CHAPTER ONE
Rural Somerset, England, 1813
"I can't help you, Lady Eleanor."
Anne Paxton Smythe stared at the elegant noblewoman
sitting across from her, hoping she seemed courteous but
firm. She struggled to exhibit a serene smile, but could
barely keep from fidgeting.
It was folly to refuse an aristocrat's request, and she
had to wonder if she was putting herself at risk, if all
she'd achieved would be rent asunder simply because she'd
stood her ground.
From the instant the exalted Lady's coach-and-four had
rumbled up the lane, Anne had been wary. She'd recognized
that nothing good would come from the visit, and now that
an outrageous entreaty had been tendered, she could tell
that her intuition was on the mark.
Assistance was out of the question.
"At least hear me out," Lady Eleanor cajoled.
"You can't change my mind."
The warm June breeze fluttered the curtains, and a titter
of feminine laughter wafted in an open window. The voices
were sultry and relaxed, and they conjured images of
summer nights, of lovers, intrigue, and romance.
Uneasy, Anne shifted, praying that her guest hadn't heeded
the sounds, but they were difficult to miss. Over the
years, she'd grown accustomed to the odd articulations,
had listened to so many strange utterances that she didn't
notice the occasional outburst of pleasure. Yet to anyone
else, they might appear peculiar, disconcerting. Downright
lustful.
She blushed. "As I was saying..."
The giggling came again, from very nearby, and she glanced
up as a naked female tiptoed by on the outside walk.
Looking like a forest nymph, her hair was down, her
voluptuous breasts were exposed to the afternoon sunshine.
A second woman, as naked as the first, darted along
behind.
Extremely dismayed, Anne peeked at Lady Eleanor, but her
chair was positioned so that she couldn't have seen.
Praise be! There was no way she could explain the
spectacle, and the last thing she needed was to spur the
prim, proper paragon into a swoon!
Exuding calm, she rose. "Would you excuse me?"
"But I just arrived, and I--"
"I'll hurry." She departed before Lady Eleanor could
command her to stay.
Placid and graceful, she slipped out, but once she was
down the hall, she ran to the rear door. Her friend and
aide, Kate Turner, was trimming flowers in the garden,
unaware of the indecent romping. After much frantic
pointing from Anne, Kate nodded in comprehension and
meandered down the shrub-lined path to confront the
recalcitrant duo.
Nude gamboling in the yard was not permitted!
"Check their picnic basket for me," Anne hissed. "If you
find any wine, they've had enough. Confiscate it!"
Intoxicating beverages weren't allowed, either. Despite
how her patrons insisted that spirits added to their
enjoyment, Anne couldn't relent. Many were overwhelmed by
the invigoration they experienced while bathing in her hot
springs grotto, and she had to keep a tight rein on all
behaviors, lest the merriment spin out of control.
Rumors were rampant as to the beneficial qualities of the
water--that it was mysterious, magical--and she didn't
dare encourage further obfuscation or distortion.
She went inside, even as she pondered whether Kate would
have the gumption to seize the liquor. Kate was efficient,
pragmatic, gifted at many tasks, but she wasn't adept at
dealing with Anne's affluent clients. Kate steered clear
of the snobs and society types, while Anne had to welcome
and politely interact with all of them, if she wanted to
put food on the table.
At the door to the receiving parlor, she slowed, took a
few deep breaths, and the delay gave her a chance to
assess Lady Eleanor. She was a regal beauty, with a
pleasingly plump figure, big blue eyes, and fabulous blond
hair that was pinned up in an intricate chignon. Her skin
was smooth, pearly white, the kind that the very rich
could afford to maintain with expensive creams. Her
sapphire gown was constructed from an expensive fabric
that crinkled and shimmered when she moved.
In comparison, Anne was dowdy and drab, garbed as she was
in her gray, functional dress, her starched apron. Water
had splashed on her skirt, and there were stains on the
hem. While her brunette hair was braided and bound, heat
and sweat from hours of toil had caused several strands to
fall.
