Saving Grace (13 page)

Couldn’t he?

The carriage jostled again, and her head slid from his shoulder, where he’d propped it carefully at the beginning of their ride. He caught her once more and shifted his arm around her, pulling her close to keep her from falling off the seat.

Her breathing was shallow, labored, and laced with coughing every minute or so. Her hair had come loose, so her tiara listed to the side. Curls had sprung from their pins and fell across her face in long, silken strands. With his free hand, Nicholas attempted to brush them aside, but as he touched her cheek, his fingers stilled.

Preston was right. She was burning with fever.

Why didn’t I notice earlier that she is really ill?
The answer pricked his conscience. He’d been too busy ordering her around, telling her what must be done to mend their predicament.

And now I’ve made it that much worse. For both of us.

Her skin was soft. He brushed his hand across her cheek, his fingers lingering longer than needed to push her curls aside. It had been a very long time since he’d touched anyone, and it was a strange, yet not unwelcome, sensation.

He’d first noticed the feeling when he’d caught her waist at the beginning of the dance. And again when their hands had touched during a turn.

Preston had noticed too. He’d had an undisguised look of desire in his eyes while dancing with Miss Thatcher, and while Nicholas hadn’t seen her return that look, he had watched her wariness melt away during those minutes. He’d seen her fleeting smile and their easy conversation.

None of which he had experienced while dancing with her. No smile had been forthcoming. She’d expressed no gratitude for his coming to her aid.

Because she felt ill?

Nicholas told himself this was the reason. It wasn’t because she was smitten by Preston’s charm, and even if she had been, that door was closed forever now. By taking Miss Thatcher home, Nicholas had claimed her as his own. He’d announced as much at the ball, taking responsibility in front of the entire assembly. And while he might not want Miss Thatcher, at least he’d seen to it that Preston could not have her.

Well worth the inconvenience of a day or two.
The expense of providing for her did not matter much. They would agree on a sum, determine where to send her, and it would be done.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and the door opened. Nicholas lifted Miss Thatcher with ease, light baggage that she was.

But baggage, nonetheless.
He carried her to the house, calling loudly for Kingsley as the driver hurried ahead to open the door.

“Fetch Mrs. James,” Nicholas ordered when Kingsley appeared. “Miss Thatcher will be staying with us again tonight.”

“I’m right here.” The housekeeper appeared, shoes marching briskly across the polished floor. “What has happened?”

“She collapsed at Preston’s. I couldn’t leave her there.” He owed his servants no explanation but wanted them to understand.

Kingsley nodded as if he did.

“And her servants?” Mrs. James asked as the trio headed up stairs. “They’ll be staying as well, I presume?”

Nicholas shook his head. In his haste to leave, he hadn’t thought of them. Miss Thatcher’s maid would still be at Preston’s and of no use to her there.

Of no use at all, the way she carried on about that nightgown and caused so much trouble.

“Her servants will not be joining us,” Nicholas said decisively. “They are not to be allowed in this house. Is that understood?”

“Who is to care for her if her maid is not allowed to join us?” Mrs. James asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Nicholas said. “Assign one of ours. Hire a new one if you wish. I do not think Miss Thatcher will be here long.”

Mrs. James paused at the top of the stairs. “The yellow room would be best, I think. Aside from yours and the dowagers’, it is the most recently cleaned.”

“I would prefer not to use my sister’s room. Find another,” Nicholas said.

Mrs. James’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. “This way, then. We’ll just have to make up the bed around her.”

“Do what you must with regards to beds.” Nicholas followed Kingsley and Mrs. James to the far end of the hall. “Only see that this time she does not end up in mine.”

The physician straightened and stepped back from the bed. He removed the stethoscope from his ears and turned to address Nicholas, who stood in the doorway, as far removed from the scene as possible.

“Pneumonia, and a serious case of it, I’m afraid.” The physician tucked the stethoscope into his black bag and snapped it shut.

More complications
. Nicholas fumed inwardly. He’d be saddled with Miss Thatcher even longer.
Would that I had not taken her home with me. Better yet, would that I’d never set foot at Preston’s ball to begin with.

“How long, do you think?” Nicholas asked.
How many days must I suffer such inconvenience
?

It had been a difficult night with Miss Thatcher under his roof. She’d slept poorly, crying out more than once about someone named Helen. When not in the throes of a nightmare, she’d coughed, and he’d endured more of that than he’d thought to hear in a lifetime. Though today her breathing was so labored that he doubted she’d be able to cough or speak, let alone cry out for some time.

Time that will be spent in my house, disturbing what little peace I have.

“It all depends,” the physician said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “She may still pull out of it. She’s very weak, but I have a feeling she’s stronger than she looks. All the same, I’d notify her family.”

“Are you saying she may
die
?” Nicholas glanced at Miss Thatcher, tiny and pale beneath the mahogany headboard and thick feather quilt. He hadn’t realized —

“That is exactly what I have been saying,” the physician said, seemingly put off by Nicholas’s ignorance. “Did you not just ask me how long she has?”

“I meant —” Nicholas broke off, knowing he couldn’t tell the man that he’d been thinking only of how long he had to house Miss Thatcher.

“I’ve given instructions to your housekeeper and left some medicines,” the physician continued, speaking as he moved toward Nicholas at the door. “They’ll help to clear the phlegm — especially important with her breathing. Beyond that, there is nothing more to be done but let nature run its course.”

“That is the best you can do?” Nicholas demanded, retaining his position and blocking entrance to the hall. “You’re just going to leave her to die?”

