridiculous woman!

            She laid a cool hand on his forehead. "No fever, that's good. How is your appetite? Do you think you could manage some toast or fruit? I heard your cook Mrs. Dandridge just got some lovely berries from the market."

            He gave the cup back to her and shook his head.

            She frowned, "All right but you really must eat something."

            "I told you I don't want –

            "DARLING! I'VE JUST HEARD. YOU, POOR DEAR!"

            Internally Ethan groaned. He'd know that voice anywhere.

            Francesca Delacroix swept into the room in a burst of color and citrus scented perfume and threw herself upon his immobile body.

            Who the bloody hell let her in? He wanted to know. He'd given Huxley strict instructions prior to his accident to ensure she never set foot upon Lavender Hall again. Terrible judgement on his part for ever getting involved with her in the first place. But how was he to know she was needy, loud, and overly dramatic. Not to mention expensive. As if she needed any more gowns!

            "Are you in very much pain, my love," Francesca asked, reaching for his hand.

            He grimaced, "That hurts."

            "Lord Salisbury has a puncture wound in his side," Miss Rhodes explained. "He's very tender there at the moment."

            Francesca narrowed her heavily made-up eyes on her. "And who is this?" she quipped.

            "I am Miss Emmaline Rhodes. Lord Salisbury's nurse."

            "Ah a nurse," Francesca said, running her eyes over Miss Rhodes' simple and worn dress. "That explains your attire."

            Francesca in comparison wore a periwinkle blue gown, amply displaying her bosom, a beaded choker and about a pound of rouge on her face. Her hair a unique shade of red-orange - though he still swore in his drunken state it had been chestnut- was elegantly coiffed and styled a few corkscrew curls framing her long face and remarkably pointed chin.

            Ethan gave Miss Rhodes a pleading look. Must he endure much more of this. Bad enough he had to tolerate Miss Rhodes and her, know it all manner.

            "I came as soon as I heard," Francesca said.

            "Is that so?" Miss Rhodes demurred, "The post must be very slow, Lord Salisbury's accident was nearly three weeks ago."

            That was almost rude, he thought. Interesting.

            Francesca glared at her.

            "You know I think I will have some toast," Ethan interjected.

            "I'll help you," Francesca volunteered.

            "Certainly, but first, I must change Lord Salisbury's dressing. You may assist if you wish. You don't faint at the sight of blood, do you?" Miss Rhodes asked.

Francesca wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Perhaps I'll wait outside."

"Of course," Miss Rhodes said agreeably. "But this may take some time. It might be best if you come back."

"Well, I –

"Yes, then we can have a proper visit," Ethan assured her.

"Well, all right." Francesca leaned down and kissed his cheek then glaring at Miss Rhodes swept from the room.

"She seems charming," said Miss Rhodes, fighting a smile.

He frowned, "I thought you said my dressing wouldn't need to be changed until tomorrow."

"It doesn't." she replied.

"Oh," he said, comprehension dawning. That bit about changing his dressing had all been a ruse to get rid of Francesca. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. But in the future best to let your mistress know ahead of time if you find yourself bed bound."

"She's not my mistress. She's a...an acquaintance."

"Indeed," said Miss Rhodes, raising her eyebrows. "An actress or perhaps an opera singer."

"It's no concern of yours." An opera singer in fact.

"Of course," she said, handing him back his cup of tea. "I'll go see about that toast."

What an odd woman. Ethan thought when she was gone. But he had to admit. The tea was good.