But the question remained: why had Aidan changed his mind after so vehement a protestation, and why did he not wish to discuss the matter in front of the others?
“Drink up, Mrs. Sanderson,” Lord Munster urged. “I g-guarantee you shall be impressed.”
Snapped out of her ruminations, Laurel started to comply when the clatter of shattering glass stopped her short. She spun around to discover Lady Fairmont holding a hand to her brow and looking as pale as the gloomy sky beyond the windows. Shards of glass glistened on the floor at her feet.
“My lady!” Hastily she placed her own sample on Rousseau’s demonstration table before hurrying over to the countess. “Are you ill?”
The broken glass crunched beneath her boots. Her concern escalated to full-scale alarm when the countess’s eyes rolled back in their sockets and her legs collapsed beneath her.
Lady Fairmont sank heavily, dragging Laurel down with her onto the hardwood floor. She managed to grasp Lady Fairmont’s shoulders, preventing the woman from hitting her head. Then she propped the insensible countess against her. Reaching for the fan attached by its cord to her reticule, she waved it over Lady Fairmont’s face.
“My lady? Lady Fairmont? Someone, please help us.”
A ring of concerned and shocked faces formed around them. Startled speculation whizzed like arrows over Laurel’s head.
“She’s fainted!”
“Do you think it was the elixir?”
“Is anyone else feeling ill?”
“Someone should summon a doctor.”
From beyond the circle, Lady Devonlea was calling Laurel’s name. As though she were suddenly conveyed through time to that summer day in Knightsbridge, she felt breathless, hemmed in, drowning in a sea of people. Her fear for Lady Fairmont mingled with a sudden if irrational dread of being trampled.
And then, just as on that day, a hand, broad and strong, appeared between the press of bodies, followed by a muscular arm, a solid shoulder, and finally Aidan’s handsome features.
He paused for a brief assessment of the situation and took charge.
“Fitz,” he called over his shoulder, “have the porter summon Dr. Bailey at once.”
Relief poured through Laurel as Aidan knelt at her side, bringing with him a sense that all would be well. “What happened?” he demanded.
“I don’t know exactly. It came on so suddenly.”
He laid a gentle hand on Lady Fairmont’s bloodless cheek. “Melinda? Can you hear me? It is Aidan.”
“We must get her off this chilly floor,” Laurel said. “Can you lift her?”
“Easily.”
He slipped an arm around the countess’s back, and for a heart-stopping second that arm also lay across the front of Laurel’s jacket. The world seemed to begin and end at that small place of contact just above her breasts; her nipples tightened in response, and all her awareness converged on the heat infused by his forearm, so that the room and the people filling it might not have existed.
It was over in a moment, leaving her unnerved and bewildered that her reaction to him could be so powerful. He eased Lady Fairmont away, gathering her securely in his arms before pushing to his feet.
The countess stirred; her eyelids fluttered.
Laurel stood and reached to grasp her hand. “Lady Fairmont, can you hear me?”
“Mrs. Sanderson?”
“Yes, my lady. You fainted. No, do not try to move. Not just yet.”
“Who has got me . . . ? Oh, Aidan, it is you.” Blinking, she gripped his coat sleeve. Looking up into his face, she produced a saucy grin, albeit an unsteady one.
“Ah, if only I were twenty years younger and not your godmother.”
“If I weren’t your godson, I shouldn’t care about those twenty years.” The hearty declaration had a warming effect on Laurel’s heart and made her smile. Aidan gently lowered the countess’s feet to the floor, but he kept a steady arm around her. “Do you think you can walk? If not, I shall carry you out and set you before me on my horse.”
The countess laughed weakly. “You will do no such thing. The loan of this formidable arm shall suffice.”
“You’re a stubborn old she-goat,” he murmured with a shake of his head. His arm tightened when she swayed slightly. “Steady, now.”
Lady Devonlea pressed through the crowd to reach them. “Lady Fairmont, thank heavens you are on your feet again. Such a fright you gave us.”
“Yes, how tiresome of me. I simply cannot fathom what came over me.”
