Innocence Lost

by Tiffany Green

  "Are you all right, child? You look as white as a marble statue.” He stepped forward. “Shall I send for the doctor?"

  Blinking back her tears, Megan shook her head. “No, I'm just tired.” Her temples pounded and her throat burned. A strange lethargy had sneaked up on her suddenly. She looked around her once-pretty room and sighed. The maids would be none too happy about cleaning this mess.

  "What you need is some rest. Come, let me prepare one of the guestrooms for you."

  "No, thank you. I think I just need some fresh air.” The heavy smell of jasmine made her head throb. A ride on one of her horses would be better, but she would have to settle for a walk. Maybe that would energize her. “I won't be long."

  "This had bloody well better be a matter of life and death, Carson,” Nicholas said as he slammed the front door. He had been about to spar with Lord Marshley at Gentleman Jackson's when he received the urgent message to return home.

  Carson held out an envelope. “The note has been found, Your Grace."

  He took a step toward his butler. “That's why you summoned me here? I thought the matter was urgent."

  "It is. Look.” Carson turned the envelope over, revealing the Claremont signet clearly impressed in the red wax.

  The bottom of his stomach fell away. “What is this?"

  "The note the lady claimed came from the dowager duchess, Your Grace."

  "Where did it come from?"

  "Stella found it.” Carson paused and lowered his voice. “Under the bed in the guestroom the lady used. When I saw the signet, I knew I had to summon you at once."

  Bombarded with confusion, he broke the seal and unfolded the missive. His heart skipped a beat when he saw his mother's tiny, looping script swim before his eyes on the bright paper.

  Darling Nicholas,

  This letter must come as a surprise, however it is extremely important. Your Uncle Charles has arrived ill (do not be concerned, it is not serious), and I must remain here, or I would see to this urgent matter personally.

  My dearest friends, the Duke and Duchess of Kenbrook, are missing. They departed days ago on a mysterious trip to London, but told no one their reason for doing so. Then their empty carriage was found near here, ruined by fire.

  Their daughter is distraught with worry and wishes her parents found. I would keep her here, but Influenza is spreading at both Claremont and Kenbrook. Therefore, I am sending her to you, but not without reason. Years ago, your father was pronounced her guardian in the event that her parents and brother were unable to care for her. Since your father's death, that position has fallen upon you. You are her legal guardian until the duke and duchess or their son return.

  Because Megan is only ten and eight, she must be protected by someone I trust and who will be able to help find her parents.

  Take care of her, darling. She is a very special young lady.

  Mother

  Nicholas read the letter three times before he looked up. The paper slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor. His cluttered thoughts sharpened on one thing: Megan was not some gold-digging harlot, but the Duke of Kenbrook's daughter. By God, he had completely forgotten that Kenbrook had a daughter, having not visited Kenbrook in nine years.

  Lady Megan. His heart twisted in agony. He shook his head a couple of times before he became aware of Carson addressing him.

  "Are you all right, Your Grace?"

  He focused on his butler's concerned face. “Yes. Carson, have my carriage brought to the front.” His voice came out in a coarse whisper.

  "Right away, Your Grace."

  Nicholas rode the whole way to the Kenbrook townhouse, torturing himself by replaying every second that he wronged Megan. Every second he hurt her. Oh, God, had he really thought she was a...His mother's words rushed to his mind. Because Megan is only ten and eight, she must be protected by someone I trust...She must be protected by someone I trust. She must be protected. Someone I trust. Protected.

  He squeezed his eyes shut as searing self-contempt crushed his chest. He prayed his heart would explode before he had to face Megan with a completely inadequate apology. Looking into her beautiful eyes and seeing the loathing that he deserved would be torture.

  The carriage came to a halt. He staggered to the door, pausing a minute to gather his courage, then banged on the door.

  "Your Grace! My, this has been a month for surprises. Please, come in. Would you care for some tea?” Wentworth held the door open.

  He glanced down at the ancient butler, amazed that the old chap still remembered him. “No, thank you, Wentworth. I would like a word with Lady Megan. Is she in residence?"

