barmaid's embrace. Fortunately for Harry, the old butler Turvey hadn't seen the master in months and had no notion as to his whereabouts.
The house might be falling down around Turvey's white-haired ears, but the stables behind the mews were ready for a riding party. Carey borrowed one of the sleek beasts and set off for the Surgeon General's quarters at the War Office.
Three physicians poked and prodded, stuck pins in his fingers, and nodded gravely.
"It looks healed, but it may putrefy. Best to resign the commission now."
"Not much movement," said the second. "You'll never have the use of it, be a hazard in battle."
"Regard the amount of pain," the third medico advised his colleagues, stabbing Delverson with a wickedly pointed instrument.
In one minute Carey was going to teach the learned doctors a thing or two about pain with his good right arm. "Devil take it, man, that hand is attached to a living person, not a cadaver."
"Quite. To continue, I would say the muscles are not permanently severed. The wound itself should remain salutary, without more trauma. With proper exercise, the digits might regain some mobility."
Which was precisely what Carey wanted to hear, so he forgave the surgeons and bought himself a large-size snuffbox to manipulate in his hand on the way to Dorset in one of Harry's carriages.
Carey and his man Rudd spent the night in Winchester and proceeded to Delmere, at Blandford, Dorsetshire, early the following morning.
If Captain Delverson had any hopes the situation was better than he surmised, or the county was ignorant of the bumble-broth, those hopes were soon quashed like a beetle underfoot.
Their first stop was the stables where Ned, the old groom who had set Carey on his first pony, welcomed the captain home by spitting in the straw and saying," 'Bout time you got here. Ain't what a body likes, seeing such a one as that in your mama's place."
Pofford the butler, another longstanding employee, greeted Carey with a doleful shake of his bald head. "Now maybe the vicar will come to call."
Before seeking out the ladies, Carey sent for Mrs. Tulliver, the housekeeper and best baker of gingerbread a boy ever knew. She was no longer on the payroll, Pofford informed him.
"What? Tully would never leave the place. Her mother was housekeeper before her."
"Indeed, but the new ah, mistress, found her outspoken and 'uppity,' I believe was the word. Fortunately his late lordship remembered Mrs. Tulliver in his will. She was able to take rooms in Widow Vane's house in the village."
"Get her back. Before you go, have a carriage wait outside, won't you? Oh, and take one of the housemaids, one of our people, upstairs and see about helping Mrs. Reardon pack. She will be leaving within the hour, with every item she came with."
"And none else. I understand, milord. It will be my pleasure. Shall I announce you now?"
"What? In my own home? But yes, if we are in for high melodrama, let us have all the fanfare."
It was more of a farce. Emonda jumped up like a snake had crossed her foot, and her look gave no doubt that she considered Carey a viper indeed. She was swathed in stiff black bombazine, making her pale complexion and light hair even more colorless, and she was even scrawnier and more pinch-faced than he recalled. She clutched her needlework to her unprepossessing bosom and fled the room.
Mrs. Reardon, by way of contrast, wore gold tissue silk, much too fancy for a morning gown, cut much too low and tight to conceal her nearly over-abundant charms, and a topaz necklace, much too similar to one Eleanor had worn. With her reddish-blond hair and vibrant lips, her languid motions as she raised her plumpish self from the loveseat to lift her hand for Carey's kiss, Regina Reardon was everything Emonda was not—except a lady. Nor did she take her dismissal like a gently bred female, even though she was planning to leave soon on her own. A harborside alehouse doxy could not have expressed herself
The house might be falling down around Turvey's white-haired ears, but the stables behind the mews were ready for a riding party. Carey borrowed one of the sleek beasts and set off for the Surgeon General's quarters at the War Office.
Three physicians poked and prodded, stuck pins in his fingers, and nodded gravely.
"It looks healed, but it may putrefy. Best to resign the commission now."
"Not much movement," said the second. "You'll never have the use of it, be a hazard in battle."
"Regard the amount of pain," the third medico advised his colleagues, stabbing Delverson with a wickedly pointed instrument.
In one minute Carey was going to teach the learned doctors a thing or two about pain with his good right arm. "Devil take it, man, that hand is attached to a living person, not a cadaver."
"Quite. To continue, I would say the muscles are not permanently severed. The wound itself should remain salutary, without more trauma. With proper exercise, the digits might regain some mobility."
Which was precisely what Carey wanted to hear, so he forgave the surgeons and bought himself a large-size snuffbox to manipulate in his hand on the way to Dorset in one of Harry's carriages.
Carey and his man Rudd spent the night in Winchester and proceeded to Delmere, at Blandford, Dorsetshire, early the following morning.
If Captain Delverson had any hopes the situation was better than he surmised, or the county was ignorant of the bumble-broth, those hopes were soon quashed like a beetle underfoot.
Their first stop was the stables where Ned, the old groom who had set Carey on his first pony, welcomed the captain home by spitting in the straw and saying," 'Bout time you got here. Ain't what a body likes, seeing such a one as that in your mama's place."
Pofford the butler, another longstanding employee, greeted Carey with a doleful shake of his bald head. "Now maybe the vicar will come to call."
Before seeking out the ladies, Carey sent for Mrs. Tulliver, the housekeeper and best baker of gingerbread a boy ever knew. She was no longer on the payroll, Pofford informed him.
"What? Tully would never leave the place. Her mother was housekeeper before her."
"Indeed, but the new ah, mistress, found her outspoken and 'uppity,' I believe was the word. Fortunately his late lordship remembered Mrs. Tulliver in his will. She was able to take rooms in Widow Vane's house in the village."
"Get her back. Before you go, have a carriage wait outside, won't you? Oh, and take one of the housemaids, one of our people, upstairs and see about helping Mrs. Reardon pack. She will be leaving within the hour, with every item she came with."
"And none else. I understand, milord. It will be my pleasure. Shall I announce you now?"
"What? In my own home? But yes, if we are in for high melodrama, let us have all the fanfare."
It was more of a farce. Emonda jumped up like a snake had crossed her foot, and her look gave no doubt that she considered Carey a viper indeed. She was swathed in stiff black bombazine, making her pale complexion and light hair even more colorless, and she was even scrawnier and more pinch-faced than he recalled. She clutched her needlework to her unprepossessing bosom and fled the room.
Mrs. Reardon, by way of contrast, wore gold tissue silk, much too fancy for a morning gown, cut much too low and tight to conceal her nearly over-abundant charms, and a topaz necklace, much too similar to one Eleanor had worn. With her reddish-blond hair and vibrant lips, her languid motions as she raised her plumpish self from the loveseat to lift her hand for Carey's kiss, Regina Reardon was everything Emonda was not—except a lady. Nor did she take her dismissal like a gently bred female, even though she was planning to leave soon on her own. A harborside alehouse doxy could not have expressed herself
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