Aidan’s warnings about the elixir sent a chill through Laurel. Yet no one else appeared to be experiencing ill effects. She glanced over her shoulder; Rousseau was no longer behind the dais. The man was nowhere to be seen.
She eased closer to Aidan and the countess so she would not be overheard. “How much of the elixir did you drink, my lady?”
“Hardly a drop. The glass slid from my grasp before I’d taken more than a sip.” With a rueful shake of her head, Lady Fairmont regarded the glass shards littering the floor.
“Too little breakfast, perhaps.” A handsome young man, whom Lady Devonlea had introduced to Laurel last evening as Lord Julian Stoddard, limped forward with the help of a cane.
With wheat blond hair and aquamarine eyes that contrasted brightly against his tanned complexion, his were just the sort of looks over which Willow would have sighed and mooned. Despite his walking stick, Laurel perceived a cavalier swagger in his stance, making him seem like a younger, lighter-haired version of Aidan.
“Yes, Julian, now that you mention it, I did set out this morning without a proper breakfast.” The countess lifted a hand to her brow. With the other she clung to Aidan’s arm. “Yes . . . that must be it.”
“Lord Barensforth,” Laurel said quietly, “perhaps it would be best to bring Lady Fairmont home now.”
He nodded. “Stoddard, be a good lad and ask a porter to secure us a hansom.”
The younger man hesitated, regarding Aidan with a sardonic tilt to his lips before setting off. Laurel supposed he didn’t appreciate being called a “lad.” Or perhaps his injured ankle made the task an arduous one.
Lady Fairmont took a faltering step at Aidan’s side and then stopped, extending a hand. “Mrs. Sanderson, you’ll come, too, won’t you?”
“Of course, my lady, if you wish me to.”
Laurel bade good day to Lady Devonlea and thanked her for the ride there earlier. Darting a glance at Aidan’s and Lady Fairmont’s receding backs, the viscountess whispered, “Remember what I said earlier. Aidan is on the prowl, and you, my dear, are the prey he covets. If I were you, I would be on my guard.”
Chapter 10
“Oh, do stop this infernal fussing, all of of you.” Propped on pillows whose linen cases rivaled the ashen tone of her skin, Lady Fairmont scowled at the servants bustling in and out of her elegantly appointed bedchamber.
Their arrival here at Fenwick House, perched on a hillside north of Bath, had tossed Lady Fairmont’s household into a veritable uproar. She lay at the center of the oak and wrought iron four-poster that dominated her bedchamber, her disapproval tempered by the tremor of her fingertips against the satin counterpane and a quiver she could not quite clear from her voice. Yet she insisted, “There is not a thing wrong with me that a strong cup of tea won’t remedy.”
Laurel dearly hoped she was right. Had Rousseau’s elixir caused her swoon? Lady Fairmont claimed she had ingested only a small sip. Laurel’s own sample had gone untouched, but no one else in the room had seemed adversely affected.
“Mrs. Prewitt is bringing up tea directly, ma’am,” said a short, stout maid whose red curls reminded Laurel of her sister Holly. The girl bobbed a curtsy and deposited a stack of linens onto the commode beside the brass and porcelain washstand.
Laurel perched on the edge of the bed and took one of Lady Fairmont’s icy hands between her own. “Do allow them to fuss, my lady. However unnecessary their attentions may be, it helps them to feel needed. Believe me, I
know. I . . .”
Barely in time, she clamped her mouth shut. She had nearly mentioned having nursed her three sisters through countless illnesses, but not an hour ago at the Pump Room she had professed to having no sisters.
Lady Fairmont laid a sympathetic hand over Laurel’s. “I believe I know what you were about to say, my dear. Did you spend many hours at your husband’s bedside, during his final days?”
Laurel discovered that the ease in lying she had experienced at the Pump Room failed her now, but she was saved from having to spin another tale by the appearance of Mrs. Prewitt, the housekeeper Laurel had met upon arriving at Fenwick House. Younger than most housekeepers, the woman had dark brown hair drawn back into a severe knot and thin, rather plain features that Laurel found nonetheless pleasant.