  "She returned from a walk a short time ago, Your Grace. But I believe she may be indisposed."

  The man's rheumy eyes looked worried. “Which room is she occupying?” he demanded.

  Wentworth didn't hesitate. “Left hall, extreme end on the left."

  He took the steps two at a time. He hastened through the sitting room toward her bedroom. He swung the door open with a bang and his eyes flew to the crumpled body on the floor two feet from the bed.

  "Oh, no!” he choked. He turned and found Wentworth hovering near the door. “Summon a doctor immediately,” he ordered. Gently, he gathered her in his arms. She burned with fever and her skin had a deathly wan look. Carefully, he laid her on the bed. She didn't rouse. He used the nearby washbowl to cool her fevered cheeks. His hands shook. Please, God, let her be all right.

  Just as he covered her shivering body with a thick, warm blanket, the doctor arrived and hurried to her bedside. The man told Nicholas to leave.

  Like a caged tiger, he paced the sitting room. Time slowed to an agonizing degree. After what seemed like hours, the door opened. He jerked around, and his heart sank at the doctor's grave expression. “How is she?"

  The large man sighed and removed his spectacles. “Not good, Your Grace,” he answered sadly as he scrubbed the two pieces of glass with a handkerchief.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Explain what you mean."

  "The young lady is very ill, indeed. She has quite a high fever. It's no doubt the Influenza."

  Every word struck Nicholas like a stake to his heart. “She isn't going to die, is she?"

  The doctor smiled in understanding. “She has a great advantage in being young, Your Grace. The fever does have me concerned. It must be broken with cool compresses. However, if it doesn't linger overmuch, she should recover nicely."

  "Thank you, doctor. I shall make certain she receives the proper care."

  The doctor placed his hand on Nicholas's shoulder and gave him a slight squeeze. “Good. I'll be nearby in case you should need me, Your Grace."

  Nicholas remained at Megan's side every minute for the rest of the day and during the long night. Since he couldn't sleep, he sat in the chair beside the bed and spoke softly to her. While he focused on her pallid, drawn features, he recited stories of his childhood mishaps and his world travels. Even when his voice had grown coarse from overuse, he continued.

  At daybreak, after he'd recited several of his most notorious boxing contests, he paused to run his fingers over her flaming cheek. He bowed his head and sighed. He couldn't lose her. Not now. Not when he had just found her. “Megan, I do not know if you can hear me. You didn't deserve any of the misery I gave you. Not one second of it. I was wrong, love, so very wrong.” He remained in her room for two days and nights. He had come downstairs only twice, for the two brief meetings with the investigators he'd hired to locate her parents. He refused to allow anyone else to tend to her. On the third day, pink fingers streaked the morning-grey sky and birds were beginning their primordial song. He shuffled away from the window with a sigh and slumped on the chair beside the bed, his mind numb from lack of sleep. He longed for his bed, but he would not leave. Not until she woke. He propped an elbow up on the chair's wooden arm, rested a beard-rough cheek in his hand, and stretched his legs out before him. Suffused with exhaustion, both physical and emo
tional, he closed his eyes.

  Something jogged him to full consciousness. He stretched his arms above his head and yawned heavily, then rubbed his hand over his face to measure the length of growing stubble. He blinked a couple of times and glanced at Megan. She was still and pale, except for the red stain growing on her cheeks. He felt her skin, the heat startling him. Alarmed, he reached for the water basin and found it empty. He jumped to his feet and went to the door. The doctor had arrived. He could hear the man's muffled words through the oak.

  "Has Lady Megan come to yet?"

  "No, doctor.” Wentworth lowered his voice. Nicholas had to strain to hear. “Do you think she will recover?"

  "These things are hard to predict. But I do know the longer she remains unconscious, the more serious this becomes."

  Nicholas placed a hand on the cold wood, trying to deny what the doctor was saying. Megan could die? Fear, unlike anything he had ever known, rose up from within and threatened to choke him. It clawed at his throat and took his breath away. Megan couldn't die. By God, he would not let that happen.