Hard work, a healthy diet, and her petite frame, had
combined to thin her torso. Next to the stunning, buxom
noblewoman, she felt gaunt, too skinny, underfed. Her body
was unfashionably tanned from too much laboring in the
sun, her hands rough and chapped from an excess of chores.
Her business was thriving, and cash was available for
frivolous lotions and pampering, but there was never an
idle moment in which to indulge herself.
She was constantly busy, and gazing upon Lady Eleanor made
her feel tired and decrepit.
Lady Eleanor had traipsed to the window and was gaping
out, wanting to determine what had drawn Anne away.
Luckily, the scandalous pair was no longer visible. Anne
couldn't conceive of what lies she'd have had to concoct
if Lady Eleanor had espied them.
If only Lady Eleanor had advised in advance that she'd be
stopping by! Anne could have prepared, could have locked
the gate and declined to admit the bevy of unrestrained
bathers.
Well, there was naught to be done except to conclude their
discussion and send the stubborn female on her way.
As she entered the salon, Lady Eleanor spun around,
embarrassed at being caught snooping, but she covered her
lapse well. Anne gestured to the chairs, and they seated
themselves, once more.
"Now then," Anne began, "where were we?"
"We were talking about my brother, Stephen."
"Ah, yes." The infamous Captain Stephen Chamberlin. Man-
about-town. Libertine. War hero. Why would such a
distinguished knave have his sister traveling about the
countryside and making solicitations on his behalf? Had he
no manners? No shame?
"He was wounded in Spain."
"Was he?" Anne queried blandly. The rich and powerful had
no monopoly on the miseries of warfare. Her own brother,
Phillip, had almost been killed at Salamanca. She refused
to show any sympathy for the Chamberlin family.
"Did I mention that our father is Robert Chamberlin, the
Earl of Bristol?"
Four times, already!
"You did." But Anne wasn't impressed by the earth-shaking
news. She wouldn't give two pennies for any lord in the
land, and if Lady Eleanor was planning to shock or dazzle
by alluding to her sire, she was preaching to the wrong
choir. Anne could care less.
"So if you're worried about my ability to remunerate you
for his treatments, I can assure you that you'll be fully
compensated."
"It's not the money."
"What then?"
Anne had so many reasons that she couldn't tabulate them
all. Primarily, she couldn't have a male on the property.
What would her clients say? What would neighbors think of
the impropriety?
The nearest large metropolis was Bath, which drew
multitudes who sought convalescence. The most wealthy and
influential personages in England made regular
pilgrimages, but many of the feminine celebrities
preferred the privacy of Anne's farm.
The ancient Roman bath, which she and Kate had renovated,
was a godsend, a priceless boon, and she wasn't about to
spoil everything by having Captain Chamberlin on the
premises. No matter how badly he was hurt, she couldn't
risk her livelihood.
"My visitors are all female," she clarified. "It wouldn't
be fitting."
"Are you afraid you'd lose customers?"
"I'm positive I would."
Lady Eleanor opened her reticule, retrieved an envelope,
and passed it over. "I don't know what income you earn,
but this should more than offset any costs you might
sustain."
Anne peeked inside, amazed to spot a stack of what had to
be hundreds of pounds. "This is too much. I couldn't--"
"That's for the initial six months," she interjected. "If
it takes you longer to get him on his feet, I'll double
the amount."
Anne closed the seal on the small fortune and tried to
return the pouch, but Lady Eleanor wouldn't accept it, so
she laid it on the table between them.
"Please, Mrs. Smythe. I'm begging you."
She was distressed, convinced that Anne could successfully
intervene, which left Anne terribly uncomfortable. Her
true name was Anne Paxton, but the surname of Smythe was
false. She pretended to be a widow, for reference to a
deceased husband gave her legitimacy, and quashed
questions about her background and skills.
