Chapter 3

Three

T he pale winter sun filtered through the drawn curtains, casting a soft glow across the stranger’s feverish face. Emily stood at his bedside, brow furrowed with concern. Two days had passed since they found him unconscious in the snow. Though the fever had not worsened, it had yet to break. His features, still sharp and undeniably handsome, were marred by the fever’s flush, his dark hair tousled against the pillow from the restless thrashing of the previous night.

Emily had spent countless hours caring for him and urging him to wake as the storm raged outside. This morning Marks informed her the roads were blanketed in knee deep snow. Willy added some drifts were waist high. Though the snow had stopped falling, they were well and truly snowed-in.

“Penny,” Emily called softly, turning to her maid. “Fetch fresh linens and cool water. We must continue to do everything in our power to make our patient comfortable.”

“Yes, my lady.” Penny offered a quick curtsy before leaving the room.

Her gaze returned to the man lying so still, a persistent sense of familiarity tugging at her. She was sure they had crossed paths before, though the details eluded her. There was something about his face—his strong jawline, the dark sweep of hair across his brow—that tugged at her memory. She was almost certain they had met before, though where or when escaped her entirely.

Gently, she reached out and laid her hand upon his forehead. His skin was still burning, though mercifully no hotter than it had been. She allowed herself a small sigh of relief. The fever had held steady, and for now, that was enough. Still, as her hand rested there, she felt an unsettling sensation—a quiet awareness of the softness of his skin, the steady pulse beneath, and the faint scent of bay rum that clung to him despite his condition.

Her breath caught, and she quickly withdrew her hand, disconcerted by the flutter of emotion that stirred within her.

“You must wake soon, sir,” she said. “There are many questions I should like to ask.”

For a fleeting moment, his eyelids fluttered at the sound of her voice, though they did not open. His body remained as still as before, his chest rising and falling with each laboured breath. Emily settled into the chair beside the bed, her gaze never leaving his face.

It was improper, of course, to sit here alone with a man, a stranger no less, but propriety had always been a distant second to compassion in her mind.

She wondered what kind of man he was. His fine clothing suggested he was a gentleman, though there was something about him—something decidedly unrefined—that did not sit neatly with the image of a polished aristocrat. And then there was the matter of his being found in a snowstorm, alone, near her estate. It made no sense. If he were from the local gentry, she would have known him. But she did not.

Or did she?

A faint knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and Penny returned, her arms laden with fresh linens. Behind her, Marks followed with a basin of cool water.

“Thank you, Penny,” Emily said, rising from her seat. “I will check his wound after you have finished. I have faith that, with care, he will recover.”

Penny curtsied again, her face tight with concentration as she set about changing the linens. Marks worked silently beside her. The room filled with the soft rustling of fabric and the occasional crackle from the fire.

As they worked, Emily’s thoughts drifted back to the previous days. The storm had been fierce, relentless, and when the footmen had brought this man into her home, she had not hesitated. It was her duty, her instinct, to care for those in need. But now, after two days of waiting, the uncertainty of his identity gnawed at her.

“Marks,” she said as the footman finished his task. “That will do for now. Thank you.”

Marks bowed slightly before backing from the room, his heavy footsteps fading down the corridor. Emily turned to Penny, her gaze thoughtful.

“Penny, I had hoped we might not need to resort to such measures, but I believe the time has come.” Her voice was steady but laced with concern. “Please search his coat pockets. He has been unconscious for too long, and we must know who he is. If there is anything to identify him, we must find it.”

Penny hesitated for a moment, her brow furrowing, but then she hastened to the chair where the stranger’s belongings were laid. She rifled through the pockets of his coat, her fingers deft but respectful. A moment later, she produced a small collection of items: a silver pocket watch, a few coins, and a folded letter.

Emily’s breath caught in her throat as she took the letter from Penny’s outstretched hand. The parchment appeared worn and creased, as though someone had folded and refolded it many times. Her fingers trembled slightly as she unfolded it, her curiosity mingling with shame, for she knew it was wrong to invade his privacy. Despite the pang of guilt, she proceeded.

“My dear Nicolas,” she read softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I implore you to make haste to London. The matter is of utmost urgency, and your presence is required to—” She stopped, her breath catching. A dark stain obscured the rest of the letter, likely from the snow that had soaked through his clothing.

Emily’s heart lurched as recognition sank in. This was that Nicolas Winters, the rake whose name had graced more than a few scandal sheets. And now, he lay unconscious in her home, vulnerable and at her mercy.

“Penny,” Emily said, her voice tight with recognition. “I believe we are hosting none other than Mr. Nicolas Winters. Scandalous son of the Earl of Quintin.”

The maid’s eyes widened in shock. “The second son of the Earl?” she gasped. “Mr. Winters, the notorious rake that even servants whisper about?”

