to himself. “Not pretty at all.”
Kate bathed him again. Sliding her cool cloth along his hot skin, she tried to suppress the guilty warmth that spread through her at the feel of him beneath her fingers. It was a vain effort, as was her attempt to keep one eye on his face, just in case he suddenly roused to awareness, for her attention was ever diverted by the muscles bunching under her touch.
So engrossed was she in her task that when the door opened, she started, snatching up the cloth furtively as she turned to greet Tom, who stood frowning near the threshold. He took a few steps into the room to survey the scene and then scowled disapprovingly at the man in the bed. “Ye gods, Katie, let me put a nightshirt on the fellow, at least. It isn’t seemly for him to be lying there half-naked, and you caring for him.”
Glancing down swiftly, Kate was relieved to see that the covers were neatly pulled up to Grayson’s waist. She had washed and hung out his breeches earlier, but obviously Tom had not seen them—or he would be complaining about more than the marquis’s bare chest.’
She pulled herself upright. “And just who is going to tend to him, if I do not?” she asked, unmoved by Tom’s frown.
He glanced at Grayson’s bronzed torso and mumbled something about the man not looking like a marquis. Then he turned back toward Kate. “I will,” he offered glumly.
Kate snorted. “I can imagine that easily enough. You would have the man drowning and the mattress ruined in no time. No, Tom. He is my responsibility, and I will see to him.” Realizing that her fingers had tightened possessively around the cloth in her hand, Kate purposely released them, dropping the soft material into the nearby bucket of springwater.
“Well, if you can tear yourself away from the lad for a moment, I have something that needs discussing,” Tom said, grudgingly giving way on the issue of Grayson’s treatment.
Kate’s relief at his capitulation was brief, for she recognized all too well the gruff tone in his voice that bespoke ill news. Her heart, already burdened by so much, sank anew. What more could she face? What more could they all manage? Drawing a deep breath, she forcibly shored up her flagging spirits and nodded slowly. And with one last look at the man in the bed, she followed Tom through the doorway.
Lucy was waiting in the drawing room. It was her habit to prepare tea for these little talks, just as though they were enjoying nothing more than a pleasant social visit. Of course, Kate had to admit that Lucy’s contribution to the exchange was normally limited to the refreshments.
Once she had taken her seat, Kate received her cup and saucer and hid a smile at Tom’s desperate attempt to balance the delicate china on his knee. Then she thanked Lucy for her preparations and, without delay, glanced toward Tom, who had called this session.
“I went to London this morning, after finishing my breakfast,” he said grimly, and panic flared in Kate’s breast at his words. Why had he gone without telling her? And what had he learned? Were the Bow Street runners after her even now? Murderess! Kate’s fingers trembled as she sought to control herself. She would need her wits about her now, more than ever, and she drew a deep, steadying breath as she listened to the coachman.
“I sniffed around our man’s neighborhood, and I can tell you one thing. He’s Wroth all right.” His disgruntled admission caught Kate by surprise. Of course the man was Wroth! She had had no doubt of it, really, since the moment she faced him in his study.
“He is not!” Lucy argued. Kate turned toward her sister, who was tossing her auburn curls indignantly. “I have told you before! That old, ugly fellow upstairs in not my Wroth!”
Poor Lucy. For once, Kate could see through the haughty surface to the wounded woman who refused to believe the truth. Although never the bloodthirsty type, Kate fervently wished that she had managed to shoot the real culprit—the man who had so cruelly deceived her sister—instead of the innocent marquis.
“The gent in your papa’s bed is Wroth, Lucy, and you must accept it,” Tom said, gently. “I asked around, and there is already some concern about his whereabouts. Although he’s gone off for days before on a gambling streak, some of his staff are worried that he’s sent no word after two nights, especially since he was last seen heading home from one of those fashionable balls.”
“A coincidence, nothing more!” Lucy protested. “That proves nothing.”
Tom silenced her with a look and continued. “He sent his driver on and walked, which has a few people fearing that he was attacked by footpads, but” most scoff at the idea of anyone daring to take on Wroth. Apparently the man has quite a reputation for being able to handle himself.” Tom said, pausing to eye Kate meaningfully.
She flushed. Of course Grayson was dangerous. Tom had no idea just how much. “Go on,” she said evenly.
“Then there’s the business about the gloves. A few of the servants think he actually was home, since his gloves were inside, but no one knows for sure if those were the pair he was wearing when he set out. Seems as if there’s a bit of confusion, because the staff had been let off for the night after a little celebration. It was his birthday, you see.”
His birthday. Kate wanted to squeeze her eyes shut against the news. Resolutely, she kept them open, but she refused to look at Tom. “How old is he?”
“Thirty-two,” Tom answered in a surprised tone.
Kate watched as a light drizzle began to tap on the window pane. Thirty-two. He was exactly ten years older than she, and far more experienced with titles, power, life…and kisses. But he was not aged. No, not as ancient as Lucy would claim. “Well, at least there is no trail to us.”
“No, not as I could gather,” Tom said, and Kate nodded with relief at their reprieve.
“But I don’t understand,” Lucy protested. “I tell you the man is not Wroth! Why do you persist in pretending that he is?”
Tom turned to her, his grizzled face wearing a tender expression. “I saw his portrait, Lucy. He’s Wroth, which means your fellow isn’t”
“How can that be—?” she cried. Her voice rose, loud and high, before breaking in confusion, and Kate flinched. As annoying as Lucy’s petulance sometimes was, Kate did not like to see it stripped away, leaving her sister naked and vulnerable.
“I don’t know, Lucy,” she said, her throat suddenly thick with emotion. “We can only guess at his reasoning. Whether to hide his true identity or to play at being what he was not, your gentleman lied about his name.”
“No!” Lucy stood, her hand at her throat. “No! He is rich and famous and powerful, and he is coming back for me. You’ll see! You will both see!” she promised, before rushing from the room in tears.
Kate watched her leave, then glanced at Tom, who was shaking his head sadly. Although Kate knew he expected her to go after her sister, she did not have the heart for it. And right now, she had more pressing concerns than Lucy’s disappointment. The real Wroth was gravely ill, and she must return to him.
The thought made her rise suddenly, and if Kate felt more connected to the man lying upstairs than she did to her own flesh and blood, she was reluctant to admit it.
Grayson tossed and turned for three more days, lost in the grip of a fever that Kate