In reality, she was a fraud, a twenty-eight year old
spinster, who'd nursed her ailing mother, then Widow
Brown, through their final illnesses. Her depth of medical
knowledge was no more extensive than the assorted methods
she'd developed through trial and error. To observe Lady
Eleanor desperate, pleading for her assistance, mortified
Anne.
She couldn't help Stephen Chamberlin. Save for a few
tinctures, dietary modifications, and bathing in the
grotto, she hadn't the faintest notion how. Nor did she
want to tend a spoiled, arrogant aristocrat. The very idea
had her stomach roiling.
"What you're asking is too difficult for me to consider."
"How could I make it easier?"
"You can't. If you feel he could benefit from therapeutic
waters, there are spas in Bath. Any of them would be
suitable."
"I couldn't parade him into a public establishment!"
Anxiety creased her brow, and she searched through her
bag, once again. "Look at him. This is how he used to be."
She handed over a miniature, framed portrait of Stephen
Chamberlin. With dark hair, and mesmerizing blue eyes, he
was the most handsome knave Anne had ever seen. He was
attired in his military uniform, the red of the coat
adding a dashing flare. Smug, conceited, overconfident, he
was ready to challenge Napoleon all by himself and win.
Foolish men and their foolish fighting!
Phillip had been dapper and gallant, too, when he'd
marched off. She'd implored him not to go, to stay with
their father at Salisbury where he'd be safe, but he
hadn't listened any better than Stephen Chamberlin. They'd
both been mangled and maimed, leaving the women in their
lives to deal with the aftermath.
She didn't want to be affected by his plight, yet she
scrutinized the picture, wondering about the man, the
soldier, intrigued even though she didn't wish to be.
"He doesn't look like this anymore," Lady Eleanor
proclaimed. "He was always such a proud peacock, so vain
about his appearance. I couldn't let anyone behold him as
he is. That's why I thought your farm would be best. It's
so quiet here, so isolated. He'd have the privacy he needs
to heal."
Just then, laughter sounded from directly outside, and
Lady Eleanor whirled around. At that exact moment, the
breeze ruffled the curtains, and she was able to view a
naked woman flitting by.
"Oh dear..." she murmured.
"Pardon me," Anne said, gnashing her teeth, and she rushed
from the parlor, down the hall, and out the back, where
she glimpsed the bare bottom of the interloper as she
scampered into the pool. She hunted for Kate, who--the
traitor!--was nowhere to be found, so she had to handle
the situation, herself.
A dozen customers were lounging, on the rocks and on the
banks surrounding the pond. They were slothful members of
the ton, whom she didn't know, but Lady Carrington had
recommended them. Not wanting to offend, Anne had
permitted their visit but, hoping to dissuade them, she'd
suggested an exorbitant price, and without hesitation,
they'd agreed to pay it. Feet submerged, their hair
rolling off their shoulders, their breasts thrust out,
they were arrayed like a band of frisky mermaids.
There was a certain element who enjoyed the naughtiness of
the out-of-doors, who liked the wantonness of loafing in
the altogether, who reveled in the prospect of being
detected, although the opportunity for discovery was slim.
Her acreage was fenced, the grotto shielded by thick ferns
and bushes.
They also wanted to be able to brag that they'd been at
her facility, which was currently all the rage. Incessant
gossip abounded: that Anne was a sorceress with
restoratives and remedies, that she could cure anything
from insomnia to feminine ailments, that her hot springs
had special characteristics not possessed of the other
spas in the vicinity.
There were even claims that the water had a sexual energy,
that when a woman immersed herself in it, she was overcome
by lustful urges and insurgent passions.
Anne didn't attempt to quell the scuttlebutt. She was in
commerce, and owned the home and the acreage she'd
inherited from Widow Brown. With her mother dead, and her
father estranged, the legacy was all she had in the entire
world, and she would do whatever it took to succeed.
Insolent and disdainful, the promiscuous group watched as
she approached, and she champed down on her irritation.
There were bottles of wine and expensive goblets strewn
about on the grass. Several were empty, evidence of their
imbibing, which would account for their nude treks around
the house.
