Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,10

and in extreme disorder—chairs turned over, candle wax on the floor, rugs with holes in them.”

“I don’t understand why Lord Beaufort has not come and taken his son in hand,” Mr. Higginbotham said.

“I heard that the earl sent his son here to die. He told him to leave the family home in Richmond and that he never wanted to see him again.”

Pru gasped. “Oh, but that’s horrible. Surely no father would ever disown his own child.” Even as the words left her lips, Pru knew she was wrong. Hadn’t her own father all but disowned her? She still remembered the day they told her they had accepted a post in the Far East to serve as missionaries. Pru had asked, “Where will we live?” and her parents had said, not unkindly but firmly, “You will not be coming with us.”

“The point is,” the vicar said, “Mr. Pope is dangerous, and I do not want you near him, Prudence.”

“Yes, sir.”

“To think you might have been shot and killed!” Mrs. Dawson said.

“I really do not think I was in any danger of that,” Pru said. After all, Mr. Pope had been stuck in mud, and the only weapon he had with him had been that fierce scowl.

“Oh, you might think his injury prevents him from aiming true, but I saw the Scotsman,” Langford said. “Mr. Pope is still a good shot.”

“What injury?” Pru asked, trying to remember if she’d seen Mr. Pope walk with a limp or show any sign he favored one arm. He had looked thin and a bit wan but not injured.

“You did not notice?” Langford asked.

Pru shook her head.

“Mr. Pope is blind.”

Three

Nash sat in his dining room nursing a headache. Rowden certainly wasted no time in clearing the house of anything decent to drink. He’d put cup after cup of coffee and tea before Nash but nothing stronger. He’d also managed to have three meals served on Sunday. Nash hadn’t been able to eat much as his belly was used to a liquid diet, but he’d eaten enough that Rowden stopped badgering him.

Rowden was somewhere in the house right now, crashing about, making notes of what needed to be done or undone. Nash just wanted a whiskey or a brandy. Hell, he would have settled for cooking wine, but he’d already searched the kitchen in vain.

He took another sip of his weak tea and closed his eyes. A few moments later Rowden entered and tore open the curtains. “Must you do that?” Nash asked, turning his face from the light.

“You look like a ghost,” Rowden said. “You need fresh air and sunlight.”

Nash scowled. “Since when did you ever care about either? You’ve spent most of your life sleeping all day and battering men for money in the back of a tavern at night.”

“Ah, the good old days,” Rowden said fondly. “But now I spend a number of days giving nobs like you lessons in pugilism at Mostyn’s studio. The sunlight does wonders for my disposition.”

“My disposition is just fine,” Nash said.

“You do seem in a cheery mood. What was that tune you were humming?”

Nash started. “Humming?”

“When I came in, you were humming.”

“You must be hearing things.” But Nash suspected he had been humming. Ever since meeting Miss Howard in the informal gardens, he hadn’t been able to extricate “Bonny Black Hare” from his head. The song went around and around, and the worst part was he heard it sung in her clear, high voice.

“Well?” Rowden said and Nash realized he must have been speaking while Nash wasn’t attending.

“Well, what?”

“Will you come outside and hear my plans?”

“You have plans?”

“Clearly, someone needs a plan. Unless you would prefer to be shut away in an asylum for the rest of your miserable life.”

Nash did not answer.

“Come on. Up you go,” Rowden said.

“Bloody damn hell, but I hate this cheerful side of you,” Nash said, rising to his feet.

“I hate it too. I much prefer knocking men down to pulling them up, but then I owe you at least this much.”

Nash looked at Rowden, trying to see him with his one good eye, but it was too bright with the curtains open. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Rowden didn’t say anything until they were outside. Nash would never admit it, but the crisp autumn air did seem to infuse him with energy. His headache subsided slightly, and he lifted his head so the breeze might catch his hair.

“You saved my life at least three times,” Rowden said, pausing at the bottom of the