Page 39 of While You Were Spying

“Yes,” he finally answered.

She smiled and put a hand on his arm. “Oh, good! Father is so distraught. He doesn’t know what to do.”

“Where is your father?”

She nodded toward her sister’s door. “Inside with the doctor andMamma.” The girl bit her lip, tears in her eyes. She looked behind him to the head coachman. “Mr. Shepherd, do you think Cesca will be all right?”

Shepherd stepped forward. “Of course, miss.” He took her hand from Ethan’s sleeve, and Ethan looked down at the warm place it had rested. “Just a bump on the head.”

But Ethan heard the hesitation in Shepherd’s voice. The fear. The cord tightened again, and the tension in his body was almost painful. Slowly, he walked forward.

In silence, the group of servants moved aside.

Francesca’s door was ajar, and, pushing it open, he stepped inside. The dark room smelled of candle wax and worry. In the dim light he could make out almost nothing, but gradually the outlines of furniture became more distinct, and he heard hushed voices.

In the heart of the room stood a large half-tester draped with a pale, flimsy fabric, and Francesca lay in the center. She was propped up with a wealth of plush ivory pillows, her hair a spill of rich chocolate around her pale face. Pink-and-white bedclothes were tucked around her small body, leaving only her arms exposed. Underneath the bulky covers, she seemed too delicate, her limbs thin and fragile in white silk with lace at the slender wrists.

Seeing her so vulnerable, sosmall, wrenched at him. The feeling was too familiar, reminding him of another time, another place. His efforts at protection had failed then as well.

He swore under his breath. Why hadn’t he protected Francesca? Thoroughly searched the grounds for roving smugglers? Insisted her father lock her in the house?

The voices ceased, and Ethan pulled his eyes from her to survey the room. Her mother sat in a chair beside her daughter, on the opposite side of the bed from Ethan, and a man stood next to Lady Brigham, holding the girl’s wrist. Slumped in a chair at a dressing table in the corner was Brigham himself.

He paused at the side of her bed and clenched his hands against the impulse to take her hand in his. He had to be calm, reasonable. Ferret out the information he needed. “What happened?” he asked.

Lady Brigham sobbed loudly and dropped her head in her hands. The viscount looked up and began to rise. “Winterbourne? What the bloody hell are you doing here? We don’t need—” Brigham lurched, stumbled.

“Sit down,” Ethan ordered.

Brigham looked ready to protest, and Ethan held up one solitary finger. Without a word, Brigham fell back into his chair.

“What happened?”

Lady Brigham sobbed louder.

“She was on her way home from her hospital,” Brigham began, “and a man attacked her. Luckily Shepherd got there in time to chase the man away, or else...”

Ethan rounded on the man holding Francesca’s wrist. “Are you the doctor?”

“I am.” The man released her hand, laying it at her side. “Dawson.” The doctor put his hand on the girl’s forehead then looked expectantly at Ethan.

“Winterbourne,” he said.

Dawson nodded. “The Earl of Selbourne’s brother?”

“How is she?” Ethan asked, bypassing the pleasantries. He needed to hear she was well. His body still thrummed with tension.

“She suffered quite a scare, but except for a few bruises and scratches, she will be fine.”

Ethan hadn’t realized his fists were clamped together until then. They felt stiff as he forced them to relax.

“Is she conscious?”

She hadn’t yet opened her eyes. God, please let her be sleeping.

“She’s been awake off and on. I’ve given her a mild sedative. She has a knot the size of a plum on the base of her skull and will probably have a headache in the morning.”

Ethan wanted to feel relief but couldn’t. Not until he knew.

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