Winston pulled his hands back to his lap and adjusted himself more comfortably on the chaise. But he regretted moving even that much. The carriage ride had been torturous. He felt much better on the soft chair close to the floor. Less distance to fall if he became nauseous and dizziness assailed him again. “I cannot thank you enough for your assistance, Mr. McCarrick. They almost had me.”

  “It was the right thing to do,” Charlotte answered for McCarrick as the housekeeper and a pair of maids rushed in, their arms full.

  Charlotte took charge of the servants and began giving quiet orders for what must be put where around Winston. Clearly, Charlotte had fooled him. She might act like a demure mouse when at society entertainments, but she seemed a take-charge kind of woman everywhere else. He was grateful for that today, yet he still couldn’t believe how enthusiastically she’d rushed to his defense, beating off an assailant with just a parasol in hand.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling she’d done that before on her travels. She seemed completely at ease about her violent display, too. Something he could hardly fault her for when it had been to his advantage.

  The housekeeper approached with a fistful of red-stained muslin cloth that carried the scent of blood upon it. “We’ll need to apply steak to both your eyes, my lord.”

  “Yes, I thought you’d say that.” He already couldn’t see out of his right one, and what he could see from his left was becoming very narrow.

  Behind the housekeeper, Charlotte and her male friend conducted another whispered discussion. He strained to hear their words over the next mutterings of his housekeeper, but then the fellow, McCarrick, stalked from the room, leaving Charlotte behind, hanging her head.

  The housekeeper chose that moment to dump cool steak on Winston’s upturned face. He let out an ugly curse for the shock and cold and fresh pain inflicted.

  Charlotte, and he knew it was her by the light touch on his shoulder, whispered from close by and the light scent of citrus she always wore. “Here, let me do that.”

  “You’ll get blood on your hands,” the housekeeper warned.

  “Clearly you’ve never sat down to dinner with the Maasai of Africa,” Charlotte mused. “Rare meat for every meal. Not a knife in sight or a fork. I’ll do this while you fetch ointment for his cut lip.”

  Winston lifted his fingers to his face, noticing for the first time how his lip bulged and pained him when he touched it.

  Charlotte gently moved his fingers away from the injury without a word.

  “As you like,” the housekeeper agreed. “I’ll see what’s keeping my lady.”

  “Thank you.”

  Winston tensed as the cold meat shifted on his skin. But now the pressure was lighter and more bearable. “Is that easier to bear, my lord?”

  “The housekeeper could have done it,” he complained.

  “I know. But I wanted a moment to talk to you alone and thought this might be my only chance.”

  He felt her skirts brush against the inside of his thighs and tensed. “What more is there to discuss?”

  “About my suspicion that someone is trying to do you in.”

  He pushed away her hand holding the meat to stare up at her in surprise. She was leaning right over him, frowning with a level of concern that only his mother could match. She was so close he could probably count every eyelash she had. He swallowed hard, overcome by unexpected desire thanks to her proximity and the innocent brush of her legs against his. “I’m just having a rotten run of luck.”

  Charlotte returned the meat to the right side of his face, leaving his left eye uncovered for now. “You could have died today.”

  “But I didn’t.” His pulse sped up as he lifted one hand to brush against her thigh. For a moment, he imagined Charlotte poised naked over him, about to make love. He shook his head to dispel a tryst that could never be. He let his hand drop to his lap. “You saved me, remember?”

  “Again. Winston, I cannot shake the feeling that someone seeks to do you harm.”

  He caught again the repeated use of his given name by her, but he would not chide her for the slip of decorum. He had been assaulted today, and Charlotte had been deeply involved. She might be unsettled enough to have forgotten propriety entirely. “They wanted my valuables.”

  “If they wanted your valuables, they would have held you down while the third man searched your pockets. Not kicked you over and over and over again.”

