“Miss Cantrell has just fallen asleep,” she whispered, leading him into the library. She collapsed on a settee near the fireplace, leaning back and draping an arm over the back of the seat. “She had a most fitful night, alternately tossing in her sleep and waking in a cold sweat. I fear I gave her too much laudanum. I should have taken into account how petite she is.”
“And you should take your own condition into account as well.” David pulled up a chair and sat facing her. “Nursing an invalid through the night is hardly a task you should undertake at this time. Now, more than ever, you need your rest.”
She smiled and placed a hand on her rounded belly. “You are kind to worry about me, David, but I assure you I have been coddling myself. Molly is the one who sat with Miss Cantrell all night. I relieved her only an hour ago.”
“Good.” He looked down at his hand, examining his nails for nothing in particular. “Are you certain the laudanum is what disturbed your patient? I judged her state of mind rather fragile even before you gave her the tea.”
“I fancy that a brush with drowning would have a similar effect on most of us.”
He looked up into her large brown eyes. “But she should have been able to wade out of that pool with no difficulty. Even at the deepest point, I doubt the water rises higher than her waist. Has she said anything more about how she came to fall into the spring?”
Phoebe shook her head. “No. From what you told me yesterday, she spoke more to you than she did the whole time Molly and I sat with her.”
“Yet nearly everything she said to me made no sense whatsoever.” He stood and walked to the fireplace, staring into the flames with one hand braced on the mantel. “The footman I sent to question your neighbors reports that no one saw the coach she claimed waited for her.”
Phoebe’s brow furrowed. “Did you have time to inquire in the village?”
“I did, but I had no better luck there. No one knew of a young American of her description, and I should think her unusual hair color would be remembered if seen. Furthermore, none of the innkeepers had served travelers at luncheon or tea. Your foreign houseguest is attaining quite an air of mystery.”
“Yes. I only pray that when, or if, she gives us an explanation, the tale is not so horrid as I fear.”
Before David could ask her meaning, solid footsteps sounded in the hall, and they both looked to the door. The marquess entered the room, combing his fingers through his thick, salt-and-pepper hair. On spotting David, he hesitated in the doorway, the jamb providing a frame for a more substantial, yet not stocky, version of his son’s lean body.
Straightening in reflex to his father’s entrance, David considered the irony of their marked family resemblance. His half brother, William, had all the legal claim to being the man’s son, while he, David, possessed all the physical evidence. Indeed, the likeness between him and the marquess went so far they might have passed for brothers, rather than simply father and son. Solebury had sired him as a mere stripling.
His lordship regained his bearing and gave David a stiff nod. He went to Phoebe and kissed her cheek, then walked to a large cherry wood desk, where he picked up a decanter. Without meeting his son’s eyes, he said, “Good to see you again so soon, David. Will you join me in a brandy?”
“I believe I will.” His father’s excellent brandy offered some aid, however inadequate, in tolerating the man’s presence. He stood back and watched until Solebury had filled two large snifters, then came forward to claim the one holding slightly more.
After both men had gulped down mouthfuls of the fiery liquid, the elder spoke, his voice slightly unsteady. “Have you learned anything more about the young lady?”
David shook his head and said nothing, stepping back to the hearth to reclaim his post before the flames.
Phoebe looked at him with pursed lips, then turned to her husband. “No one in the neighborhood or village knows anything about her. The whole business is most unfortunate. Whoever her family is, they must be frightened out of their wits wondering what has become of her.”
“If so, then why are they nowhere to be found?” Lord Solebury rubbed his chin in thought. “Perhaps we should call in a constable. With no one nearby claiming a relationship to her, she may well be a runaway.”
“No, Harold, please.” The marchioness stood and went to her husband, taking up his hand in hers. “If she is a runaway, she may have had good reason to leave home.”
“My dear, she is far more likely to have no good reason. I daresay most young girls who bolt from their parents do so because their spoiled nature has not been indulged quite so well as they have learned to expect. We have no cause, nor indeed any right, to keep her from her family.”
