his father’s death. ‘We will speak of Daniel later.’
‘Where is their nursemaid?’
‘I don’t want a nurse,’ Royce interrupted. ‘I want Aunt Emily.’
‘Royce, now, you see—’ Emily tried to placate him, but he refused.
‘I don’t want one!’ he shrieked, throwing a tin soldier on the floor.
Emily knew what was about to happen. ‘Here.’ She stood and thrust her niece into the Earl’s arms. He took the baby, holding Victoria at arm’s length as though she had a dreaded disease.
She knelt down beside Royce, trying to reason with him. ‘Shh, now. There, there. We won’t be getting a nurse. You needn’t worry.’
‘Papa will come soon,’ Royce said, his face determined. ‘He will take us away from here.’ With a defiant scowl towards Lord Whitmore, the boy let her comfort him.
The guilty burden grew heavier. She couldn’t keep Daniel’s death from Royce much longer.
‘Emily—’ There was a note of alarm in Whitmore’s voice. Immediately, she released Royce and went to the Earl. She took the baby just as Whitmore’s knees buckled and he collapsed against the door frame. He bit back a moan of pain, and blood darkened the bandage around his scalp.
Quickly, she placed the baby back in the cradle, ignoring Victoria’s wails of protest.
‘Help!’ she called out, hoping a servant would hear her. ‘Someone come quickly!’
She knelt beside the Earl, supporting his weight with her arms. The flicker of a smile played at his mouth.
‘So you decided not to let me die after all,’ he whispered.
His eyes closed, and she muttered, ‘The day isn’t over yet.’
Stephen was not certain how much worse his life could get. He had a so-called wife who despised him, two unexpected children, and no memory of the past three months. This last aspect was the worst, and so he had summoned the butler Farnsworth to find the answers he needed.
He struggled to sit up in bed, though the effort made him dizzy. Farnsworth arrived at last, clearing his throat to announce his presence. The butler had a fringe of greying hair around a bald spot and his cheeks were ruddy and clean shaven.
‘Tell me what happened the night I returned,’ Stephen prompted.
‘My lord, I fear there is little to tell. It happened two nights ago.’
‘Who brought me here?’
‘It was a hired coach. He didn’t know who you were. His instructions were only to deliver you to the door.’
‘Did he say who had arranged for my travel?’
‘You did, my lord. The coachman was an irritable sort, being as it was the middle of the night, and he insisted on being paid his fee immediately.’
Obviously this chain of questions was going nowhere. ‘What belongings did I have with me?’
‘Nothing. Only the clothes on your back, such as they were.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They were in tatters, my lord. Simply ghastly. They smelled of rotting fish, and I had them burned.’
Had he been taken aboard a ship? He might have learned more if the butler hadn’t incinerated his belongings.
Stephen controlled his temper and asked softly, ‘Did you check the pockets before you destroyed the garments?’
‘No, my lord. I didn’t think of that.’
Stephen ground his teeth and said, ‘Thank you, Farnsworth. That will be all.’
The butler cleared his throat and hesitated. ‘My lord, about Lady Whitmore?’
‘What is it?’
‘Well, sir, the staff and I were wondering…’ Farnsworth coughed, delaying his statement once more. Apparently there was some other detail the butler intended to share. Either that, or he was in dire need of some medicinal tea to treat the irritating cough.
Stephen clenched his fists in the coverlet. Get on with it.
‘Yes?’
‘To put it bluntly, my lord, your wife has been making several…changes.’
‘What kind of changes?’
The agitated Farnsworth fidgeted with his hands. ‘I have been a loyal servant to your household for over thirty years, my lord. I would never speak ill of the Chesterfields. But I fear she may have gone too far.’
Stephen wondered if Emily had moved a vase in the front hall six inches to the left. Or perhaps she’d poisoned the cat in a fit of vengeance.
Farnsworth’s paranoia seemed ridiculous under the circumstances. He couldn’t recall the past three months of his life, and the butler worried that his wife had gone too far?
‘What. Has. She. Done?’ he gritted out.
‘She’s sacked Cook. And—’ he lowered his voice to a whisper ‘—she says she won’t hire another. She’s planning to do all the cooking herself.’
Bloody hell. The woman really did mean to poison him.
Chapter Two
In the kitchen, a woman must keep the premises orderly and clean at all times. Husbands should also be thus managed.
—Emily Barrow’s Cook Book
Later that night, his intense headache deepened into a dull throbbing. Sleep would not come. Eyes dry and nerves raw, Stephen pushed back the coverlet. His bare feet padded across the Aubusson rug before his knee slammed into a mahogany blanket chest at the foot of the bed. Cursing, he fumbled his way towards the fireplace.
A large mirror hung above a dressing table. He could barely make out his own features in the shadows. Lighting a candle, he studied the man staring back at him. At one time, he had a well-ordered, predictable life. Now, a haggard expression gazed back at him. An angry red scar creased a jagged line across his bare chest, a knife wound he didn’t remember. The blow to his head was a recent wound, possibly from thieves or worse. Yet someone had saved his life and sent him here.
He didn’t know himself any more.
The uncertainty unnerved him. Every time he searched his memory for a fragment of the past events, his mind shut down. He didn’t remember his supposed marriage, or anything leading up to it. It was as though an invisible wall barricaded him from the truth.
He was about to retreat when his gaze narrowed on a black symbol edging the back of his neck. Turning, he tried to distinguish what it was. Though he could not see the entire design, he recognised it as
