She did not open her eyes. So much for swearing, praying, and begging.
Rex took his coat off again, feeling perspiration dripping down his own back, but not from the heat of the room. He took a deep breath and straightened his spine. "Very well, please do not wake up then. That will be easier on both of us."
Like a general studying his maps and maneuvers, Rex planned his campaign. First he fetched a nightgown from the countess's room and a bottle of brandy from the earl's. Then he turned down the covers on the other side of Miss Carville's bed so he'd have some place to roll the female onto when she was clean. He had a sip of brandy.
He brought the water and towel closer, and had another swallow. He'd wipe her face and hands first. How bad could that be? The brandy was good.
As gently as he could, Rex wiped at the dirt and scrapes, avoiding the swollen, discolored skin around the woman's left eye and the bruise on her chin, her cut lips. The doctor would have to prescribe salve and ointments for those. Rex carefully cleaned her hands-how small they were in his-and marked the raw place where someone had pulled a ring off her finger, and the sores on her arms from what he assumed were manacles. Her wrists were so narrow he could reach around them with his fingers and still have room. Shackles on this wisp of a girl? The notion turned his stomach, or perhaps that was the brandy. No, he was queasy at his next job.
Where the devil was Dodd and a decent woman?
Rex took a long swallow and set the bottle aside. A man needed a clear head to face the enemy, and his demons.
He raised Miss Carville and slipped the nightgown over her head, stuffing her arms into the sleeves, which were much too long. The countess was far larger, and far away, blast her.
Rex's strategy was to cut away the rags of Miss Carville's gown, lowering the night rail as he went to preserve her modesty as much as possible. He'd leave the washing of her body to whatever woman Dodd found. He thought he could hear voices in the front hall, a door shutting, footsteps on the stairs. Reprieve! He reached for the brandy again.
Of course that was when Miss Carville opened her eyes. And saw a rough-looking, long-haired man bending over her, a bottle in one hand, a knife in the other.
She shrieked. What else could Amanda do, when she was too weak to raise her arms, and they seemed to be swathed with cloth bindings anyway, with more wrapped around her throat? There she'd been, safely cradled in her father's arms, tenderly comforted by her mother's cooling, soothing touch. Someone cared for her; someone loved her. How sweet her dreams. Then she awoke to yet another nightmare of stabbing, strangulation, torture. The loathsome demon's eyes were wide with evil intent. An angry scar ran down his cheek and he stank of spirits. A guard? A prisoner? Amanda had no doubt he meant to rape her, then kill her. She shrieked again. No one was going to hear and help her, but what did she have to lose?
Rex slapped his hand over her mouth. Then he apologized when she winced and tried to pull back. "Sorry. But think of your reputation." No, that was so far blackened, she might as well be dipped in tar. "Think of mine." Which was worse. Lud, her eyes were wide and terror-filled, except for the one that was half swollen shut. That was brown, but bloodshot. "Please do not be afraid. I am trying to help you."
She stayed rigid, gathering her breath for another scream, he thought. "Please. My… mother sent me to help." The words were almost as painful as this little kitten's fear of him. "I would not hurt you."
"J-Jordan?"
He sighed in relief, that she was not out of her mind in a blind panic. A rational creature could be reasoned with. "That is right. Jordan, Lord Rexford, Lady Royce's son." He tried for a smile to reassure her while he put the bottle on the floor. He bowed and said, "At your service."
Amanda blinked and tried to focus on the man's features, not the knife in his hand. He was dark while the countess was fair, and his eyes were a bright sapphire, unlike Lady Royce's baby blue. But there was something about his mouth, and the smile, that seemed familiar. Perhaps she was thinking of the portraits on Lady Royce's walls. She almost smiled back, except for the pain in her split lip. "She must be so happy to see you."
"Not if I let you sicken worse," he muttered, not wishing to discuss the countess or their eventual meeting. To avoid any talk of Lady Royce, Rex busied himself putting the knife away and searching for a cup near the wash-stand, then pouring a tiny bit of the brandy into it. "Here, have a sip. Lord knows you deserve it."
She swallowed and sputtered, then looked around. "I am not in prison?"
"No."
"Then it was all a bad dream?"
"I am sorry, but I cannot lie to you. You are not acquitted."
A tear ran down her cheek, so Rex hurried to add, "But I will work on it. I swear, on my honor."
Amanda brushed at her eyes with the sleeve of the voluminous gown she seemed to be bundled into, clean and smelling of lavender. "Your mother always said you were an honorable man, one who could be trusted to tell the truth. She thinks you can accomplish anything you want."
"Not quite." Or else he'd be in China right now instead of Grosvenor Square. "But before I can hire barristers and such, we need to get you well. And clean. Your clothes have to be burned to protect against the spread of disease." He did not mention the possibilities of lice and fleas.
"Lady Royce?" she asked, looking around the room for her godmother.
"She is on her way." Like lice and fleas, the details were not important right now. "As are a physician and hot tea."
Ah, the maid must be bringing the tea. "Thank you."
"Unless the potboy does not know how to fix a tray."
"No maid?"
"I am afraid not. Not yet, that is. Soon, I pray. I was, ah, attempting to cut off your clothes in the meantime," he tried to explain, holding up his knife again.
Could a ghost get any whiter? Miss Carville matched the color of the sheets. To distract her, Rex decided to ask his questions. To hell with her modesty and her virginal fears. He had to know if she killed Sir Frederick. "Miss Carville, you need to tell me about your stepfather's death. I do not care much what you say, as long as it is the truth. I will help you either way, but I must hear it from your own lips. And believe this if nothing else: I will know if you lie."
Her mouth opened as if she were going to speak, but then her eyelashes fluttered closed and her hands fell back to her side. Miss Carville had fallen back into her fevered stupor-or else she was evading his question.
Chapter Five
Rex cursed. He cursed the sick-or sneaky-female. He cursed the countess for calling for help-and his father for giving it. Mostly he cursed his own traitorous body for assessing Miss Carville's body while he quickly cut the clothing away, hastily swabbed at dirt and dried blood, hurried to pull the nightgown down. Damn, for all he'd done, for all his freakish quirk, Rex still considered himself a gentleman. Not a voyeur, not a rake, not a lust-driven despoiler of virgins. Of course Miss Carville might not be any pure maiden, not if the rumor mill ground true. Virgin or not, murderess or not, she deserved better than being ogled while she lay ill. That was a reprehensible breach of honor. Yet Rex could not help noticing her high, firm breasts and her narrow waist, flat belly, and long, shapely legs. The female might be small, but she was perfectly formed. And blond.
He pulled the countess's overlarge nightgown down so fast and so hard the shoulder might have ripped. Miss Carville was clean enough in his view, and far too long in his view, also. He did not think any of her ribs were broken, nor were any of her cuts deep enough to need stitches. He moved her over, between the sheets, and covered her to the chin with the blankets. Then he could breathe again.