  Wrenching the door open, he startled Wentworth and the doctor. He pressed the water basin into the butler's hands. “I need water.” He turned to the doctor. “And Megan is not going to die. Understood?"

  Brightness manifested behind her eyelids and Megan struggled to lift them. Slowly, she focused on the sunlight pouring through the windows. Her windows. She was in her bedroom in London.

  Swallowing the dust that had accumulated in her raw, burning throat, she turned her heavy head and spied the duke asleep on a chair beside the bed. He looked awful. Dark blue smudges lay under his closed eyelids. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair a disheveled oily mass, and he desperately needed to shave.

  Snippets of memory tickled her mind. She recalled him speaking lovingly to her, cooling her fevered forehead. She heard tears in his voice as he apologized for what had happened between them.

  The door opened, drawing her attention. A portly man with small oval spectacles walked into the room carrying a large, black leather satchel. She watched the duke open his tired eyes, then rise when he became aware of the man. When he glanced in her direction, his features stiffened in surprise, then grew contrite.

  "Well, Your Grace, it looks as though our little lady has finally returned to us,” the man said. He walked to the bed wearing a warm smile. “Hello, my dear, I am Dr. Kellerman. How are you feeling?"

  She parted her cracked lips and swallowed a couple of times before she tried to say she felt better.

  The doctor shook his head. “That's all right, my lady, you mustn't strain yourself. I'll do the talking.” He sat on the chair the duke had vacated and raised her wrist as he spoke of the fine spring morning.

  She kept her attention on Dr. Kellerman, even though she was aware of Nicholas hovering at the foot of the bed.

  "You must receive plenty of rest, Lady Westland.” The doctor hefted a giant brown bottle from his bag. “And take a large spoonful of this restorative tonic three times every day until it has been fully consumed. I will also leave some laudanum in case you are uncomfortable and need sleep."

  Goodness, no, she would never take that dirty old laundry water again. Unable to resist, she looked at the duke, but his guarded eyes made it difficult to discern his thoughts. When the doctor began speaking, she focused back on him.

  "His Grace has been quite worried about you, my dear. You are most fortunate to have such a concerned guardian,” he said. “I will continue to monitor your condition every day for the next couple of days. But it looks as though you will fully recover. Now, get some rest. And fear not, my lady, His Grace shan't allow any untoward thing to happen to you.” The large man rose and bade them a good day, then vacated the room.

  She shifted her gaze back to Nicholas.

  He sighed, then shuffled back to his seat. “What I have done to you is beyond any measure of forgiveness.” He paused and cleared his throat. “What happened between us...” He shook his head. “I know there is absolutely nothing I can do that would atone for my actions, but please...” He stopped and closed his eyes. “Oh, God, Meg, I am so very sorry.” He shot to his feet and fled the room.

  Nicholas stayed away long enough to gulp down some gin. He hung his head as he headed back up the stairs. He felt the pulse at his neck begin to race as he entered the room. Dread filled him. She would probably insist that he be hung, drawn and quartered. He bloody well deserved it. “Can I... Do you need anything?” he asked.

  When she looked at him, tears filled her eyes. “Find my parents,” she whispered.

  His insides shook so badly, he thought everything within would break into a million pieces. She was actually asking him for help. Him. Humbled, he blinked his stinging eyes. He would find her parents. By God, he'd do whatever it took to regain her affection. “I promise you, Megan, they shall be found. I have already hired dozens of investigators."

  Her eyes brightened. “What have you learned, Your Grace?"

  "Wentworth has confirmed that your parents were in residence for only one night, then departed at dawn the following morning. Unfortunately, he has no idea where they've gone."

  She picked at the lace on her sleeve. “Wentworth said he heard Father tell Mother that Sims would deliver a note explaining everything to me. That's why the carriage had been returning to the estate."

  He nodded. “And then they hired a hack and departed one way, Sims, the other."