She loathed them, but they had money and could purchase
her services, which provided her with the leeway to treat
the poor who couldn't, so she trod a fine line. She had to
be fawning and deferential, but she was in charge, owner
and operator, and she couldn't have them running rough-
shod over her.
"Ladies," she called, "you're flouncing about in the yard.
I reviewed the rules with you. Once you're finished in the
dressing cottage, you have to remain in the pool area. You
can't be traipsing about the property. Especially
unclothed. You must wear your bathing costumes at all
times!
"But it's so much more fun to go without," one of them
responded. She was Camilla Warren, a young, snooty widow,
whose elderly husband had recently died, but she didn't
seem to be in mourning.
"I have a guest, and you're disturbing our discussion."
"Yes, we saw," Camilla replied. "Is it Eleanor Chamberlin
Dunworthy?"
"No," Anne fibbed.
"Really? I could swear the coach has the Bristol crest on
the side."
"You're mistaken."
"Is Stephen with her?"
"I have no idea about whom you're speaking."
Lady Camilla stretched, arching up, smoothing her palm
across her breast, her stomach, intending--Anne was
convinced--to startle and dismay, so she evinced no
reaction. In the years she'd managed the emporium, Anne
had seen it all, and nothing surprised her anymore.
"I hear that Stephen's gone mad as a hatter." Camilla
glanced over at her companions. "Wouldn't it be amusing to
learn the truth for ourselves? What tales we could tell,
hmm?"
A malicious chuckling rippled through the group, and Anne
had to bite her tongue to contain a snide remark. Who were
they to jest over Lord Chamberlin's condition? He'd fought
for God and country. The least they could do was show some
respect.
"If you disregard the rules again," Anne warned, "I'll
have to deny you privileges."
"You wouldn't," Camilla pouted.
"I would." Anne met Camilla's calculating stare with one
of her own, and the harridan was easily cowed.
"Oh, all right," she grumbled. "We'll behave."
"Thank you."
Anne turned and headed toward the house, and behind her,
Camilla grouched, "Spoil sport."
The others snickered, but Anne kept on. As she climbed the
stone pathway and rounded the hedge, she literally bumped
into Lady Eleanor who had followed, curious as to what was
occurring. From her pallor and blatant anguish, it was
obvious she'd eavesdropped.
"Come with me!" Anne commanded. "Don't grant them the
satisfaction of witnessing your distress."
Anne ushered her inside, poured her a glass of sherry,
then sat patiently, waiting while she sipped.
"He's not mad!" Eleanor insisted once she'd finished
it. "He's...he's..."
Tears surged and began to fall, and Anne couldn't bear
them. She didn't want to pity Lady Eleanor and her
brother, didn't want to be saddened or swayed, didn't want
to be apprised of what afflicted him, wouldn't display any
concern, wouldn't commiserate, console or comfort.
Yet, she caught herself inquiring, "What is wrong with
him?"
"He was terribly wounded. In the legs and back. With saber
slashes, as well as pistol shots. His limbs are still
attached, but he can't walk, when there's no reason he
can't. The doctors say it's as if he doesn't want to get
better."
"Perhaps he doesn't. You can't force a person to improve
if he's dead-set against it."
"But he's only thirty! Should I throw up my hands? Give
up? Give in?" She swallowed, shaken. "The quacks advising
my father are demanding to cut off his leg! If he attacks
his physicians again, my father will send him to Bedlam!"
Anne tamped down a shudder. She'd been in the asylum, on a
dreadful occasion, when she'd rescued Kate after Kate's
husband had had her committed. She'd never wish such a
penalty on man nor beast.
"He wouldn't," Anne contended.
"I saw the papers on his desk."
"You could have misunderstood."
"I didn't," she asserted. "Do you have a brother, Mrs.
Smythe?"
"Yes."
"Would you let your father do such a thing to him?"
