As a child she often lay on the floor and made up stories about the paintings in the elaborate medallions. She loved this house almost as much as Charlton Abbey.
The unruly side of her nature surged forth again, and she swore an oath that one of her warrior ancestors would have approved. She might never win the duke’s love, and Charlton was forever lost, but Cromarty House was hers. No matter what it took, she would find a way to keep her home out of Elvira’s grasping little hands.
Chapter 2
The soft footfalls of her maid awakened Jocelyn from a restless slumber. She rolled over with a yawn and sat up so a tray of hot chocolate and bread rolls could be arranged over her lap. “Thank you, Marie.” Noticing a small frown on the girl’s face, she added, “Is all well belowstairs?”
Welcoming the opportunity to talk, Marie Renault said with an enchanting trace of French accent, “The footman, Hugh Morgan?”
Jocelyn nodded encouragingly. Morgan was a handsome young Welshman who had created quite a flutter among the maids when he started work a few months before. Marie appeared to be the girl who had secured his interest.
“His brother, Rhys, a dragoon who was wounded at Waterloo, has just arrived at the York Hospital here in London. Hugh is most anxious to visit him, but his next half day isn’t for almost a week.” The girl gave her mistress a hopeful glance.
Had Rhys Morgan come over on the same troop ship as Richard Dalton? So many wounded men. Repressing a sigh, Jocelyn sipped her rich, steaming chocolate. “How convenient. This morning I’m going to call on a friend at the York Hospital. Morgan can be my escort and see his brother while I am visiting my friend.”
“Oh, excellent, milady. He will be most happy.” Expression lighter, Marie crossed to the wardrobe room to prepare her mistress’s morning costume. Jocelyn broke open her warm bread roll, wryly wishing that all problems could be solved as easily as Hugh Morgan’s.
The Duke of York Military Hospital was dismal, a drab monolith dedicated to the treatment of seriously wounded soldiers. Jocelyn wondered with black humor if the objective was to be so depressing that patients would do their best to recover quickly.
Steeling herself, she marched up the wide steps, her footman close behind. Hugh Morgan was tall, with broad shoulders and a melodious Welsh voice. He was a pleasant addition to the household, but today concern for his brother shadowed his eyes.
The building was crowded with casualties, and it took time to find Rhys Morgan’s ward. Jocelyn experienced sights and smells that knotted her stomach, while Hugh’s country complexion acquired a greenish-white tinge.
Rhys Morgan lay in a corner cot of perhaps forty jammed into a room too small for its population. Some patients sat on their beds or talked in small groups, but most lay in stoic silence. The bare walls created an unrestful clamor, and a miasma of illness and death hung heavy in the air.
Hugh scanned the room. “Rhys, lad!” He instinctively started to push past Jocelyn, then glanced back apologetically. With a nod, she released him to his brother.
The wounded man had been staring at the ceiling, but he looked up as his name was called. Though the face was startlingly like his brother’s, Rhys Morgan wore an expression of blank despair that was only partly lifted as Hugh rushed up and grabbed his hand, Welsh words pouring forth.
The raw feeling in Hugh’s face made Jocelyn uncomfortable. As she shifted her gaze away, her eyes were caught and held at the bottom of Rhys’s bed. Where there should have been two legs under the covers, there was only one. The left had been amputated just below the knee.
She swallowed before approaching to touch Hugh’s arm. He turned with a guilty start. “I’m sorry, my lady. I forgot myself.”
She gave a smile that included both of them. “No apologies are necessary. Corporal Morgan, may I introduce myself? I am Lady Jocelyn Kendal, and I have the honor of being your brother’s employer.”
Rhys propped himself up against the wall behind his cot, alarmed at the vision of elegance before him. With a bob of his head, he stammered, “My pleasure, ma’am.”
Hugh hissed, “Call her ‘my lady,’ you looby.”
A wave of color rose under the fair Celtic skin as the soldier attempted to apologize. Wanting to alleviate his embarrassment, Jocelyn said, “It’s of no importance, Corporal. Tell me, are you two twins?”
“Nay, I’m a year the elder,” Rhys replied. “But we’ve oft been taken as twins.”
“You are very alike,” Jocelyn remarked.
“Not any more,” Rhys said bitterly as he glanced at the flat bedding where his leg should have been.
Jocelyn colored with embarrassment. Deciding the brothers would be better off without her inhibiting presence, she said, “I’ll go find my friend now and leave you to visit. When I’m finished, I’ll return here, Morgan.”
Hugh looked uncertain. “I should go with you, my lady.”
“Nonsense, what could happen to me in a military hospital?” she replied. “Corporal Morgan, do you know where the officers are quartered?”
He straightened when she asked for help. “The floor above, ma’am. My lady.”
“Thank you. I shall see you both later.” Jocelyn left the room, conscious of the stares that followed her. Impossible not to remember that while she had been living in comfort in London, these men had been getting blown to bits for their country.
Climbing a staircase to the next level, she found a long, empty corridor with individual doors instead of open wards. As she hesitated, a thickset man of middle years strode purposefully from a nearby room. Guessing he was a physician, she said, “I’m looking for Captain Richard Dalton of the 95th Rifles. Is he in this area?”
“Down the hall.” The doctor waved his hand vaguely behind him, then marched off before she could get more specific directions.
Resigned to trial and error, Jocelyn opened the first door. A nauseating stench sent her into hurried retreat. Aunt Laura, who had done her share of nursing in Spain, had once described gangrene, but the reality was far more sickening than Jocelyn had imagined. Luckily, the still figure on the bed was not the man she sought.
The next doors opened to empty beds or men too badly injured to notice her intrusion. No Captain Dalton. More and more unnerved, she opened the last door on the corridor. Several figures stood around a table with a man lying on it. A scalpel flashed, followed by a blood-freezing scream of agony.
Jocelyn slammed the door shut and ran blindly into the open space at the end of the corridor. She’d thought it would be simple to locate a friend. Instead, she was finding the worst suffering she’d ever seen in her life.
Eyes clouded with tears, she didn’t even see the man until she slammed into a hard body. There was a clatter of falling wood, then a strong hand grabbed her arm. Jocelyn gasped, on the verge of a hysterical scream.
“Sorry to be in your way,” a quiet voice said. “Do you think you could hand me my other crutch?”
Blinking back her tears, Jocelyn bent to pick up the crutch that had skidded across the floor. She straightened
