With Love, Louisa by Ashtyn Newbold
Chapter 7
Louisa’s thoughts swirled too fast to make sense of a single one. Panic tore across her mind. She clutched the poker with both hands. Within seconds, she saw the light of Mr. Warwick’s candle pass over her own face, and she let out a shriek, crashing against the back of the wardrobe.
Mr. Warwick’s eyes fell on her, darkened by the shadow of his candle. They rounded, and he jumped back. And then he let out a deep, thunderous scream, the likes of which Louisa had never heard in her entire life, at least not from a man.
He tripped over the jacket, waistcoat, and boots he must have discarded on the floor, landing on his back with a thud. A deep groan escaped him, and then he became still, his head lolling to one side. The candle he had been holding clattered to the ground.
Louisa’s heart pounded. She clutched her poker as she stepped out of the wardrobe, lunging forward to pick up the candle before it could set the house on fire. She held the light out in front of her, keeping Mr. Warwick fully illuminated from where he lay on the floor. If she dashed away quickly enough, he wouldn’t be able to catch her.
She paused on his closed eyes, his mouth hanging agape. Was he…dead?
She crept forward, afraid to blink as she observed him. He stirred, his brow furrowing.
She gasped, biting her lip against the sound. He was alive, but unconscious, it seemed. She recalled Mrs. Lovell’s words from earlier that evening. He is always drunk as a wheelbarrow, going about causing mischief.
Was this the sort of mischief he caused? Breaking into houses that were not his own? His chest rose and fell, each movement shallow. His skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, and the beard of blood seemed to be originating from his nose.
Louisa inched forward again, studying the bundle of blood-stained white fabric he had been holding. It now lay on the floor near where the candle had fallen. She picked it up, pinching one clean corner of the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. It was a shirt. His shirt, no doubt. Another square of starched fabric sat beside it on the floor, this one even more reddened. His cravat.
Relief cascaded through her chest. The blood, it seemed, was all his own. Perhaps he had not murdered Mrs. Irwin after all. But that still did not explain what he was doing in Benham Abbey. He was drunk—that much was obvious now by the way she had heard him walking and muttering to himself. Had he simply become confused and entered the wrong house?
With careful steps, she circled around to have a better view of his face. Oh. Oh. Her stomach lurched. His nose was certainly not as straight as it had been earlier that day. One of his eyes was swollen as well, but there was no question his nose was the source of the blood, and it was undoubtedly broken. A surge of pity enveloped her heart, but she pushed it away. This was a madman. A raging, dangerous, deranged man. She studied him again. How had he acquired such a…figure? Did it simply come as a natural companion to his unjustly handsome face? She tore her gaze away from his torso, appalled that she had even let it linger there for a moment. She eyed the door. How could she leave him like this? Should she fetch the housekeeper? If he committed crimes such as intruding into homes that were not his own, he ought to be held responsible.
A deep, rattling sound came from his nose, making her jump. In perfect rhythm, the sound repeated itself.
Of course. She had guessed that the man she had heard outside the wardrobe would be the snoring sort. Well, she had made that assumption before she had seen him. She wouldn’t have guessed that Jack Warwick was the snoring sort, not from their first interaction. But one man could not be physically perfect; no indeed. Mr. Warwick’s once perfectly straight nose, now crooked, was further proof of that.
Louisa grimaced as she realized his nose hadn’t stopped bleeding. She needed to elevate his head. Unconscious as he was, he could choke. That was all she would do to help him before hurrying to find the housekeeper. It was against her nature to leave anyone alone who was in need of help, even someone who had just caused her a great deal of terror. But Jack Warwick was obviously not right in the head.
Not right at all.
His snoring continued as Louisa hurried over to the bed, snatching a pillow from it. She paused when she saw the bowl of water and rag on his desk. Had he brought that in with the intention of washing his face? He must not have been terribly drunk to have thought to do that. Louisa had never been so far into her cups to lose her mind, so she couldn’t pretend to understand what his level of comprehension was at the moment. All she knew was that he seemed far from capable of harming her. She was no longer afraid of that ridiculous man. She only pitied him. Once he was discovered, he would be in severe trouble. It was all she could do to make his last moments of freedom a little more comfortable.
With a deep breath, she crouched behind his head, setting down the poker before forcing the pillow under his dark hair. He moaned, but didn’t move. Louisa stood, brushing her hands over her skirts. There. His breathing had become steadier, but the amount of blood on his face was still ghastly. It was fortunate for him that she did not become faint around such things. Her stomach turned, sending a rush of lightness to her head. Or did she?
