Five

Still in Miss Granger’s bedchamber

After the passage of several harrowing heartbeats

The flush sweeping up the slope of Miss Granger’s gently rounded cheeks and her small tongue darting out to dampen the plump pillow of her lower lip confirmed her guilt.

Not that he blamed her.

If he did not know who the devil a person was, he would bloody well lock them inside a room too.

For all he knew, he might be a smuggler or a swindler.

Or worse.

The simple slate blue gown she wore did nothing to enhance her features, but neither did it detract from her natural attractiveness.

She possessed a refreshing, unpretentious allure.

Like a summer wildflower-filled meadow.

Yes, indeed. Miss Lilibet Granger resembled an overlooked wildflower.

A bluebell, or perhaps a campion, or a poppy.

Egads, man.

You are as frail as a flower petal yourself, and yet you are indulging in flights of fancy over a woman you have known mere hours ?

He summoned what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Or at least he tried to.

His still-healing, scabbed-over mouth did not permit a genuine smile, and he suspected he must rather resemble a gargoyle on Osterley Park House.

“You need not look so chagrined, Miss Granger.”

With some effort, he levered himself into a sitting position. “Were I in your position, I would err on the side of caution too.”

“I am sorry, but prudence must dictate.” Giving a small nod, she ventured a few feet nearer the bed. “I know nothing about you, and until I do…” She lifted one shoulder. “Surely you understand.”

Her gaze held compassion but also unwavering determination.

“I assure you, I am not offended because you have decided to lock the door.” He grimaced as a rib protested his movements. “Though, I might go out of my mind with boredom.”

“I can offer an extensive selection of books if you feel up to reading,” she said. “I also subscribe to The Times , but delivery is delayed three days. We are always a tad behind on recent events and news.”

That minor detail raised her another notch in his estimation. Most women had no interest in news sheets, preferring gossip rags such as La Belle Assemblée, Le Beau Monde-Literary and Fashionable Magazine, or High Life in London.

How the bloody hell do I know the names of women’s periodicals ?

“Although…” A frown creased Miss Granger’s normally smooth forehead. “You should take care to get sufficient rest so you do not prolong your recovery.”

A polite way of saying, she did not want him convalescing at her children’s home for months. And by God, he did not want to, either. He was every bit as eager as she to discover who he was and be on his way.

“Something to read would be appreciated.” In truth, he was not positive he was up to the task just yet. Even this brief conversation had taken a toll and, exhaustion weighing his eyelids, he slumped into the pillows.

As she had done this morning, she rested her hand atop the footboard. A few ink stains marred her fingertips.

“Perhaps, I should get a pen and paper, so you can jot down any thoughts or memories that come to mind that may be useful.” Hesitating, she ran her keen regard over him. “Or, I can do it if you are not feeling quite the thing, just yet.”

Miss Granger had noticed his failing strength.

He gave a slow nod, careful not to jostle his head.

Thank God the pulsating agony of this morning had passed and now a dull throbbing ache encircled his skull.

“I have just recalled something about Osterley Park House.” He stifled a yawn.

“ Hmm , that might be rather useful.” Attention focused on her hands, she scrunched her pert nose in concentration. “If I recall correctly, Osterley Park House is owned by the Earl of Jersey.”

She raised her inquisitive gaze to meet his. “Yes?”

He could not prevent his eyebrows from shooting high on his forehead in surprise at her knowledge. “Yes, indeed.”

“I am somewhat of an architectural buff.” Miss Granger stared out the window, a hint of forlornness shadowing her features. “Had my circumstances been different, and had I been born a male, I should have liked to have pursued a career in architecture.”

Unexpected empathy filled him.

She lifted a rounded shoulder again, a movement he was coming to recognize as her way of saying she did not care when she did.

“ C’est la vi .” The merest trace of regret threaded her voice.

True, life did not always go as one wanted or thought it would.

For he had certainly never planned on being abducted, beaten to a pulp, suffering from amnesia, and being a burden to a children’s school director.

Eyes narrowed in thought, Miss Granger put a finger to her chin. “The Countess of Jersey is an Almack peeress, is she not?”

“Is she?” How the blazes did he know? “However, I think I may have connections to the haut ton or know people who do.”

“Excellent.” Her smile might have been fashioned for a child who had, at last, mastered their multiplications.

“Let’s write down everything that you can recall, shall we?” she said. “Mayhap a pattern will emerge.”

She skirted the bed and then lifted the slanted cover to her secretary. After removing a sheet of foolscap, she opened her inkwell and dipped a pen into the ink.

A ray of sun filtering through the window cast her in a golden glow.

Why did she seem to grow prettier by the minute?

Even the few pockmarks on her cheeks appeared less noticeable. In truth, artfully applied cosmetics might conceal the shallow scars completely.

How do I know anything about cosmetics ?

Do I have sisters ?

Does my mother use paints ?

Perhaps, I am acquainted with actresses .

And who did he know who wore lavender?

For that matter, how did he know about herbs’ medicinal smells?

“It is a place to start, I suppose,” he ventured, still uncertain anything he had recalled so far was of genuine worth in the quest to identify him.

“Well?” She arched an expectant eyebrow. “What have you remembered?”

He sighed. “We have already determined I know something of Osterley Park House.”