“But, Harold, have you given much thought to the way David found her? Drowning in a pool only a few feet deep? I loathe to voice such a thought, but do you think she may have . . . may have been attempting something desperate?”
David’s focus shot from the fire to Phoebe, and gooseflesh rose on his arms. He had known moments in his youth when death had called to him with the seductive lure of peace. Schoolboys’ taunts had sometimes mounted to a crippling crescendo. And his mother’s passing had left a looming void within him. But he had never reached the point of capitulation. Had that beautiful young woman sunken more deeply into despair than he ever had? Unhappily, the appalling suggestion fit the puzzle too well.
The marquess stared at his wife, at last taking another swig of brandy. “You think she may have intended suicide?”
“I don’t know, Harold. Indeed, I don’t even want to consider the possibility unless she gives us more cause for concern when she speaks to us. But, at all costs, I should like to avoid sending her back to an abusive situation. Let us at least wait until she recovers and see what she has to say.”
David watched with balled fists while his father eyed the ceiling in thought. Finally, the marquess looked back to his wife. “Very well, love. We shall wait until we know her story. Meanwhile, if her people should turn up, I’ll make inquiries before placing her in their charge again. Thus, we can ensure no villainy awaits her at home. Have I satisfied you?”
“As ever.” She stretched up to kiss him, but something made her start and shoot a look toward the door to the hall. She held up a hand to silence the others, and the sound of a quiet moan drifted in from the sitting room.
“Miss Cantrell is having another nightmare.” Wasting no time, she picked up her skirts and hurried out of the room.
David wanted to run after her but quickly suppressed the urge. What good could he possibly do? He exchanged a glance with his father, downed the rest of his brandy and set the snifter on the mantel. “I suppose I may as well be on my way.”
“Stay a minute, David. Please.” Lord Solebury held his gaze, his upper lip twitching ever so slightly. “I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you.”
He raised his brows in surprise. As much as he would have liked to escape, the novelty of his father’s request intrigued him. He propped himself against the mantel again. “Very well. What did you wish to discuss, my lord?”
The marquess sighed and shook his head. “So much that I scarcely know where to begin.” He reached for the decanter and lifted the stopper. “Would you like another drink?”
“I think I’ll pass this time.”
While Solebury poured himself a second brandy, David’s mind wandered to the scene taking place across the hall. What sort of nightmares plagued Miss Cantrell?
“To cut to the core of the matter,” his father interrupted his thoughts, “I should like you to take up residence in the gate house. The Sargents moved out last month, and the place is left without a tenant. As a bachelor, you will find the dwelling quite commodious, and you can have use of--”
“Wait.” Scarcely trusting his own hearing, David held up both hands, palms facing out. “First, tell me one thing: Why on earth would I want to move onto this estate--or anywhere even remotely in the vicinity?”
“Well, I know you like to look after Phoebe, though I assure you that you have no need to do so.” Solebury leaned back against the heavy desk. “I also hope, perhaps in vain, that your presence here might garner your brother’s notice, possibly even prompt him to come home.”
“My brother?” David laughed. “I shouldn’t think the prospect of seeing me would provide much attraction for William when he has gaming and women to keep him in London.”
“Yes, rather too much of gaming and women. Obviously, you have heard the tales.” The marquess swirled his brandy and took a sip, then looked his son in the eye. “I thought setting up a bit of rivalry between you two might do the boy some good.”
“Indeed?” David turned back to look into the fire, a burning sensation lashing his guts like the orange flames licked the flue of the fireplace. “So this is all about bringing your heir to heel?”
“Not entirely. Your living here would also give me the chance to come to know you.”
Spinning back around, David stared at him. “So you have suddenly decided you want to know me, have you?”
“I have always wanted to know you.”
“But not enough to marry my mother.” Too furious to say more, he walked to the window and looked out at the meticulously tended park. At the end of the drive, the gate house stood, a handsome stone building surrounded by a blossoming garden. He curled his lip at the pastoral scene.