  "That's right. Have you learned anything else, Your Grace?"

  Your Grace. For the first time in his life, he detested the title. “You know my name. Please, call me that."

  She smoothed a wrinkle from the bedspread. “I would prefer not to, Your Grace."

  That stung. He wanted to make amends. Hell, he wanted more than that.

  "Your Grace?” Her amethyst gaze lifted, and he felt a kick square in the gut. God, how he wanted her. More than simple lust. He wanted to protect her. A fine mess he'd made of that. Not only had he propositioned Kenbrook's only daughter to becoming his mistress, he had taken her maidenhead.

  "Your Grace?"

  He shook his head. “What did you say?"

  "Have you learned anything else?"

  He cleared his throat, trying to focus on the matter at hand. “Some of the men I've hired are searching for the missing coachman, Sims, while the rest are combing the city for your parents.” He leaned a bit closer. “Megan, they shall be found."

  The silence stretched out. One minute became two, then three. Every second seemed to pull them farther apart. “Meg, about what happened—"

  "Don't, Your Grace,” she interrupted. “I don't ever want to think of it, much less discuss it.” She closed her eyes as if speaking had exhausted her. “If her mother has recovered, I would like my maid, Lucy, to be brought from the estate. Would you send a coach and driver?"

  "Yes, of course. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  She opened her eyes and looked straight into his. “Yes. Go home and get some sleep, Your Grace. You look like hell."

  He ground his teeth. Things hadn't gone as planned. Megan should have been in his possession by now. He knew exactly what had gone wrong. She was brought to London instead of Claremont. Damn it! He twisted the ring on his little finger. The plan would have to be reworked. Just a setback.

  With a sigh, he sat down at the secretary and began scribbling a note. Perhaps having Megan in London could work to his advantage. He pursed his lips. He scratched out some words, growing more satisfied that the altered plan might work out even better. After sealing the note, he leaned back in his chair, satisfied.

  Megan tossed and turned. She knew that she would never rest the two hours each day that the good doctor insisted. Groaning in frustration, she bounced from the bed and began to restore some order to the tangled mass of her hair. Then she rang the pull for Lucy to help her dress.

  "Here, my lady, let me,” the maid said, seeing her struggle with her hair.

&nbs
p; Lucy was an angel, she thought with an inward smile. She used to detest all of the attention the maid showered on her. But after dressing herself for a short time, she felt grateful to have the attentive lady's maid with her. And in the two weeks since Lucy's arrival in London, she was actually glad to have her maid care for her instead of the duke. Indeed, she refused the remorse bubbling within, reminding her how he had wiped her forehead with cool water and fed her spoonfuls of broth.

  After Lucy had arranged her hair, Megan went downstairs.

  "My lady, the Duke of Claremont requests a meeting with you,” Wentworth announced. “He's waiting in the parlor."

  A groan slipped from her lips. She knew a confrontation would eventually occur. The stubborn man had returned with luggage and his valet a short time after she'd told him to leave. Although she would never admit it, she ached to know what was happening with the investigation. True to his word, the Duke was working feverishly with the investigators to locate her parents.

  She frowned, not wanting to feel pleased with the man. The door to the parlor opened and the duke stepped out. He looked exceptionally fine in a crisp white shirt with a grey waistcoat, charcoal pantaloons, and polished black Hessians. A large pear-shaped diamond sparkled brilliantly in the center of his snowy cravat. Her gaze moved up to his freshly shaven face. Goodness, the man could still take her breath away. Her frown deepened.

  She watched his eyes skitter over her before he cleared his throat. “May I have a word with you please, my lady?” he asked in a gentle voice.

  She thought of her parents and nodded. Her acquiescence most certainly had nothing at all to do with wanting to be near him.

  She clasped her hands together and followed the duke into the parlor. “What have you learned of my parents, Your Grace?"

  His shoulders drooped. “Will you not call me Nicholas?"

  "No."

  "Stubborn girl,” she heard him grumble as he went to the sideboard and poured some amber liquid into a tumbler.