Page 2 of Vanquishing the Viscount

She squeezed the cuff of his coat, and water trickled down. Even if he recovered quickly from his fall, he could still catch a chill. Where had he come from, and what merited such haste, in such awful weather?

“You’re not planning to rob me, are you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. “Loath as I am to strike anyone, I’m renowned for my right hook.”

She knew she hardly looked like a lady, with her skirts caked in mud and her hair lank with water, but the accusation stung. “We’re hardly likely to own it if we are,” she said stiffly. The temptation to stab at his collarbone and chest rather than probe gently was hard to resist.

As she felt up and down his arms for breaks, she couldn’t help but notice how firm his muscles were. Like those of a man who worked with his hands, not a pampered dandy of the aristocracy. What a pleasing packet of contradictions this fellow was!

“This isn’t the first time I’ve fallen off a horse, you know,” he said. “I’m certain there has never been such a fuss before.”

He should think himself lucky she was even bothering with him. Left to his own devices, Carrier Marshman would probably have captured the man’s horse, bundled him back on, and sent him on his way regardless of his physical condition. She bit her lip and continued her examination, refusing to look the man in his blue-gray eyes. She could feel them on her and knew the light in them was not friendly.

“Not at all the done thing, you know, for a young lady to run her hands over a gentleman,” the stranger said in her ear.

Her hands halted for the briefest of moments. Good Lord. Had she been enjoying the feel of him too much, and that was why she’d lingered over her examination?

Refusing to blush—or rise to the bait—she said, “Then thank your stars I’m not a lady, but a servant.”

This was only partly true. She was a lady, descended from a family with roots reaching back to Domesday. But their estates had never recovered from the failed harvests of 1816, known as the “Year without a Summer.” Now, both she and her brother were seeking their fortunes elsewhere, to reduce the expenditure of their elderly parents.

“Fortunes” being a relative concept.

“A servant?” The stranger’s eyes mocked her. “What manner of Banbury tale is that?”

“I don’t intend to dispute with you, sir,” she replied, getting to her feet. “It matters not who, or what, I am. Now that I’m sure there’s nothing broken, you may stand up.”

The thickset Marshman hoisted the gentleman up with a fist beneath each armpit. It wasn’t a glamorous elevation, and true vertical was not achieved—when the man attempted to lift his head, he swayed alarmingly and lurched into Emma.

Marshman bore his weight as they tried to maneuver him upright again. Their patient moaned, raising a hand to his head.

“I think he’s concussed,” she told Marshman. “We’ll have to take him up with us—it’s not safe for him to travel alone.”

“But he’s traveling crosswise to us, Miss d’Ibert.”

She winced and placed a finger against her lips. “It’s Hibbert now, remember?” She glanced up at the stranger, but he seemed not to have heard.

Her real name had been left behind, at poor, decaying Tresham Hall, her childhood home. She was now just plain Miss Hibbert, governess. If any of her family’s creditors were to discover she’d gone into service, they’d immediately suspect the d’Iberts couldn’t honor their debts. Then the grasping tradesmen would call in those debts, and the family would be faced with bankruptcy.

They’d also be faced with the prospect of having to sell Tresham Hall.

Which was unthinkable.

“Concussed, miss?”

“Yes. He’s had a blow to his head that’s jarred his brain. You can see how dizzy and confused he is.”

“He is still here, quite in his right mind, and perfectly able to hear you,” the stranger retorted.

Ignoring him, she told Marshman, “We must put him in the cart and take him somewhere he can be looked after.”

“There’s the Four Swans a mile or so back, Miss d’Ib…I mean Miss Hibbert.”

“That will do splendidly. So sorry to delay you, Mr. Marshman, but I don’t think we can leave the fellow to his own devices.”

The carrier eyed the sky, then smiled at her. “I don’t reckon it’s going to get worse anywhen soon,” he observed, “so, we’ll do as you say. Once we’ve delivered the afflicted gentleman we can be on the road again, and the going will be much quicker once we reach the turnpike. I can still set you down ’afore noon, and be down to Bath and back again ’afore nightfall. Heave ho, miss!”

After a brief struggle, the puzzled stranger was deposited in the wagon, with his back to the horses and his feet among the cider barrels. But just as Emma was lifting her skirts to clamber up beside him, he struck his forehead with the ball of his hand.

“What an idiot I am! I can’t stop here! I’ve got to get to Ashleaze Court. Not a moment to lose. Now, set me down so I can recover Lawrie.”