if he does not know it is me seeing to his care. He only knows me as Lady Faville, you see, and—and his family has reason to dislike me. He would be quite displeased if he knew Lady Faville was caring for him.’ She took a breath and rubbed her forehead. ‘Asher was my maiden name, so we would not really be lying to anyone....’
Who was she fooling? She was lying to herself as well as lying about her true identity.
Had not the abbess said she must break herself of telling falsehoods as a means of avoiding unpleasantness? Even if the lies were little ones.
She would do so, she vowed.
Next time.
She swallowed more guilt. ‘Try to remember to call me Mrs Asher and don’t call me m’lady, if you can help it.’
The three servants nodded agreeably.
Was she wrong to make them go along with her lie? Of course she was.
‘It will be as you wish it, m’lady,’ Carter said. ‘I mean, ma’am.’
‘Let us go, then.’ She allowed Carter to assist her into the carriage. Monette climbed in after her and Carter sat with John Coachman.
They drove the short distance to a white stucco cottage with well-tended shrubbery and a small stable for the horses.
Carter opened the carriage door and put down the step. Daphne and Monette climbed out as the housekeeper and caretaker walked out to greet them.
‘We are Mr and Mrs Pitts, ma’am,’ the caretaker said. ‘At your service.’
‘I am Mrs Asher,’ Daphne shook their hands, feeling only a twinge of guilt. She introduced the others. ‘We have an injured man with us. Mr Westleigh. He will need to be taken to a bedchamber as quickly as possible.’
The housekeeper gestured to the door. ‘Come in, then, Mrs Asher, and tell us which room shall be the gentleman’s.’
Leaving Monette to watch over Westleigh, and Carter and Mr Pitts to unload the trunks, Daphne followed the housekeeper inside. The decor was modest, but luxurious if she compared it to Fahr Abbey. They should do very nicely there. It would only be for a day or two, until Westleigh’s family could come.
‘Let us look at the bedchambers.’ Mrs Pitts started up the stairs. ‘You may pick which one should go to the gentleman.’
Carter and Mr Pitts entered.
‘We have Mr Westleigh’s trunk,’ Carter said.
‘Follow us.’ Daphne walked up the stairs.
She chose the nicest of the bedchambers for Westleigh. It was a corner room with windows on both sides to let in lots of light and fresh air.
‘Does the bed have fresh linens?’ she asked.
‘Indeed,’ responded Mrs Pitts. ‘We readied the rooms when the agent sent a message that you were to arrive right away.’
That was what a good housekeeper should do, Daphne thought. She’d learned, though, that even servants liked to be thanked.
‘How very good of you.’ She smiled at Mrs Pitts and turned towards Carter. ‘Bring him here.’
He and Mr Pitts set down the trunk and left the room.
‘Do you wish to see the rest of the house now?’ Mrs Pitts asked Daphne.
‘I will see the gentleman settled first,’ she replied.
‘Let me see to the meal, then, ma’am.’
Mrs Pitts left and a few moments later, the men helped Westleigh to the bed.
‘Where am I?’ Westleigh asked, tense and confused. ‘Where have you taken me?’
Daphne came to his side and touched his hand. ‘You are in a cottage on the road to Maidstone.’ She used her most soothing voice.
‘Not going to Maidstone. Going to London.’ He tried to stand.
Daphne put a hand on his shoulder and he sat again. ‘You are too ill to travel to London.’ She had been making explanations like this for the past two hours—every time he woke and did not know where he was. ‘You were in a fire and you injured your eyes and your head. You need to rest in this bed here and we will care for you until you are better. Then you will go to London.’
‘Rest?’ He relaxed. ‘Then London.’
Carter spoke. ‘You should leave the room, m’l—Mrs Asher, while I undress him.’
She turned to the housekeeper’s husband. ‘Would you bring him water? Soap and towels, too, if possible, so Carter can bathe him a little? I am certain he will be more comfortable when clean again. Be gentle with his face, though.’
‘Water, soap and towels are already here, ma’am.’ The man pointed to a chest of drawers upon which sat a pitcher and basin and folded towels. He left the room.
Carter spoke. ‘I’ll clean him up, ma’am. Leave him to me.’
Daphne moved her hand, planning to step away, but Westleigh groped for it and seized it, pulling her back. ‘Do not leave,’ he rasped. ‘Do not leave me alone.’
His firm grip and his intensity shook her. She did not know how to calm him.
She stroked his hair—what little hair was not covered by bandages. ‘Shh, now,’ she said, trying to sound like the abbess who’d soothed her when she’d become overwrought. ‘You are not alone. Carter is here.’
‘I am here, sir,’ Carter said.
Daphne continued. ‘Now remain still and Carter will take off your boots. Will that not feel more comfortable?’
‘I’ll give you a little wash and put you in clean bedclothes,’ Carter added.
Daphne felt Westleigh’s muscles relax.
‘Do not wear bedclothes,’ he murmured.
Chapter Two
The dragon pursued him, its fiery breath scorching his skin. Stinging his eyes.
Hugh pushed himself to run faster, to escape.
The way out was ahead, a pinpoint of light that seemed to become more distant the harder he pumped his legs to reach it. The flames roared, as if the dragon laughed at him. The blaze encircled him, bound him. Devoured him.
He jolted awake.
To darkness.
He sat up and his hands groped for his eyes. ‘I can’t see! Why can’t I see?’ His eyes were covered in cloth.
Then he remembered. The fire had not been a dream. It had burned his eyes, all brightness and pain. Was he blind?
‘The