No. Louisa had secretly prided herself on her ability to not faint at the sight of things she was expected to faint at. And ladies were expected to faint at nearly everything unsightly. As a child, she had witnessed a boy in town fall from his horse and break his arm. At the sight of the injury, Louisa’s friend Emma had collapsed to the ground faster than a lady could collapse a fan in her hand. Louisa had helped walk the boy to safety, and everyone had been amazed at the levelness of her head. Louisa was nothing if not levelheaded and optimistic. And despite every reason not to, she couldn’t leave Jack Warwick here bleeding. She would help him quickly without waking him, then hurry back to bed. It would be better to do that than to wake the housekeeper or find her aunt and wake her. How could Louisa explain what she was doing in this room in the middle of the night?
She almost laughed. Almost.
To think that she had been afraid of making a poor impression on her aunt before was highly amusing considering her situation now.
With soft steps, she walked to the bowl of water on his desk. She fetched a blanket from his bed as well. When she returned to her place beside Mr. Warwick, she draped the blanket over his bare torso, grateful for the barrier to make the situation seem a little more proper. The impropriety of it all still burned on her cheeks, but she ignored the sensation. Despite his madness, this man had helped retrieve her bonnet in town earlier that day. This could be her way to repay the favor—by not allowing him to die on the floor.
She wrung the excess water from the rag, shifting on the floor until she sat to the right of his head. His breathing continued, slow and shallow, but he did not seem keen to wake any time soon. The water was warm enough that she doubted it would wake him, but she still hesitated as she held the rag over his nose. If he started to wake, she would simply dash out of the room.
Rolling the rag into the shape of a sausage, she tucked it under his nose, wrapping the ends around and applying a slight amount of pressure. His brow flinched, and she nearly jumped back. Her heart hammered. Why did she feel as though she were treating a tiger’s broken nose? Would he attack her if his eyes opened now? She would not put it past him. She gulped. Every noise made her jump, even if she was the one who made the sound. She could hardly believe his scream hadn’t awoken the entire household.
She removed the rag from his nose, checking beneath it. The blood no longer flowed from his nostrils, so she set to wiping clean the rest of his face. With gentle strokes, she cleaned the bridge of his nose, now twisted slightly to the left. Oh, dear. A physician would need to set it back in place, no doubt. That would not be a pleasant experience.
With each stroke of the rag, she watched his brow, careful that he didn’t stir too much. His facial hair was indeed overgrown, but not by more than a fraction of an inch, though it did make his face more difficult to clean. She blushed as she washed his lips, feeling excruciatingly awkward. Once his face was clean, she set the rag back in the bowl of water, sitting back on her heels. She ought to be rewarded from the heavens for her good deed. It was undeserved on Mr. Warwick’s part.
She scowled down at him, watching the way his long, straight eyelashes shadowed his cheeks. A crease still marked the space between his two dark eyebrows. In that moment, she couldn’t quite recall what color his eyes had been.
She surveyed the room, confusion rising to her mind once again. This was certainly a man’s room. With the candlelight now burning, she couldn’t see any sign of a feminine touch to the decorations. It was Louisa’s downfall, being too timid. She should have asked for answers from the housekeeper, no matter how intimidated she was. Something was certainly amiss. There had been a misunderstanding, or several. Mrs. Irwin would have much to explain in the morning. Could Mr. Warwick be a guest in this house? The idea was preposterous. He despised Mrs. Irwin.
The Lovells’ words came back to Louisa’s mind from earlier that day. I’ve heard that he recently let a house in this area. Her heart thudded. Had he—had he let this house? She glanced at the wardrobe again, seeing clearly now the array of fine, masculine clothing inside. But how could he be letting Benham Abbey if her aunt had replied to the letter Louisa had sent here?
It simply did not make any sense.
Panic took root inside her again as she glanced at the bowl of reddened water and was reminded of where she was. Her stomach gave a lurch. If Mr. Warwick did indeed live here, as difficult as it was to believe, then it was not he who was the intruder. It was Louisa.
She needed to leave the room. Now. Urgency flooded her limbs, but she managed to move only an inch before her gaze settled on Mr. Warwick’s face, checking to ensure he was still unconscious.
Louisa was fairly certain unconscious people did not open their eyes, and two blue ones were staring straight up at her.
It was Louisa’s turn to scream.