  He winced that she’d seen that. Charlotte may have a point about the viciousness of the attack being excessive for a robbery, but he could hardly agree that the assault was in any way planned. He’d been in the park alone on a whim. “It was a foiled robbery and the fellows like to rough up their victims first. Anyway, what experience do you have in understanding the mind of a criminal?”

  “More than I care for,” she warned, nibbling on her lip.

  That did not sound pleasant. “What happened?”

  “An unpleasantness. One of many.” She shook her head as if to clear away the memory. “I am a seasoned traveler, my lord. I learned how to protect myself on my travels from a young age. Fight, if I have to. Surrender valuables if need be. Run if outnumbered by villains or thugs. You should have run at the first sign of trouble, and you really shouldn’t wander alone anymore, my lord. It’s not safe.”

  He drew in a deep breath, regretted it instantly as his ribs protested, and forced a smile to his face. She was kind to be so worried about him, but it was just bad luck that he’d been singled out today. He rarely went anywhere without a carriage and servants accompanying him. He’d only gone out today alone to prove his brother wrong about being entirely too predictable. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m sure you are mistaken about the nature of today’s skirmish.”

  “Attack.” She chewed on her lip again while she turned the raw meat, so the cooler side now chilled his skin. “What if I’m not wrong and someone really does want to hurt you?”

  “Then you’ll be proven right, I suppose.”

  She scowled at him. “I’d rather know you lived in perfect health. Promise me that you’ll take the matter of your safety seriously.”

  “Miss Waters,” he scolded. “I am grateful for your assistance today, but there is only so much fussing I can stand.” He took the meat from her hand and stood, ignoring how different parts of his anatomy protested the stretch. It was time to end Miss Waters’ speculation before Mother returned and took anything Charlotte might utter to heart. He looked down upon her upturned face and a pang of longing rushed through him. She had the kindest eyes and he lost track of time as he stared into them. He could drown in them, and her, if he were not careful. If it had been any other day, he might even have kissed her. But he could not. He was almost a married man. “Thank you for your aid and your concern, but I can look after myself now.”

  She stepped back—but then did something remarkable. Something no other lady of his acquaintance had ever dared. She wagged her finger at him. “You’d better be in perfect health when I see you again or else!”

  She turned away to wash her hands and spoke quietly to the returning housekeeper. When she exited the chamber, parasol clutched tight in her tiny hand with her chin held high, he would have smiled except that would hurt too much.

  He let out a frustrated breath. How could such an exceptionally complex woman have remained unnoticed among the wallflowers? Why hadn’t he paid more attention to her either? He might have…

  Winston groaned. Women. He’d never understand them as long as he lived.

  He went to the window. Charlotte was being helped into Mr. McCarrick’s phaeton outside, and he had to say, neither of them looked pleased to be together now.

  It occurred to him only then that he’d probably interrupted their outing. And if McCarrick had actually been courting Charlotte, they’d exchanged harsh words about him. The fellow must have been shocked by the ferocity of Charlotte’s actions today.

  Winston winced. Clearly, Charlotte hadn’t needed his help meeting bachelors. If he’d stayed out of her way, she might yet be in McCarrick’s good graces. He feared that was not the case anymore and it was entirely his fault.

  The housekeeper appeared at his side then and steered him back to a chair and forced him down in it. “Forgive me, my lord, but I must insist you rest.” The housekeeper grabbed his hand and peered at his knuckles. “The young lady was right, wasn’t she? You’ve taken a fair beating today, and you won’t admit it to be in great pain. Shall I send for your physician.”

  “No. I only need to rest.”

  “The young woman feared you’ve damaged your ribs, my lord. Is it hard to breathe?”

  “It was at first,” he admitted sheepishly. “But it is getting easier now I’m sitting down again.

  “She bid me watch over you closely for the next few days.” The housekeeper smiled. “I expect you’ll not care for it, but you must rest if you are to heal properly. I’ll assign a footman to help your valet and to fetch anything you need, including as much drink as required to dull the pain.”

