Page 50 of To Wager with Love

Minerva frowned down at the book in her hand.

Much to her astonishment, she discovered she had been entirely absorbed in it for over two hours. Two hours! Not only that, but it had been written in such a way that she didn’t feel like a brainless ninny. In fact, the book was laid out in the manner of a conversation between three women, Caroline and Emily—who began with every bit as much trepidation on the subject of chemistry as Minerva had herself—and Mrs B, their instructress. The first conversation—that on the difference between decomposing a body and merely chopping it into bits—had shocked Minerva to her bones in the most delightful manner, and now she was riveted. She had already learned that ‘we decompose a body into its constituent parts; and divide it into its integrant parts’ and was feeling very pleased with herself.

Now, however, her stomach was growling, and she began to wonder what time it was as she uncurled herself from the delightfully comfy chair she’d been glued to in the library. Setting her book to one side, she stretched and sighed, then got to her feet and retrieved her shoes from where she’d kicked them off. Her hand was on the doorknob when she heard the crash.

It was followed swiftly by raised voices, and Minerva flung open the door to see… good heavens! St Clair and Mr de Beauvoir on the floor… fighting.

For a moment, St Clair seemed to have the upper hand as de Beauvoir’s nose was bloodied, and it looked as if the earl was about to get in another blow when his opponent raised his knee in a sharp movement than even made Minerva wince.

St Clair doubled up, groaning, allowing de Beauvoir enough time to get to his feet, though his relief was short-lived. Lord St Clair scrambled up and would have lunged for de Beauvoir again, except….

Minerva gasped, staring up at St Clair’s wild turquoise eyes as she put herself between the two brawling men.

“M-My lord,” she stammered. “S-Surely there is some misunderstanding?”

“Is there?” St Clair growled, chest heaving. “Then why was Harriet with him last night? Why did she go out in the bloody rain for a second time? Why is she in her room burning up with fever, tell me that!”

“Oh, for the love of…!” de Beauvoir exclaimed, accepting the handkerchief Minerva handed him to stem the flow of blood. “She came to tell me she was in love with you, you blithering imbecile,” he said, the words slightly muffled. “Not,” he added with fury, “that I can think of a single reason why such an intelligent woman would do something to patently idiotic. However, she seemed to think you were worthy of her and had decided to marry you instead of me. Being a scrupulously honest sort, she felt the need to tell me at once that she’d made her decision and you were her choice. You must forgive me, my lord,” he sneered, “if I suspect she’s made a grave error in judgement.”

Minerva stood between the two men, feeling a little like a defenceless bunny keeping two wolves apart, until the prickling tension between them dissipated.

“Oh,” Jasper said, clearly at a loss for anything more eloquent.

“Oh,” de Beauvoir mimicked, which Minerva had to admit wasn’t terribly helpful.

She might have tried harder to make peace between them, but she was still reeling from the idea that de Beauvoir had been engaged to Harriet and she’d not known. Good heavens, she’d been dreaming of her friend’s fiancé! The idea made her feel nauseous until she reminded herself that they were no longer engaged, and that de Beauvoir didn’t seem terribly distraught about it. Then she compared herself to Harriet, and the nauseous sensation returned with a vengeance.

“De Beauvoir, I… I owe you an apology,” St Clair said, running a not entirely steady hand through his hair. “The truth is Harriet arrived last night, soaking wet and out of her head with fever, and… and I’ve been up all night worrying and I think perhaps I lost my mind.”

Minerva watched as de Beauvoir’s face tensed with anxiety. “How sick is she?”

St Clair shrugged. “I’m advised by the doctor that she should make a good recovery, only….” The earl let out a breath. “My father died from an illness that began very much like this, and—”

De Beauvoir nodded. “There’s no need to explain, and I accept your apology. I only came to assure myself that she was well. I could see she wasn’t herself last night, and I told her it was a damn fool thing to have done. Confound her, she could have very well waited until the morning, but… well, she’s a stubborn woman.”

The earl smiled and nodded. “That she is.”

“Jasper!”

Everyone looked up to see Lady St Clair leaning over the balcony. “Oh, good day, Mr de Beauvoir,” she said, before crooking a finger at her son. “Jasper, there’s someone who wishes to see you.”

The earl let out a breath and didn’t even stop to make his excuses. He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, and never looked back. This left Minerva and Mr de Beauvoir alone together, the servants having made a discreet exit once they were certain their master would not do murder before their eyes.

Minerva dithered for a moment before summoning a footman. “I need warm water, tincture of arnica, and some clean cloths brought to the library at once, if you would, please. Oh, and bring some tea and sandwiches too. Mr de Beauvoir has had a trying morning, I fear.”

“If you’d like to come through, Mr de Beauvoir,” she said, smiling at him as her heart thudded with delight at the unexpected prospect of playing nursemaid to his wounds.

“There’s really no need, Miss Butler,” he said, hesitating.

His dark brows were drawn together, and he was looking at her as though he suspected her of having ulterior motives. He really was clever.

“If you could see yourself you would think otherwise,” Minerva said, taking his arm and guiding him to the library. Though she was rather surprised by her own boldness, being alone with him was far from the rigorous notions of propriety she’d always followed, after all, but she would not let the fellow get away that easily. “I’ll ask Temple if a clean cravat can be found. Yours is covered in blood. And we must get something on that eye; it’s swelling at quite a rate.”

De Beauvoir grunted, but seemed to recognise a lost battle when he saw one, and allowed Minerva to bear him off to the library.

She settled him in a chair by the fire with a plate of sandwiches and a cup of tea and then drew up a footstool, arranging the bowl of water and other items on a small table beside her while he ate. Minerva shot him a sideways glance as he inhaled the sandwiches and she wondered when he had last eaten. His large frame was far too gaunt.

Once her supplies were in order, and he’d finished eating, she set to work.