frowned. He pulled open drawers and cupboards, but could find nothing except a rather pitiful wardrobe that included some boy’s clothing, like that she had worn into his study. Incredibly, he was seized by an odd agitation at the possibility that a husband or other male might be in residence here with Kate.
He shook his head in denial, and the room itself seemed to spin. Reaching out for the bedpost, Grayson steadied himself and took several deep breaths. No, he would swear that the girl had never even been kissed before. And there were no signs of male habitation, except for a few shirts and trousers, which made him wonder where Tom slept.
Grayson realized that puzzle would have to wait. Although the dizziness seemed to have passed, he did not care to test his endurance and come up wanting. Regaining his feet, he moved silently back to his own room.
As it was the largest and most comfortable, Grayson wondered why neither of the girls used it. Perhaps they were poor relations who had no choice of housing, or mayhap the occupant of this particular bedroom was away. Many people spent more time in London than in the country. He had noted several blank spots on the walls where paintings might have hung. Had the owner of the home fallen on hard times? That would explain the dearth of servants, but how, and why, were the girls living here?
Grayson felt an ache in his head to match the one in his shoulder, and he pushed the pillows aside to lie full length upon the bed. He needed to get his strength back—and soon. Scowling at his own weakness, he closed his eyes. At least he had found nothing suspicious in the upper rooms. It confirmed his gut instinct that Kate, her sister and their grizzled companion were as harmless as they professed to be. And common sense told him that the obnoxious Tom wouldn’t be so anxious to send him packing if there was a reason for keeping him imprisoned.
Yes, they were an innocuous group, two young girls and an old man, and none of them truly dangerous, if he ignored the fact that they had broken into his town house and put a bullet hole in him. The abduction, he suspected, had been Kate’s way of making amends.
Grayson woke to a persistent pounding. It seemed to be a part of him, throbbing through his head, his shoulder, his dry throat and his eardrums, deafening him. He opened his eyes and stared at the figure of an old man. One of his grooms? No. He shook his head and swallowed as he recognized those thick, peppery brows, drawn down in disapproval.
“If you think to cozen them into letting you stay by keeping to your bed, I’m here to tell you it won’t work,” Tom said, in an excessively loud and unpleasant voice. “And I’m not waiting on you anymore, either, my lord or not. Here’s your shirt,” he said, tossing something at him. It lay on Grayson’s chest like a lump of rags. “It’s been washed and mended as best it could be, so you can dress for supper. We keep early hours, so see that you’re down by seven o’clock.” With a scowl, he hitched up his trousers and marched to the door.
Grayson blinked. Even his eyelids hurt. Damn, but he could not recall ever feeling this bad. With a groan, he sat up and grabbed his discarded garment. Once the finest money could buy, it now sported a new seam along the shoulder. He shuddered, aware of just how close he had come to taking his last breath.
The effort it cost him to get the damn thing over his head and properly situated at his wrists had him dizzy and gasping. What the devil was the matter with him? Leaning over, he managed to put his boots on without the aid of a valet, but he was panting from the exertion.
He looked around for his waistcoat and coat, to no avail. Obviously his other clothing had not yet dried, and though he was not accustomed to dining in his shirtsleeves, it was an improvement over eating in bed, wasn’t it? Grayson was not sure, His shoulder and head were aching so much that his stomach was forgotten.
Courtesy, if not curiosity, required that he make an appearance, so he opened the door and moved along the hallway. The main stairway curved down to a tiled entranceway, but no butler or footman met him when he reached the bottom. Pausing to catch his erratic breath, he stood blinking up at the painted ceiling and was seized by a sense of familiarity. Had he been here before, staring at the historic scenes, or was this a hazy memory from the night before, when he had faded in and out of consciousness?
With no attendant to lead him, Grayson was forced to follow the sound of voices along a columned gallery. His steps faltered, as he again wondered if he had walked this way before, even though he knew he could not have done so last night. The strange feeling persisted, however, and, coupled with the need to find his way without help, created an eerie sense of unreality.
It continued when he reached the large dining hall, where his motley band of abductors waited: Kate, as lovely and untouched as an angel; her sister, scowling shrewishly; and the ubiquitous Tom, who looked as if he’d be more comfortable in the stables than surrounded by fine china and crystal.
“My lord,” Kate said. “You look a bit pale. Should you be up and about?”
Grayson watched her move toward him, as if in a dream, her face gentle with concern, her fingers reaching for him. Perhaps she would stroke his brow again, he thought dazedly. She came to a stop before him, her dark curls shining gloriously in the candlelight. He wanted to touch them.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Grayson tried to execute a bow, but dizziness overcame him. “No,” he managed to answer her formally, before everything went black.
For the second time in two days, Kate watched in horror as the marquis of Wroth collapsed onto the floor. She knelt beside him and put her hand to his forehead, her worst fears confirmed.
“He’s burning up! Tom, carry him upstairs again!”
“Really, Kate!” Lucy exclaimed, obviously disgusted. “You should never have brought him here. Now look at him.”
Kate did, and her heart ached to see him brought low again, his handsome face pale and wan, his eyes closed, his tall body felled by fever. She swallowed painfully. “I’ll see to him,” she whispered.
“Oh, very well. I’ll keep supper for you,” Lucy promised, “but I might as well eat his portion. No sense letting it go to waste, after all.”
“No, of course not,” Kate replied, in response to her sister’s cold-blooded behavior. It was a defect of her character that Lucy rarely considered anything more important than her own wishes, but she had suffered much in recent years, and could be forgiven for selfishly wanting an extra helping for herself and her child.
“I would have left him upstairs, if I’d known I’d have to drag him back up again,” the coachman grumbled as he hefted the marquis’s prone body.
“Then you should not have let him come down,” Kate said, without sympathy. “I should have checked on him, as I planned, rather than let you talk me out of it.”
“I tell you, it ain’t proper for you to be tending a gentleman!”
Kate gave an inelegant snort as she followed the coachman through the gallery and up the stairs. “As if that matters now!” Was she the only one with any sense in this household? The marquis of Wroth was injured and sick, suffering by her own hand, and no one seemed the slightest bit concerned. Indeed, the others appeared put out. “How inconvenient of the man to fall ill from the bullet I sent through him!” she said, tossing the biting sarcasm at Tom’s head.
He ducked and hurried forward, dumping the marquis unceremoniously
