Regency Rogues Box Set

Chapter 1-2

Oliver had lodgings just off Brook Street. A quiet row of houses in which he had secured a suite of rooms that suited him fine. He called out for his valet as he stumbled through the door. Dixon came running with his housekeeper, Mrs. Dawsley, hurrying behind him. “Sir?” he said as he stared at the bundle that Oliver was struggling to keep upright.

“Help me get him to the guest room and put on hot water for a bath.”

Dixon took one arm and then turned his face away with a sharp breath. They managed to drag him into the bedroom.

“I wouldn’t put him on the bed yet, sir,” Dixon said. “Perhaps the chair?”

The man had a point. The way that Simpson smelled they would be lucky to ever get the stench out of the room. They arranged him in the chair as comfortably as possible, and unwrapped the blanket from around him. Simpson laid his head against the padded leather surface and closed his eyes. Oliver exchanged a glance with Dixon, and when he was satisfied the man was asleep he headed for the kitchens with Dixon in tow. Between them they manhandled the large tub in front of the fire in the bedroom. Dixon banked the fire and got it roaring, and between them they filled it with warm water.

“I want you to send word to my physician that I need him here, and then I want you to go and procure some clothing for my guest.”

“Of course, sir. Ah, what kind of clothing?”

“Everything that a gentleman needs.”

Dixon bowed. “Certainly. Would you require help in getting the…gentleman into the bath?”

“No. Please have Mrs. Dawsley bring through some light foods. Perhaps some soup or something, oh, and some coffee and brandy.”

Dixon bowed his way out of the room, leaving Oliver with his unexpected houseguest. He sighed and scratched the back of his head for a moment before kneeling before Simpson.

“Wake up.” He shook his arm.

“Sir?” Simpson said immediately and stirred.

“You need a bath. I need to get you into the bath.”

“Bath?” Simpson sounded as though he had never heard of the word.

“Yes, a bath. You’re a bit worse for wear,” Oliver said with a smile.

Simpson began plucking at his shirt. “Bath,” he repeated and tried to sit up.

Oliver rocked back on his heels and pulled of his own coat and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. “Come,” he said and set about peeling the stinking garments from him. Bit by bit he revealed Simpson’s pale, wiry body. He was covered in bruises and his feet were blistered and raw. Emotion almost choked Oliver as he dumped the clothes in a pile. He should have tried harder to find him. Should have helped him. Made more effort. How could the man who saved his life be brought to this? It was unthinkable.

“Up you go,” he said, and standing between Simpson’s legs he took him under the arms and pulled him up. Simpson shook himself and managed to stand. He got into the bath with a little help and then sank into the heat and moaned. He sank lower and lower until his head was submerged and his boney knees poked out. When he came back up for air he stripped the water from his eyes, pushed his hair back, and looked up.

“Major Thornley?” he whispered, blue eyes wide.

“Hello.” It was all Oliver could think of to say.

Simpson nodded and laid his head against the bath. “Major Thornley,” he repeated as his eyes drooped.

Oliver cleared his throat and picked up the soap and washcloth that had been left. He dipped them in the water and lathered the soap up. “Come on, let me help.” He hesitated, and then applied the cloth with some vigour to Simpson.

“Ow,” he protested before pulling away.

Oliver bent and picked up another cloth and handed it to Simpson. “You can help, but you need to be clean before you get anywhere near my sheets.”

Simpson’s eyes widened. Fair lashes spiked with water framed wary eyes. “Your sheets?”

“Yes, you will be staying here tonight. Now lean forward.”

Simpson leaned forward and Oliver ran the cloth in wide, gentle strokes across the muscles of his back. Hard, wiry muscle that looked underfed and pale, but unspeakably beautiful. Heat from the water made his face warm but he continued smoothing the cloth over his skin, and then rubbed up onto his shoulders and down one arm. Oliver dipped the cloth and squeezed. The trickling water sounded loud between them. Simpson dipped the cloth in his hand, rubbed it on the soap, and scrubbed under his armpits and between them they lathered him from head to foot. Oliver was relieved to note that Simpson did not appear to be suffering with lice or any other kind of infestation, and when he moved to wash between his legs Oliver averted his gaze. When he turned back, Simpson’s head was lolling against the back of the bath, eyes closing.

“Here, let me wash your hair.”

“Hmm? I can do it.” He tried, but his arms didn’t seem to want to lift up.

“Drop your head under the water.”

Simpson sank and when he came back up Oliver lathered the soap through his hair. Simpson moaned softly and leaned into his touch. Oliver swallowed and gently washed the grime away until it felt soft and clean.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of there. You’re starting to wrinkle.”

Simpson managed a small smile and opened his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered. For a moment, Oliver could not look away from those beautiful blue eyes and they stared at each other.

Oliver was the first to look away. “Give me a hand,” he said and set one arm around Simpson’s back. He managed to get him out of the bath but ended up almost as wet as Simpson was. He bundled the man in big towels and sat him next to the roaring fire. He smiled when Simpson pulled his knees up and curled into the chair. Oliver towelled the worst of the wet from himself and then his housekeeper arrived with plates of soft chicken and vegetables, bowls of steaming broth, and hot coffee. She had added a plate of macaroons. As she set up the table, Dixon returned armed with numerous bags of clothing.

“Mr. Farrah will be along as soon as he can,” Dixon said, depositing the bags.

“Good, good.” Farrah was his physician and a good man. He needed Simpson checking over. “Would you burn the old clothes?” he asked, indicating the fetid pile by the door.

“Of course.” Dixon bowed out and the housekeeper bustled after him, leaving him along once more with Simpson who was peering out of the towels at the food.

“Would you like to dress or eat?”

“Eat,” Simpson said on a swallow. “Please.”

“Of course.” Oliver brought the food to him and they sat opposite each other in front of the fire. Simpson took a few sips of the broth and closed his eyes, then he filled his mouth with the chicken and Oliver’s heart clenched when a single tear ran down Simpson’s cheek. He’d never gone hungry in his life but he knew what it felt like to be safe, warm, and dry after being cold and terrified, knew what it felt like to think you were going to die. He had to force himself to remain seated and not take the man in his arms and hold him tightly.