Anne wanted to snort in disgust. As if her father would
ever have cared enough about Phillip to expend the
effort! "No, I wouldn't."
"Then, help me!" More tears flowed.
"Oh, Lady Eleanor..."
Anne sighed, heartsick and discouraged. She'd ceaselessly
been too kind, too compassionate. It was her greatest
failing, and Lady Eleanor's plea nettled her, making her
want to assist, despite her reservations. Eleanor kept
injecting their brothers into the conversation, which
weakened her resolve. She had a soft spot for Phillip, and
couldn't conceive of sitting by if he was in trouble.
Her determination was waning, when she noted Camilla
Warren's carriage pulling out of the drive. She and her
friends were chatting gaily, waving and blowing kisses to
the Bristol footmen attending Eleanor's coach.
The ruckus had Anne snapping to reality. She couldn't get
involved in the Chamberlin family's problems! Particularly
when their father, the Earl of Bristol, was about to
dispatch one of his three sons to Bedlam. It was a no-win
situation, in which she dare not intervene.
"That bunch is why I have to decline," she pointed
out. "You observed what they're like. Some of my customers
are a bit wild, just as some are very ill, but they're all
women, and this is an establishment where they can relax
and be themselves. He simply couldn't be here."
"I've heard stories about you," Eleanor implored. "You're
a healer. You're aware of remedies and methods that others
aren't."
"The stories aren't true," Anne confessed. "I have some
rudimentary nursing skills. There's nothing exceptional
about what I do."
"Everyone talks about you."
"Trust me: my acclaim vastly exceeds my abilities."
"The waters in your grotto," she prodded, trying a
different tactic. "They say it possesses a magic power
that isn't found in the other hot pools."
"What they say is a fallacy, Lady Eleanor. It's just
water. It bubbles out of the rocks. That's the only
mystery."
For a lengthy, painful minute, Eleanor studied her. "You
could cure him. I can see it in your eyes. You could do
it. Please! Save my brother for me."
"I can't. I'm sorry."
"I'll give you anything you ask. There must be something
you've always wanted. Something you need."
"No. There's nothing."
Defeated, her shoulders slumped, and she stuffed her
envelope of cash into her bag. "If you change your mind--"
"I won't."
She held out a piece of paper, and Anne took it,
recognizing it as the directions to Bristol Manor. As if
she needed to be informed of the route to the estate! She
couldn't have resided in the area since she was three and
not know.
"I'll be there--with Stephen--through the end of
September."
"Don't count on me. Find someone else."
"There is no one else," she declared. "I've searched
throughout the country. You were my last hope."
The comment cut Anne to the quick, and she pressed her
lips together, lest her undisciplined tongue make an offer
she couldn't fulfill. Lady Eleanor rose and left, without
a farewell or backward glance, and Anne was rooted to the
floor. She lingered, listening to the tread of the Lady's
slippers as she exited and trekked down the walk.
There was a protracted murmuring of voices--an apparent
argument--a slamming door as she climbed into the
conveyance, much creaking and jingling of leather and
harness as she prepared to depart. The vehicle rumbled
off, the magnificent horses clopping in a perfect rhythm
as they promenaded in a circle and journeyed toward the
road.
Once the coach was away, she went to the window and looked
out, and what she saw had her sputtering with outrage.
Fury pounded through her, and she raced outside. Chasing
after the carriage, her fist raised in anger, she
shouted, "No you don't! No you bloody don't! You can't do
this to me!"
The driver didn't slow, the horses didn't miss a step, and
the imperious, cheeky Lady Eleanor kept going.
* * * *
In grave despair, Eleanor approached the coach and
Stephen's friend, Charles Hughes, leapt to attention. He
was handsome, in a rough way. Stout and wide, strong as an
ox, tough as nails, he reminded her of a pugilist at a
fair. With his reddish hair, green eyes, and wind-burned
skin, he exuded a masculinity that might have attracted
many women, though not an experienced widow such as
herself.