  The housekeeper was never usually so bossy. He nodded grudgingly because he was in a bit of a bad way. Charlotte had read the situation, and his feelings, very well indeed. “I promise to rest.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” The housekeeper sighed. “Shall I have Miss Mayflower sent for?”

  “No,” he said quickly. He’d rather not have Elizabeth panic and rush home to wring her hands over his state.

  A footman arrived carrying a tall glass and filled it with spirits, and Winston gulped down the offering, then sat back in a chair with the raw meat perched over both eyes while the alcohol worked to dull the pain.

  “Forgive me if I’m out of line, my lord, but I thought you should know…your mother is in tears on the stairs just outside the room.”

  He feared someone might tell him that about her. He uncovered one eye and met the footman’s concerned gaze. “Would you whisper to her that I’ve fallen asleep and suggest I shouldn’t be disturbed for a few hours?”

  The footman nodded quickly, kindly refilled his glass, left a decanter beside it, and quietly excused himself to deliver his message.

  Mother sobbed loudly once and then it seemed that she was ushered away upstairs. She’d return when she’d composed herself. She had never been very good when he’d been injured in the past. Like the time he’d burned all the hair off one arm trying to recover a new hat that Peter had thrown into the flames. He’d suffered a month of coddling that time and Peter had been locked away in his room a whole month—even if Winston had promised it had been an accident.

  Winston sat there alone for what must have been half an hour, undisturbed while he relived the assault at the park, rubbing his thumb over the heavy signet right on his left hand as he recalled every blow he’d delivered and received.

  It was odd that none of his money or valuables had been taken by his attackers. He’d a decent number of notes upon him, and coin, too. He patted his chest where the thick wad rested and toyed with the heavy chain of his pocket watch. Why hadn’t they stolen anything of value from him if they were vicious thieves?

  To ask that question, he’d have to find those men again, and he was not keen to do that just yet.

  Charlotte might be right about some being broken, after all.

  Clever woman.

  Fierce.

  Stubborn…and awfully attractive.

  He sighed in disgust with himself. Even beaten and bruised, he couldn’t explain why only Charlotte Waters incited lust in him. And her hand on his thigh…dear God, that had felt so good and better not happen again.

  “Isn’t it a bit early to be sleeping off an excess of spirits, brother?” Peter yelled out loudly. “You really are becoming just like Father to need a nap so early in the evening.”

  Winston nearly jumped out of his seat, started by the interruption to his musings from so close by. He must have dozed off thinking of Charlotte’s soft hand stroking across his thigh.

  “Hush now, Lord Peter. Can’t you see your brother deserves all the drink he can swallow today,” the housekeeper hissed. “There’s been such a to-do, you cannot imagine.”

  Winston pulled the meat from his face and turned to find his brother being blocked by the housekeeper at the doorway. “Let him pass,” Winston requested as he met his brother’s startled gaze. “No cause for alarm. I’ll survive.”

  Peter rushed around the chair to peer at his face. “What the hell happened to you? Are you in pain?”

  “It hurts a bit,” he admitted, avoiding an answer about the source of his current injuries. He checked that Mother hadn’t snuck into the room while he’d been sleeping, too. “As far as Mother should know, I fell down.”

  “How many times? Thirty?” Peter sat down opposite, peering at his face. “Tell me they were apprehended.”

  “No. They got away.” Winston frowned. “Why do you think there was more than one?”

  “Well, I can easily imagine you are more than a match for a single assailant, brother. All those hours at Gentleman Jackson’s should have paid off against one.”

  He could hardly take credit for his defense today. He’d thought himself lost until Charlotte had recklessly thrown herself into the fray. Not even Mr. McCarrick had rolled up his sleeves in an attempt save him. The man had stood back holding his horse and carriage, as Charlotte should have done. “Yes, well. I managed,” he muttered, deciding it best for Charlotte’s reputation if he omitted her part in it all.