“Yes, indeed.” She scratched away on the foolscap, her lips pressed into a tight ribbon. “Very telling, I should think.”

He wished he were as confident as she was.

It would help if he could speak with Doctor Montrose and ask him how long he could expect to wait to have his memory fully restored.

“What else?” she gently probed.

“I believe I was in the military—a soldier. Perhaps, an officer.” He gestured toward his eyepatch. “I am not sure how I acquired this, however. I know I was beaten, but I do not know where or by whom.”

“ Uh, hum .” With her lower lip clamped between her teeth, she recorded the details.

He brushed his bandaged hand along his jaw, wincing as the rough bristles caught the cloth.

Lord, he needed a shave.

“I think…” Yes, he was almost certain. “I think I may have been abducted.”

“ Pardon ?” she gasped, her flabbergasted gaze flying up to meet his. “You are certain?”

Was that genuine concern in her brown eyes, or did doubt linger in her irises?

He paused for a couple of heartbeats before giving a tentative nod. “Yes. Again, I do not know by whom or why.”

“Well, that certainly puts things in a different perspective.” Miss Granger quickly recorded that tidbit before pausing and staring at the list. “Surely if you have been abducted, someone is looking for you. Unless…”

She raised an apologetic gaze to his. “Unless you do not have anyone.”

“Honestly, I do not know.”

Did he have anyone?

If so, why had no one found him in the fortnight he had been in residence at Kelston Hall Children’s Home?

Almost immediately, she shook her head, dismissing the idea.

“No, that makes no sense. Abductions are usually committed to extort money.” Lips pursed, she narrowed her eyes. “That leads me to venture you are related to someone who possesses wealth or position. Perhaps both.”

“I sincerely do not know. However, I am familiar with the trappings and goings-on of the haut ton . I also have an unusual knowledge of women’s cosmetics and periodicals. And the fragrance of lavender is very familiar to me, as are some herbs you have used to treat my injuries.”

“ Cosmetics ?” Miss Granger could not hide her staggered expression. “That is certainly…uncommon.”

She obviously understood that other than actresses, courtesans, and aristocrats—the latter, discreetly, of course—most women did not use beauty enhancements.

That meant he either had disreputable or prestigious female acquaintances.

The speculative look she slid him seemed to try to see inside his head to determine which was the case.

“I also have a vague recollection of a black-and-white-tiled marble foyer,” he blurted to point her discomfiting, contemplative musings in another direction.

He sure as Hades was not mentioning that he believed he normally slept naked. No need to share that shocking detail with the proper Miss Granger.

Except, damn him for a rogue, he rather thought he would enjoy seeing color flood her face.

After setting aside the pen, she held the list up. “I believe we have the beginnings of a picture here. Granted, it is not clear, by any means, but there are enough details that I think when I present them to Sheriff Wrottesley this afternoon, he might start to put the pieces together.”

“Sheriff Wrottesley?” A stab of alarm speared him.

It made no earthly sense, but his intuition shrieked, “ Caution! Caution !”

“Is he an honest fellow?” He pressed his lips tight for a heartbeat. “Someone you would trust?”

She grew pensive and averted her gaze as she waved the foolscap to dry the ink.

Finally, she shook her head. Not one lustrous, golden hair in her tightly coiled chignon quivered at the movement. “No, he is not what I consider an honorable man. Furthermore, I do not trust him in the least. I think…”

She inhaled a deep breath, and he truly tried to ignore the enticing rise of her well-endowed bosom.

“I think it would be wisest to not alert the sheriff to your presence just yet, though how I shall explain why I asked him to call this afternoon, is rather a pickle.

“What is more, the children, Charles, and the staff know you are here.

“It would not surprise me at all if Sheriff Wrottesley is not already aware you are here. In small communities, it is hard to keep secrets.”

“Especially since you did not think you needed to.” He gave a slow nod. “Perhaps, there is no need to tell him I have regained consciousness just yet.”

She considered that for a moment.

“Perhaps, but I cannot make any promises. I shall not lie. However, I shall not offer him information either.” She tilted her head. “It does make me wonder all the more whether you are a blackguard and are faking your memory loss.”

He burst out laughing, immediately regretting it when his head nearly exploded. Cradling his throbbing skull between his hands, he gave her a cocky grin. “Are you always so suspicious, or do you simply have an over-active imagination?”

Crossing her arms, she speared him with a thunderous glare.

“Until I know what manner of man you are, I shall make no apologies for my qualms. And just because I am not handing you over to the sheriff today does not mean I shall not tomorrow. Understood?”

He felt rather like a chastened schoolboy. “Aye.”

Beneath her calm exterior, Miss Lilibet Granger was a spitfire.

Very interesting.

And intriguing.

“Good.” Stiff with disapproval and offense, she strode to the door. “I suggest you concentrate on regaining your memory and pray that you are not a miscreant. Know this: I shall do nothing to endanger the children or my staff.

“Nothing! If that means rendering you into the custody of the sheriff before you are fully recovered, I shall do so.”

With that fierce declaration, she shut the door, and a second later, the key scratched in the lock.

He sank back into the pillows.

That had not gone brilliantly, and he had forgotten to ask for a different nightshirt.

Sighing in self-disgust, he closed his eyes.

Who the bloody hell am I ?