With quick, efficient movements, Mrs. Prewitt set a tray holding a teapot and covered dishes on the nightstand. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”
Lady Fairmont thanked her and waved her away. The other servants trailed the housekeeper into the corridor.
“Well, now, something certainly smells heavenly.” Laurel lifted silver covers to reveal a platter of steaming scones and an array of finger sandwiches.
The countess broke a corner off a scone and popped it into her mouth.
“How do you like your tea?” Laurel lifted the teapot.
“Two lumps and a spot of cream, thank you, dear.”
Placing the cup and saucer carefully in Lady Fairmont’s unsteady hands, Laurel found herself holding her breath and hoping the woman didn’t burn herself with the hot liquid. As she looked on, it struck her as immeasurably sad that there was no one better suited to care for the ailing woman than servants and she herself, who had met Lady Fairmont only a few short days ago.
“Have you any family nearby?” Laurel asked gently. “Someone we can send for?”
Lady Fairmont shook her head. “I have two daughters, both presently abroad with their families. My son died a year ago, and my five-year-old grandson, Joseph, has assumed the Fairmont title. Fenwick, however, belongs to me,” she added with emphasis, as if someone might suggest otherwise.
Her teacup clattered as she set it on its saucer. “Of course, I’ve always considered Aidan a second son. He and his mother spent many happy days here with me. I do miss her dreadfully. . . .” Her eyes misting, she stared into the steam rising from her cup. When she looked up again, it was with a resilient grin. “Oh, the stories I could tell you. Such an unruly scamp, that boy was, and such a daredevil, too. You never saw the like. One time, he decided to play tightrope walker on the stone balustrade outside my dressing room. Good heavens, I thought we were going to lose him that day.”
“Oh, what happened?” Laurel was no stranger to childhood accidents. Of all her sisters, Holly had been the daredevil, climbing trees too high, riding her pony too fast. Laurel’s blood chilled as she recalled one of Holly’s more harrowing injuries, a gash across the knee that showed the bone. “Did he fall? Was he terribly hurt?”
“Your concern for my younger self is touching, Mrs. Sanderson.”
Aidan leaned in the doorway, watching them with a smile. He had shed his coat, exposing the charcoal sheen of a waistcoat that emphasized impressive shoulders and the tapering lines of his torso. Beige riding breeches hugged slim hips and powerful thighs. Laurel’s insides fluttered at the sight of him, at the thought of all that hard, barely contained muscle. She tried to look away and found she could not.
His gaze softened in return. “I was not hurt that day,” he said. “My mother very patiently coaxed me down to safety. She then had Lady Fairmont’s groom introduce my backside to the flexible end of a riding crop. I believe I was six at the time.”
“Yes, and very little good that whipping did you, as I recall,” the countess said.
“Oh,” Laurel said a little weakly. She struggled to picture this very large, very solid man as a small, naughty child. She could not manage it, could not see him as anything but the vital, commanding earl he had become.
The notion curled with delicious—and forbidden—warmth inside her.
“I came to tell you that Dr. Bailey has arrived,” he said. “Shall I tell him to come up?”
“Pshaw.” Lady Fairmont scowled. “Who the blazes summoned him?”
“I believe it was Lord Munster,” Laurel told her, “but at our insistence. Just a precaution, of course.”
“Indeed.” Aidan straightened, filling the doorway. “You aren’t going to be a stubborn goat about it, are you?”
The countess heaved a sigh. “Send him up.”
Minutes later, a soft knock at the open door announced Dr. Bailey’s arrival. With his well- tailored suit, thinning hair, and silver spectacles, he brought a sense of reassurance that Lady Fairmont would receive the care she needed.
The countess apparently did not agree. “Humph. I assure you there was no need to disturb your morning on my account. As you can see, I am being perfectly well looked after.”
“Em, Lady Fairmont,” Laurel whispered, “remember what I mentioned about allowing others to feel needed?” From the corner of her eye, she caught Dr. Bailey attempting to hide a grin as he waited to be invited closer to the bed.
The countess released a breath and relaxed deeper against her pillows. “All right, but do not dare prick me with any of your pointy instruments, Doctor. And no leeches. I cannot abide the disgusting creatures.”