“Indeed,” Emily said, her gaze fixed on his face. The man before her bore a striking resemblance to the Earl of Quinton, but she had never imagined this to be that Nicolas Winters, the charming rogue whose escapades had fuelled many a scandal in London. The man in her guest room seemed so far removed from the lively figure described in society’s gossip—so vulnerable, so far from the carefree libertine she had heard about.

Penny looked at her, wide-eyed. “What shall we do, my lady?”

Emily straightened, her resolve hardening. “We shall continue to care for him, as we have been. Mr. Winters is in need of our help, and we shall provide it, regardless of his reputation. Besides, his father is an acquaintance of my late husband. It is our duty.”

Penny nodded, her face pale but composed. “Yes, my lady.”

As Penny quietly left the room, Emily returned to her seat by the bed. Her gaze lingered on Nicolas’s face, her thoughts spinning. She had never met him before—at least, not formally—but his reputation had preceded him. She had heard the whispers, the stories of his exploits in London, the tales of his charm and mischief. But now, as she looked at him, none of that seemed to matter. He was a man in need, nothing more.

And yet, there was something unsettling about the situation, something that made her heart race whenever she thought of the name Nicolas Winters. She had always prided herself on seeing the best in people, on offering kindness where others might judge. But this... this was different. She could not ignore the feeling that she was treading on dangerous ground.

“Oh, Mr. Winters,” she said as she pressed a cool cloth to his brow. “What trouble have you found yourself in this time?”

As if in response to her voice, his eyelids fluttered again. Emily held her breath, watching as his eyes slowly opened, unfocused and glazed with fever. He blinked several times, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.

“Where...” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. His gaze moved sluggishly from the fire to the tapestries on the walls before finally settling on her.

Emily’s heart quickened. She reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and leaned forward, her voice soft but steady. “You are in Gilford Manor, Mr. Winters. Here, sip some water. It will help.”

With care, she lifted his head and held the glass to his lips. He sipped, his gaze never leaving hers. When he had taken enough, she set the glass aside and gently lowered him back onto the pillows.

“Lady... Gilford?” he rasped, his voice stronger now, though still rough from disuse.

Emily offered him a small smile. “Indeed. It seems fate has brought you to my doorstep this December.”

He tried to push himself up, but Emily laid a hand on his shoulder, gently pressing him back. “No, you must rest. You have been through quite an ordeal, and your body needs time to recover.”

He frowned, confusion flickering in his eyes. “How... how did I come to be here?”

“Two of my footmen found you near the road,” Emily explained, settling back in her chair. “You were unconscious in a snowbank with a rather nasty bump on your head. A horse was nearby.”

Nicolas winced, raising a hand to his temple. His fingers brushed against the cool cloth, and he let out a soft groan of pain.

“Easy now,” Emily said, leaning forward once more. “You have had a terrible fall, but you are safe now. Your horse is in my stable and well cared for. You need only to rest.”

He nodded weakly, though a flicker of stubbornness remained in his captivating green eyes. “Thank you, Lady Gilford,” he said, his voice laced with the remnants of his charm as exhaustion took over. “It seems… I am… in your debt.”

Emily busied herself adjusting the blankets, her fingers working with practiced ease while her heart betrayed her with a traitorous flutter. She had heard many things about Nicolas Winters, most of them scandalous, but nothing had prepared her for the man himself.

“It was nothing,” she replied, her tone even. “I could not leave you at the mercy of the storm. You are fortunate my footmen found you when they did.”

He chuckled, though the sound was strained. “Fortunate indeed.” His eyes closed for a heartbeat before he added, “Though I confess… I remember very little.” He drew in a ragged breath. “I suppose I have you to thank for my care?”

Emily glanced at him, her expression softening. “You have my household to thank. Now you must rest until you have fully recovered.”

He sighed, the effort of conversation clearly draining him, though the man seemed too stubborn to care.

“I imagine you are quite curious as to how I came to be in such a state,” he said, his voice strained.

“I am,” Emily admitted, her tone measured. “But that is a tale for another time. You must regain your strength first.”

His gaze lingered on her face, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. “And here I thought Lady Gilford would be more demanding.”

Emily could not suppress a smile. His reputation for charm was well-earned, it seemed. “I have plenty of questions, Mr. Winters, but they can wait. For now, you must rest.”

His eyelids fluttered again, the weight of exhaustion pulling him back toward sleep. “As you wish,” he said, his voice fading as he drifted into slumber.

Emily remained at his bedside long after he had fallen asleep, her mind filled with thoughts of the scandalous rake now lying in her guest room. He had a reputation, certainly, but beneath the gossip and the scandal, she sensed there was more to him than met the eye.

Eventually, she rose from the chair, her movements quiet as she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

As she walked down the hall, the familiar weight of duty settled over her, but this time, a whisper of something new accompanied it. Something unsettling. Her life had been orderly, predictable—but now, with Nicolas Winters under her roof, she could not shake the feeling that it was about to change irrevocably.