  “Well, wherever they are, I hope they look as bad as you. That’s not a pretty sight, your face.”

  Winston was not particularly vain about his looks, but if Peter described his face so poorly, he shuddered to think what Charlotte had thought of it when she’d leaned over him and tended to his injuries. So tenderly. As if she really had cared about him.

  He owed Charlotte for saving his life a second time now. For putting her safety and reputation at risk for him yet again. That was becoming a habit of hers. How could he ever repay her this time? A few words of praise, when he was feeling better, hardly seemed sufficient after all she’d done for him today.

  He’d try to think of something suitable while he rested. Perhaps he’d send her a present. Something not too expensive that it might draw unwanted attention. Something small and personal. Like the parasol she always carried. Yes, that is what he could do. Buy a replacement parasol in case hers had been damaged today during the fight. She had truly beaten those men well with her current one.

  He’d been rather impressed by that, actually.

  Heaven help the cur who tried to steal her virtue. He glanced at his brother. “What are you doing home at this hour?”

  Peter’s lips pressed together. “We were to have dinner.”

  “Ah, yes well. I did forget about that, and under the circumstances I’m not quite up to a proper dinner tonight.”

  “Then I’ll leave then.”

  “You could stay.”

  Peter glanced toward the door, a sour expression on his face. “No, I’ll only be in the way.”

  “I say, Hurlston, have you seen Mayflower about,” Hunt asked, strolling into the room, looking down at the bottle of wine in his hands. “He’ll appreciate trying this vintage, I’m sure.”

  “He’s not returned yet,” Winston told Hunt, wondering when the man would ever look up.

  When he did, Hunt stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Winston’s face. And then he came closer. “Devil take it.”

  “Indeed.”

  Hunt drew back. “Do I dare ask what happened?”

  “He fell,” Peter told Hunt in a flat deadly tone.

  Hunt shook his head. “He always had two left feet as a boy. I thought he’d grown out of it. Do be more careful, old boy. You’re the head of the family.”

  Peter scowled at that comment.

  Winston winced and then squinted at Hunt through his one good eye. “I thought you were out with the Mayflowers?”

  “I was for a while, but I saw something I wanted and left them to their own devices. Did you want some of this?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll have that,” Peter demanded, taking the bottle from Hunt to inspect the label. “This is from Father’s private collection.”

  A look of horror touched Hunt’s face. “Was it? I had no idea. I’m so sorry. I merely thought Mayflower would like to share a glass if he were returned.”

  Peter sniffed the open bottle carefully. “Seems fine to my nose but just to be sure, I’ll take it to the butler. It is his duty to open all bottles from Father’s collection to be sure they’re safe to consume.”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t want anyone to become ill from Hurlston’s personal wine collection,” Hunt murmured, filling a glass with spirits instead as Peter stalked from the room. “He’s in a fine mood. What’s wrong with him today?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Winston murmured.

  “He’s not still angry that you wouldn’t buy him that phaeton, is he?” Hunt asked quietly. “Or is it the other thing? Your elevation to your father’s title still getting under his skin. He’s been sulking about that since your father died.”

  “He does not sulk,” Winston assured his friend.

  “He does, and you know it, too,” Hunt warned. “He’s grown so bitter in the last two years too that I hardly know what to think.”

  Winston sat up straighter. Was Peter bitter? He certainly wasn’t the brother he’d once been. “I’m sure he’ll come around soon.”

  He’d better.

  Chapter Nine

  “How did it go with Mr. McCarrick the other day?” Aurora asked. “You haven’t said a word about him since we arrived.”

  Well, who could blame me?

  Mr. McCarrick had given her a lecture on decorum yesterday on the drive home from Lord Hurlston’s. He did not believe she ought to have involved herself in Winston’s troubles, either vigorously defending him or worrying about his injuries later. His threat about talking to her parents had been an idle one. By the time they’d reached her home, he’d had enough of her and driven away without looking back.