“I am leaving her in your care,” the physician corrected. “Whether or not she lives will be largely dependent upon that care. I suggest you hire an attentive maid.”

“I hired
you
.” Nicholas crossed his arms and looked down on the man, a full head shorter. He didn’t want to hear that Miss Thatcher might stay here for days or even weeks. He didn’t want to hire another maid. He wished her to be well now, and then to be gone — from both his home and his life. And though rational thought told him this was not possible, he’d expected it anyway. He was used to getting what he wanted, the exception being anything to do with Preston.

This is his fault as well.

“I have done all I can,” the physician said. “I had heard you were a harsh man, Lord Sutherland. But I’d not realized the extent of your severity. To be angry with a patient while she lies ill —”

“I am not angry with
her
.” Nicholas stepped aside. “Good day, doctor.” He used the breach of title with intent. Nothing about the physician had seemed to Nicholas worthy of that distinction.

Kingsley showed the man out, leaving Nicholas with Miss Thatcher. He lingered in the doorway, reluctant to leave her, lest her coughing begin again. Though should it, he’d no idea what to do.

The curtains were closed and the room near dark save for a few candles burning on the bed table. The chamber smelled of sickness and medicine, and when he closed his eyes, he heard her labored breathing.

She may die.
Guilt assailed him, and he crossed the room, close to the bed. He gave the bell pull a tug, calling for Mrs. James or one of the other maids.

When a minute had passed and no one appeared, he drew in a breath and stepped closer. Taking one of the candlesticks from the table, Nicholas leaned over the bed, examining Miss Thatcher’s pale face, watching the steady rise and fall of the coverlet.

Her hair was in disarray, as it had been the night of their misfortunate encounter in his bed chamber. This was only the second time he’d seen such untamed locks, but he found them tempting to touch, nearly irresistible, spilling as they did across the crisp, white pillows.

Her face was appealing as well. At the ball, he’d thought her best feature to be her eyes: large and expressive and flashing with anger during their dance. But now he noticed the delicate set of her face and the way her lips had a slight curve even as she slept. Was she so prone to smiling, then, that her lips were naturally shaped that way?

What would it have been like to be Preston last night, to have been the recipient of her smile? Nicholas didn’t know. She’d only favored him with scowls. If she lived, he wanted — just once — to find out.

“You must live.” His tone was purposefully stern, and he willed Miss Thatcher to hear and act upon his words.

He tried to guess her age but could not. Tiny lines on her forehead and near the sides of her eyes had him judging her as slightly older than most of the young ladies he encountered during the season. But she also appeared too young to be near the age of many of the married women he knew.

Young enough, yet older than most women in her situation.
Old enough to be married, but single.
A spinster.

The hint at sympathy he’d felt vanished amidst a new possibility and unwelcome suspicion. What if she hadn’t come to his bed by accident? What if Miss Thatcher had purposefully set out to catch him — and he had played right into her hand?

He returned the candle to the table and stepped back from the bed. A glance over his shoulder told him he was still alone. He must stay a little longer.

If she were to die, everything would be much simpler
. Nicholas hated that he’d grown callous enough to entertain such a thought. But it was a truth nonetheless. He wouldn’t have to provide for her. There would be no question of being trapped. The gossip would fade away.

He knew that truth well enough. How quickly everyone but their family had forgotten Elizabeth. Even Preston seemed to be moving on with his life, forgetting the lonely grave at the top of the hill behind the church. Elizabeth had always loved to climb hills. She’d thought the view worth the effort of getting to the top, the ability to see far beyond one’s limited space a thing to be treasured. He and Preston had agreed upon the location, at least. They had stood on either side of her one last time and laid her to rest.

How deep would Preston’s grief run if Miss Thatcher were not to recover?
Nicholas wondered. Certainly no one could blame him if she were to perish. It was not his fault that she’d shown up on his doorstep in the middle of a dark, stormy night.

Where had she come from, anyway? What had been so urgent that it had sent her traveling so late and without adequate protection?

Nicholas knew very little about Miss Thatcher, and if he were to do as the physician suggested by contacting her family, he’d best set to discovering who she was and where she’d come from. And then he’d see to it that she lived, if for no other reason than that he had dozens of black marks on his character already. He’d turned into something ugly and dark since Elizabeth’s death — a fiend who lived for little more than destroying his former brother-in-law.

But to have this young lady’s death on my conscience as well …

She was young enough and pretty enough, and he could send her far enough away, that she might yet have a life before her.
Everyone need not be as miserable as I am.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and Nicholas turned to find not Mrs. James but Kingsley entering the room.

“Mrs. James asked me to send her apologies. She’ll send one of the maids shortly. I shall stand guard until then.”

“We are not protecting a vault of treasure,” Nicholas scoffed. “Only seeing to it that Miss Thatcher continues to breathe.”

“Yes, milord.” Kingsley stepped aside so Nicholas could exit.

“When you’ve finished here,” Nicholas said, “I’d like you to locate one of the men from the village to do an errand for me. I need to discover what Miss Thatcher was doing the night she came here — why she was out so late and practically alone.”

“Of course,” Kingsley said. “Erastus Jasper is your man. Knows everyone in these parts and has an ear for that sort of thing.”

“Good,” Nicholas said. “Find out where she’s come from and who her people are. We don’t even know her entire name,” he realized. He’d heard it announced at Preston’s ball but had been too concerned over what he needed to do and say to pay any heed to details like that.

“Her name is Grace,” Kingsley said. “Miss Grace Thatcher, granddaughter of Eugene Durham, the Seventh Duke of Salisbury.”