William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

and ask her for some money,” he said reasonably, sitting rigidly and refusing to be assisted under the blankets. “For crippled soldiers from the Crimea, or for a military hospital or something. And if by any chance she gives you anything, you can pass it on to an appropriate organization. But I doubt she will. Or ask her to give her time and be a patron of such a place.”
    “Oh no,” Hester said instinctively, still half pushing at him. “She would throw me out as a medicant.”
    He resisted her stubbornly. “Does it matter? She will speak to you first. Go in Miss Nightingale’s name. No selfrespecting person would insult her—she is revered next to the Queen. You do want to see her, don’t you, this Furnival woman?”
    “Yes,” Hester agreed cautiously. “But …”
    “Where’s your courage, woman? You saw the charge of the Light Brigade.” He faced her defiantly. “You’ve told me about it! You survived the siege of Sebastopol. Are you afraid of one miserable woman who flirts?”
    “Like many a good soldier before me.” Hester grinned. “Aren’t you?”
    He winced. “That’s a foul blow.”
    “But it hit the mark,” she said triumphantly. “Get into bed.”
    “Irrelevant! I cannot go—so you must!” He still sat perched on the edge. “You must fight whatever the battle is. This time the enemy has picked the ground, so you must gird yourself, choose your weapons well, and attack when he least expects it.” Finally he swung his feet up and she pulled the blankets over him. He finished with fervor. “Courage.”
    She grimaced at him, but he gave no quarter. He lay back in the bed while she tucked the sheets around him, and smiled at her seraphically.
    “Tomorrow late afternoon, when her husband may be home also,” he said relentlessly. “You should see him too.”
    She glared at him. “Good night.”
        However the following afternoon at a little before five, dressed in a blue-gray gown of great sobriety, no pagoda sleeves, no white broderie, and looking as if she had indeed just come off duty in Miss Nightingale’s presence, Hester swallowed her pride and her nerves, telling herself it was a good cause, and knocked on Louisa Furnival’s front door. She hoped profoundly the maid would tell her Mrs. Furnival was out.
    However she was not so fortunate. She was conducted into the hall after only the briefest of pauses while the maid announced her name and business. She barely had time to register the doors in the hallway and the handsome banister sweeping across the balcony at the far end and down the stairs. The suit of armor had been replaced; however, without the halberd. Alexandra must have stood with the general at the top on the landing, perhaps silently, perhaps in the last, bitter quarrel, and then she had lunged forward and he had gone over. He must have landed with an almighty crash. However had they not heard him?
    The floor was carpeted, a pale Chinese rug with heavy pile. That would have softened the noise to some extent. Even so …
    She got no further. The maid returned to say that Mrs.Furnival would be pleased to receive her, and led her through the long corridor to the back of the house and the withdrawing room opening onto the garden.
    She did not even bother to look at the sunlight on the grass, or the mass of flowering bushes. All her attention was on the woman who awaited her with unconcealed curiosity. She assumed in that instant that she had gained admittance so easily because Louisa was bored.
    “Good afternoon, Miss Latterly. The Florence Nightingale Hospital? How interesting. In what way can I possibly be of help to you?”
    Hester regarded her with equal curiosity. She might have only a few moments in which to form an opinion before she was asked to leave. The woman in front of her standing by the mantel wore a full crinoline skirt, emphasizing the extreme femininity of her form. It was up to the minute in fashion: pointed waist, pleated bodice, floral trimmings. She looked both voluptuous and fragile, with her tawny skin and mass of fine dark hair, dressed immaculately but far fuller than the fashion dictated. She was one of those few women who can defy the current mode and make her own style seem the right one, and all others ordinary and unimaginative. Self-confidence surrounded her, making Hester already feel dowdy, unfeminine, and remarkably foolish. She knew immediately why Alexandra Carlyon had expected people to believe in a passionate