Page 29 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“Be careful.”
The man did little more than nod, before leaving.
Shortly afterward, Drake left as well. It wasn’t often he lied to his friends, but tonight the club’s profits were the last thing on his mind. First and foremost was unraveling the mystery of Lady Ophelia Lyttleton.
Chapter 10
It was half past two when he unlocked the door, crossed the threshold into his residence, and halted. Something was different. Perhaps it was that he was seldom here at this time, last night being an exception. But even as he considered it, he knew it was more than that. Itfeltdifferent. It didn’t seem as empty. A lamp had been left burning on the first step of the stairs, as though she’d thought—or perhaps hoped—he’d return early.
He hadn’t planned to. He’d gone to Scotland Yard to inquire after any murders that might have taken place the night before. He’d spoken with Sir James Swindler, a friend of the family who wouldn’t question Drake regarding his strange curiosity. The inspector confirmed, unfortunately, that some killings had occurred, but all the victims had been identified. None apparently was the Earl of Wigmore.
Drake had gone to the coroner’s. No unclaimed corpses there. But that didn’t mean anything. The attack could have happened elsewhere, could have been handled by other police, other coroners. The attack could have happened and the victim not yet discovered.
Perhaps it wasn’t an attack. Only an accident. A careless driver losing control of the horses, the coach spiraling off a bridge. A spoke breaking, causing a carriage to careen off the road and into the river.
A hundred possibilities existed. Only someone with his past would immediately jump to the conclusion of foul play. From the moment Frannie Darling had taken him from the streets, he had been sheltered, but images of pain, suffering, and fear had already been branded into his consciousness. The loving arms and gentle smiles could not erase the horrors he’d witnessed, could not prevent the nightmares from rising up on occasion.
He was no doubt a fool not to tell Somerdale about his sister, to return her to her brother’s keeping. Yet he was picking up the lamp and ascending the stairs to check in on her, confident he would find her asleep. In his bed, no doubt. Lady Ophelia Lyttleton would not sleep on a cot.
He imagined rousting her from slumber, sending her to her bedchamber. The satisfaction of it, the delight of putting her in her place was tempered by the worry at the edge of his mind. He didn’t like not knowing what had happened to her. If Somerdale was telling the truth—if he was not—either way, something dastardly seemed to be at play.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he opened the door to his bedchamber, surprised to find the bed empty, but not at all surprised to see the bed remained tousled; the ashes from last night’s fire were still a heap in the hearth.
Had her memory returned? Had she tried to make her way home? He tore down the hallway to the corner room and shoved open the door.
She was there, curled on the cot, a lit lamp on the floor. The relief that swamped him was unwanted and disconcerting. He wasn’t supposed to care about her well-being, and yet for some unfathomable reason he did. But she was safe, not running hither and yon about London. He should leave. Return to the club and see to its profits.
Instead he approached quietly, and only as he neared did he realize that she was trembling as though he’d only just pulled her from the river. She wore one of his shirts again, the linen falling just above her knees. Her eyes were squeezed shut tight. Her breaths were harsh pants as though the air she required was elusive and distant. Her arms were crossed closely over her chest, her hands balled into knots.
“Phee?” Lightly he touched her shoulder and she struck out, arms flailing about madly.
“No, no! Don’t touch me. Don’t!” A shout, then a whimper, a tiny cry as she folded in on herself.
He remembered the words from last night, how he’d assumed they were directed at him. Perhaps they were directed at someone else. An attacker. Thieves could have tried to rob them. He could quite see her sticking that pert little nose of hers up in the air and informing them that their behavior was inappropriate and not to be tolerated.
She continued to shiver. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Sweat beaded her neck. She was constrained on that horrible tiny uncomfortable cot. What the devil had possessed him to think it would be fun to force her to sleep there when a perfectly good bed sat unused in his bedchamber in the evening?
All thoughts of lessons and retribution fled. All he wanted was for her to feel safe. To be safe.
“Phee?” He kept his voice calm, gentle, a tone he used to settle nervous horses. He’d always had a way with the great beasts, had even for a time considered becoming a stable boy, then a groom, but he was the ward of a duke and duchess who had grander plans for him. Bending his knees, he slipped his arms beneath her. “Shh,” he whispered when she responded with a mewling. “It’s all right. I won’t let anything happen toyou.”
Lifting her up and cradling her against his chest, he realized her bare legs graced his arm with the wondrous feel of her silken skin. It was completely inappropriate to be thinking of her skin, of her flesh touching his.
With her fingers tightening around the shirt he wore, she snuggled her head into the nook of his shoulder. Her breaths lengthened as she drew in great drafts of air, as though she were delighted by a fragrance. His.
Ridiculous. Whatever was wrong with him that he would have such inane thoughts? She was no doubt simply relishing the warmth from his body, feeling as though she were tucked into a safe cocoon. No harm would come to her while he was near. Somehow she must have sensed that. Which should have made him feel better but didn’t.
He carried her to his room and set her down gently on the bed, cursing his eyes for noticing how the hem of his shirt had ridden up her thighs. In spite of her short height, she had long, slender legs and the most delicate ankles. He was half tempted to place a kiss there. Instead he flipped the covers up over her, surprised that she hadn’t awakened. Apparently she was an incredibly deep sleeper, even when nightmares flourished.
He went to the fireplace, crouched, and did what she should have done earlier: swept out the ashes, arranged the coal and logs. Then he struck a match, lit the kindling, and watched as the fire took hold.
He heard a sob being choked back. Damnation. Unfolding his body, he strode back over. She was restless again, rolling her head from side to side, murmuring to be left in peace, but she didn’t sound as though she would find any peace this evening.
Leaning in, he touched his fingers to her cheek. “Phee?”
She inhaled deeply, once, twice. “You returned.”
“Yes.”
