door she was leaning on opened and she staggered backwards, landing with a thud against the bare chest of the nobleman in question.
He gave a muffled yelp of pain as Ellie twisted round, made a grab for balance and found herself with one hand on his shoulder and one palm flat on his chest, making the interesting discovery that a man’s nipples tightened into hard nubs when touched.
She recoiled back into the doorway, hands behind her back. ‘I will fetch you a shirt.’
‘Thank you, but there is no need. I will put mine back on. Please, listen to me, Miss Lytton, I need to talk to you—’
‘With a shirt on. And not one covered in blood,’ she snapped, furious with someone. Herself, presumably.
As she negotiated the stairs to Francis’s bedchamber she wondered what on earth Lord Hainford could want to talk to her about. An apology was certainly due for arriving in this state, although probably he had expected Francis to be at home—not to have the door opened by some idiot female who was reduced to dithering incompetence by the sight of a muscular chest.
She snatched a shirt out of the drawer and went back down again. Hainford got to his feet as she came in, the bandages white against his skin, the dark hair curling over the edges.
‘Here, that should fit.’ Ellie thrust the shirt into his hands and turned her back. She closed her eyes for good measure.
‘I am respectable again,’ he said after several minutes of flapping cloth and hissing breath.
Ellie turned back to find the Earl once more dressed, his neckcloth loosely knotted, his bedraggled coat pulled on over the clean shirt. His own shirt was bundled up, the blood out of sight. ‘Thank you,’ he added. ‘Your maid—’
‘Is still not back. She cannot be much longer and then she will go for the doctor.’
Something in her bristled defensively at his closeness and she gave herself a brisk talking-to. He was a gentleman, and surely trustworthy. And he was hurt, so she should be showing some womanly nurturing sympathy. At least the Vicar would certainly say so.
Her feelings, although definitely womanly, were not tending towards nurturing...
‘There is no need. The wound has stopped bleeding. I am concerned that you are alone in the house with me.’
You are concerned?
‘You think I require a chaperon, Lord Hainford?’ Ellie used the back of the chair as a support and sat down carefully, gesturing at the empty chair. ‘Or perhaps that you do?’ Attack was always safer than showing alarm or weakness.
‘No, to both.’ He ran his hand through his hair, his mouth grim as he seemed to search for words. ‘I have bad news for you, and I think you will need the support of another woman.’
‘My maid will soon be here,’ she said. Then what he had said finally penetrated. ‘Bad news?’
That could only mean one thing. Her parents and her stepfather were dead and there was no one else, only her stepbrother.
‘Francis?’ Her voice sounded quite calm and collected.
‘Sir Francis...there was an accident. At the club.’
‘He is injured?’
No, if he was I would have been called to him, or he would have been brought here.
She seemed to be reasoning very clearly, as though this was not real—simply a puzzle on paper to be solved. ‘He is dead, isn’t he? How? Did you kill him? Was it a duel?’
Over a woman?
That was all she could think of, given that Hainford had been naked when he was shot himself.
‘No. I did not shoot him. It was an accident. Someone was shooting at me, and Francis was standing at my back.’
‘And you had no clothes on,’ she said, her voice flat.
She must have fallen asleep over her work—this had all the characteristics of a bad dream. Certainly it made no sense whatsoever.
‘Which club was this?’
Perhaps club was a euphemism for brothel? Or something else—something not legal. She read the newspapers, had some glimmering of what went on between certain men, but she hardly knew how to ask.
‘The Adventurers’ Club in Piccadilly.’
A perfectly respectable gentleman’s club, then. Not a... What did they call them? A molly house—that was it. It would not completely surprise her if Francis had gone to one—out of curiosity, if nothing else—but this man? Surely not. Although what did she know?
Her silence was worrying the Earl, judging by his expression and the way he leaned forward to look into her face, but she was not sure how she was expected to act, how she should feel. Perhaps this was shock.
‘Look, let me fetch you some brandy. It is dreadful news to take in.’ He was halfway to his feet again when the door opened.
‘Miss Lytton, I’m back! Oh!’ Polly stood staring, her arms full of loosely wrapped parcels. An onion dropped to the floor and rolled to Ellie’s feet.
‘Polly, this is Lord Hainford and I believe he needs a glass of brandy.’
‘I do not.’
He was on the verge of snapping now—a man at the end of his tether. She should have wept and had the vapours. Then he could have produced a handkerchief, patted her hand, said, There, there meaninglessly. He would have felt more comfortable doing that, she was sure.
‘Fetch your mistress a cup of tea,’ he ordered.
‘And brandy for Lord Hainford. The hair of the dog might be helpful,’ Ellie suggested mildly.
Yes, this was a bad dream. Although...could one faint in a dream? The room was beginning to spin and close in...
She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. Fainting would not help. When she opened them again Lord Hainford was still there, frowning at her. The crumpled shirt was still at his feet. Francis had still not come home.
‘This really is not a dream, is it?’ she asked.
‘No. I am afraid not.’ Simply a nightmare.
Blake saw the colour flood back into Miss Lytton’s cheeks with profound relief. Things were bad enough without a fainting woman on his hands and, ungallant as it might seem, he had no desire to haul this Long Meg up from the floor.
Her figure went up and down, with the emphasis on up, and showed little interest in anything but the mildest in-and-out. Even so, his ribs had suffered enough, and lifting plain women into his arms held no appeal.
He studied the pale oval of her face, dusted with a spectacular quantity of freckles that no amount of Lotion of Denmark, or even lemon juice, would ever be able to subdue. Her hair was a bird’s nest—a flyaway mass of middling brown curls, ineptly secured with pins. The wide hazel eyes, their irises dark and