At age thirty-two, he was three years younger than she
was, but he seemed so much older and wiser, and he made
her nervous. She stiffened, bucking up to insulate
herself. When in his presence, she felt smaller, immature,
less confident.
While she'd spent her twenties married and engaged in
frivolous pursuits, he'd been a career soldier, roaming
around Europe. He'd traveled with Stephen, and though
neither of them ever discussed what had actually happened
in Spain, Eleanor suspected that Stephen wouldn't be alive
had Charles not been by his side.
As it was, Charles had lost a hand, not in the battle, but
in medical treatment after it ended. He had a hook
strapped where the absent appendage should have been,
which enhanced his air of danger and authority, and it was
discreetly tucked into his shirt, his arm resting on his
stomach. His valor and maiming insured that he would be on
the Bristol payroll for as long as he was inclined to
stay. Though the men in her family had many faults, they
were loyal.
"Well?" he demanded without preamble.
"She said no."
Good, was his unspoken response, and he queried, "Now
what?"
"Is he still passed out?"
Charles's lips thinned to a tight line. He hated it when
she referred to any of Stephen's bad habits. "Yes."
"Let me see."
Charles opened the door of the elegant vehicle, and she
peered into the dark interior. Slumped against the squab,
dirty, unkempt, stinking to high heaven, her once-
beautiful, dynamic, charismatic brother snored in peaceful
oblivion.
Bile rose in her throat, and she turned to Charles. "Take
him out. Leave him on her stoop."
"What?"
Behind them, the driver and footmen tensed.
"You heard me."
"Have ya gone daft, woman?" As Charles's temper flared,
his native Scottish brogue poked through.
"She's a kind person. She'll help him."
"I thought she refused you."
"She'll relent."
"Are you insane? What if she doesn't?"
"I won't have him at Bristol, where my father will permit
those sawbones to remove his leg."
"The earl will calm down."
"If that's what you suppose, then you don't know my father
very well."
Charles was so angry, he was trembling. "I won't let you
discard him here, like a sack of rubbish!"
"Take him out, Mr. Hughes."
"I won't!"
Charles occupied a strange position in their household.
Though he was technically a Bristol employee, he answered
to no one but Stephen, and he couldn't be ordered about. A
man of lofty morals and principles, he'd quit before he'd
obey a command that went against his better judgment.
She glared at the footmen, who didn't dare defy
her. "Carry him out, gentlemen."
Near to a mutiny, they bristled, but ultimately, the
driver stepped forward to comply with her edict, as
Charles shoved him away.
"I'll do it," he bit out, and he reached in and gripped
Stephen around the shoulders. With only the one hand, he
was awkward, and the other men vaulted forward to lend
their support.
They hauled him up the walk and laid him down, and he
didn't flinch or make any motion to indicate that he
noticed what they'd done. He slumbered in serene
indifference.
The men came toward her, and Charles muttered under his
breath, "Crazy shrew."
"Did you say something, Charles?"
She stared him down, evincing an arrogance and rage she
never showed to others. He met her look but prudently held
his tongue.
In the current heat of the moment, it wouldn't do for
either of them to spew remarks they might later regret.
Charles lifted her into the coach, and the others readied
for departure. None too soon, they were away. The horses
were maneuvered around, and as they were about to exit the
yard, Mrs. Smythe ran out the door, screaming and running
after the carriage as though she might catch it and yank
it to a halt.
"No, you don't!" she wailed. "No, you bloody don't! You
can't do this to me!"
Eleanor leaned out the window. "I'll return in a month, to
learn how he's doing. Write to me at Bristol if you need
anything."
Clasping her reticule, she retrieved the envelope of money
she'd brought. She flung it out, and it landed in the dirt
at Mrs. Smythe's feet. Her expression of wrath and scorn
was wrenching, and Eleanor couldn't abide her disdain, so
she settled inside and shut her eyes.
This is for the best, she persuaded herself. It is!
She offered up a prayer. For Stephen. But for Mrs. Smythe,
too.