“I was young,” his father said from behind him. “Tractable. I did what my family demanded, conceding to their ideas of a suitable marriage. Of course, William’s mother turned out to be . . . well, let us simply say that I came to regret my compliance. And now that I have made a love match, I fully realize how much I lost when I gave up your mother. Of course, my regret signifies nothing to you. But I should like to make amends.”
David continued watching out the window. “I fear you are some thirty years too late.”
The marquess paused. “Certainly too late to marry your mother--though, indeed, if we had not lost her so young, I would have offered for her after my first wife died. In any case, I hope I am not too late to do something for you. Phoebe has told me you have taken up importing, but you clearly had better prospects with the army. Would a more valuable commission entice you to return? Lieutenant, perhaps. Colonel Sheffield always spoke highly of your composure during battle. By his account, you would make a fine officer, and I do have some influence in that quarter.”
David turned around, teeth clenched. “I am not interested in your influence, my lord. Whatever I cannot earn with my own abilities and hard work means little to me.”
“But some goals cannot be reached with only ability and work. As unfair as the truth may seem, certain positions can be achieved only through connections.”
David snorted. “So I have heard. What better place to learn that lesson than in his majesty’s cavalry?”
“Is that why you sold your commission?”
When he failed to answer, the marquess returned to his seat, taking a long drink of brandy. “At least consider my proposal about the gate house. I truly would like to know my son.”
David felt a muscle in his cheek quiver. He could not recall ever before having heard Solebury call him “son.” But that fact only illustrated how little the man had ever offered him. He swallowed. “I thank you, my lord, but I daresay we know each other as well as we ever will. Good day to you.”
He stalked from the room, nearly colliding with Phoebe in the hall as she left the sitting room.
“I was just coming for you, David,” she said. “Miss Cantrell has been calling for you.”
“She what?” he snapped, still infuriated by the interview with his father. “I find that hard to credit.”
Phoebe cast her gaze downward. “Well, perhaps she has not exactly ‘called’ for you. But she has murmured the name ‘David’ several times.”
He laughed. “Dear Phoebe, she clearly refers to another David. After all, your patient and I are hardly on first-name terms. We have, in fact, barely met. She likely has a brother named David . . . or a lover.” He glanced through the doorway toward the recamier where the young woman lay.
“Or she may be calling you.”
He looked back at the marchioness, whose large brown eyes implored him to indulge her.
“What harm can come to you in sitting with her for a few minutes?” she asked.
He stood undecided a moment longer, then lifted his gaze heavenward. “None, I suppose. But I tell you I shan’t easily grow accustomed to this angel-of-mercy role.”
She rewarded him with a warm smile.
They entered the room, David going to the recamier, while Phoebe hung back near the door. He seated himself in a chair that had been pulled up close to the patient’s side, and she stirred at the sound of his movements.
Remembering Phoebe’s speculations, he shuddered. Could Miss Cantrell truly want to snuff out the precious, precarious life that caused her chest to rise and fall so softly under the counterpane? He wanted to shake her and tell her never to think of such an abomination again, tell her to grab onto life with both hands and climb on for the ride. Instead, he watched her breathe, silently willing her to continue.
She shifted slightly in her sleep, facing away from him with her hair spilled across the pillow. He had never seen such gorgeous hair, almost unnaturally beautiful in both color and sheen. Though deeper in hue, the lustrous red made him think of candy cane stripes--shiny, cool, the portion one imagined tasted sweeter than the rest of the sweet.
He reached out to touch the spun sugar, but her eyelids fluttered open, and he let his arm fall again.
Rubbing her eyes, she fixed her gaze on him. The corners of her mouth curved upward. “David.”
Surprised, he glanced back at Phoebe, who shrugged before he turned away again.
“David with the devilish eyes,” Miss Cantrell murmured, “trying to disguise the soul of an angel.”
He heard Phoebe giggle behind him. “Well, she has your measure, does she not?”
“I should hope my character is more complex than one dazed statement would indicate,” he shot back over his shoulder. Feeling a gentle touch on his knee, he swung back around to find Miss Cantrell weakly reaching out to him--a gesture so intimate he longed to crawl under the counterpane with her. Instead, he turned to Phoebe for her reaction.