“I thoroughly agree.” Laurel stood up from the bed. “With your permission, Lady Fairmont, I shall wait in your drawing room.”
The countess nodded, then snatched Laurel’s hand with a surprising burst of determination. “I should prefer that we not be so dastardly formal. Do call me Melinda, if I may call you Laurel.”
The gesture flooded Laurel with surprising warmth. A vague memory sifted inside her. A gentle hand around her own, the scent of sweet perfume, the reassuring sound of a calm voice. Her mother? An ache in her throat pushed tears into her eyes.
“I would be delighted.” Laurel patted the countess’s hand and promised to return the moment the doctor was finished prodding and poking.
In the heavy silence of the drawing room, she stood before the tall, arched windows overlooking the front park. The weather had worsened and a light rain fell, driven by a restless wind that rattled the oaks marching single file on either side of the drive.
Where the hillsides sank into the wide valley hugged by the River Avon, the rooftops of Bath mirrored the sky. Laurel fingered the fringed swag of window curtain and contemplated the medieval layout of the Lower Town compared with the spacious and modern Upper Town. Without success she tried to pick out the peaked slate roof of her boardinghouse in Abbey Green.
Beneath the window stood a marble-topped table cluttered with an array of cherubic figurines fashioned of jade, alabaster, bronze, and porcelain. Each winged fellow played a flute or tiny mandolin, or aimed a minuscule bow and arrow. She regarded the bland smiles and sightless eyes and wondered if the collection represented a fondness for innocence and whimsy, evidence, perhaps, of a softer vulnerability hidden beneath Melinda’s self-sufficiency.
With a sigh she turned back into the room, wishing she had asked the housekeeper to light a lamp or two. Only a few short minutes ago it hadn’t seemed necessary, but the sky had darkened to a cold iron gray. How quickly things could change.
“How is she?”
With a hand at her throat, Laurel spun about. Down the room’s murky length, Lord Barensforth’s outline took shape as he stood up from a wing chair. Shadows concealed the better part of his face, but even so her pulse leaped at the sight of him, at the thought of being here with him, alone in the storm-induced dusk.
“You startled me.” Her hand slid to press her heart, her palm absorbing the erratic beats. “I thought you were downstairs. Why did you not speak when I entered the room?”
“You seemed lost in thought. I didn’t wish to disturb you.” He came toward her. The dull light from outsi
de deepened the lines of his face, accentuating prominent cheekbones and the high curve of his brow, while turning his eyes and mouth into caverns of mystery. “How is Melinda?”
Laurel didn’t immediately reply. She couldn’t think, couldn’t find her voice. The rain hitting the panes tossed a dappled reflection onto his torso that made him seem less than corporeal, otherworldly. Until now she had seen him only in society—polished, polite, refined. Even last night, despite the seductive nature of their encounter on the terrace, she had still felt a semblance of . . . safety. Refuge.
As well there should be now. They were standing in a countess’s drawing room, in a house full of attentive servants who could at any moment enter the room to inquire after their comfort.
But no footsteps sounded in the corridor and the countess lay in her bed many rooms away. And here, here was this man emerging from the shadows with a power hinted at by the bulky sway of his shoulders beneath his linen shirt and silk waistcoat.
He passed the harpsichord with its painted panels depicting satin-clad gentry in pastoral settings. He might be an aristocrat, but he was nothing like them, not pretty and well-mannered and . . . tame. He was not a man to be controlled or managed, not by rules or mores or customs. No, beneath his restrained surface, she sensed a dangerous undercurrent, along with a nature as solitary and sensual as the leopard to which Lord Munster had compared him.
A shiver ran hot and cold down her back as she remembered what Lady Devonlea had said about his being on the prowl, and her, Laurel, his coveted prey.
His fingertips tripped lightly over the instrument’s ebony keys, sending a trill through the air. She flinched, her stomach tossing in rhythm with the dissipating notes, her racing heart vibrating the whalebone stays of her corset.
“Is she feeling any better?” he asked, his voice as low and lulling as the rain against the windows.
She groped for control over her spinning thoughts. “I am concerned about her. I do not believe she is at all well.”
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