Chelsea sucked in a breath and bit her lip the instant the cloth touched her bloodied thigh.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Callahan, drew back and tilted her head to the side. “I’m very sorry, my lady,” she said. “I know it’s painful. It’s a terrible scrape, but I must make sure there is no dirt in the wound. We wouldn’t want it to fester.” She dipped the cloth into the bowl of water and squeezed it out. “I’ll try to be gentle.”
“And I will try to be brave,” Chelsea replied.
Sitting back, she squeezed the mahogany arms of the Chippendale chair and remembered how brave Blake had been that first night, when he watched her stitch up his wound, which had been far worse than a silly scraped leg.
A knock sounded at the door. Mrs. Callahan stopped what she was doing, rose to her feet and crossed the chamber to answer it. “Lady Charlotte…”
“I hear our guest took a tumble,” Charlotte said. “I came to see if there is anything I can do. It’s not life-threatening, I hope.” She peered in at Chelsea, who was sitting in front of the unlit fireplace.
“Please, come in,” Chelsea said. “You can distract me from the perils of my treatment.”
She had met Lady Charlotte the night before, at dinner, and afterward they spent time chatting in the drawing room when the family gathered to read and play cards. At twenty-three, Charlotte and her twin brother Garrett were the duke and duchess’s two youngest children.
From what Chelsea had gathered, the entire family, except the duke, now knew the actual reason for her presence here—because Blake was waiting to establish her condition in order to determine if a wedding would be necessary.
Now, Charlotte entered with a friendly countenance, and Chelsea found it oddly disconcerting that the members of the family were so at ease with the circumstances. They appeared perfectly content to wait for her courses to begin—or not begin—as if this sort of thing happened at Pembroke all the time. They might as well have been waiting for a simple change in the weather.
“May I ask what happened?” Charlotte laid a hand on the back of her chair. “I heard you were walking by the river. It’s very dangerous in certain places this time of year, with all the recent rains. You really must be careful.”
“Don’t worry, I learned my lesson,” Chelsea replied, trying not to wince as Mrs. Callahan washed the dried blood from the most tender part of the abrasion. “It was foolish of me. I became lost, and crossed over a ridge that turned out to be a river of mud on the other side.”
The color drained from Charlotte’s face. “Oh. I know the spot, exactly.”
“You do?”
“Yes, there was an accident there three years ago. A young woman died when the horse she was riding slipped and plummeted down the hill.”
Chelsea was aware of Mrs. Callahan’s noteworthy pause. The housekeeper lifted her eyes briefly, before continuing to wash the wound.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Chelsea said. “Blake didn’t mention anything—” Then she realized what she was saying and looked down at her lap. “But no, I suppose he wouldn’t remember it.”
“Well,” Charlotte said in a more cheerful voice, “I’m just glad you were not seriously hurt. How is she faring, Mrs. Callahan? Will she suffer any permanent damage?”
The housekeeper sat back on her heels and dropped the bloodstained cloth into the bowl. “By the looks of things, she’ll recover. It’s a bad scrape, to be sure, but not deep. Nevertheless, you’ll be sore for a few days.”
Chelsea tossed the hem of her skirt over her leg. “I believe I can tolerate a little pain. Thank you so much for your kind assistance, Mrs. Callahan.”
The woman spoke with caring. “You must let me know if there is anything else you need, my lady. Anything at all. I will do my best to make sure you are well taken care of.” She picked up the bowl of water and left the room.
“She likes you,” Charlotte said after the door closed behind her.
“I can’t imagine why,” Chelsea replied. “I’ve done nothing extraordinary, outside of falling on my backside and giving her more laundry to do.”
She chose not to mention the fact that she had deceived Blake when he was most vulnerable.
Charlotte walked to the window. “I’m afraid I must disagree.”
“How so?”
She pointed outside. “Just look out there. What I see is my brother Blake, sitting on a bench in the garden, drawing a picture. A picture!”
Chelsea stood also, and limped across the room. She looked out at the famous Italian Gardens, which could hardly be called “gardens” now, since the duke had dug everything up. She realized that Blake must have gone there immediately after he delivered her to the palace door.
“And drawing a picture is remarkable…why?” she asked.
“Because he has not sketched anything since he was a boy. It used to be a wonderful pastime for him, and he took lessons from some established artists. He had a distinctive talent. We all knew it.”
“What happened?”
She shrugged. “He simply grew out of it. When he was sixteen or so, he took on more responsibilities here on the estate, and Father came to rely on him and appreciate his assistance. Blake became the shining example of what the others should aspire to. We all began to forget about his creative talents. Whatever did you do to make him feel artistic again?”
Chelsea looked outside. “I don’t know. I gave him a piece of paper, I suppose.”
“It must have been more than that. He’s had access to a great many sheets of paper over the years, but he has never drawn a single thing.”
Chelsea sighed as she remembered those lazy days on the beach and in the woods, when she wrote her romantic stories and he drew pictures of their surroundings—and of her. “Perhaps it was because, while he was convalescing, he had nothing better to do.”
Charlotte looked at her profile. “I think it was your artistic spirit that inspired him. You were contagious, in a good way. He tells me you are a writer, and that you like it best when you can write outdoors.”
“Yes,” she said, “that is true.”
But she hadn’t been able to write a single sentence this morning in these strange surroundings. All she’d managed to do was get herself lost.
“I think what my brother needed to do,” Charlotte said, “was simply break out of the confines of this place we all call home. Despite its many rewards, it can be oppressive sometimes.” She smiled warmly at Chelsea. “Maybe one day he’ll discover that getting washed up onto your beach was the best thing that ever happened to him.”
Chelsea laughed bitterly. “I doubt that.”
“Why?”
She paused, wondering how much she should say, then decided she would say what she wanted, because Charlotte and everyone else already knew what had happened between them and why he brought her here.
“Because I lied to him,” she replied. “I know you know it, Charlotte. I pretended to be a woman of loose morals when I was in fact quite innocent, and now I have stolen his freedom to choose his own future.”
“To choose to marry another woman, you mean.”
“Yes.”
Charlotte frowned at her in dismay. “But Blake is not like my other brothers.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is not a Don Juan or a Casanova. Vincent, on the other hand, has had many women, and recently when he was forced to become betrothed, he simply chose a lady he knew Father approved of, but jilted her in the end to marry his mistress, who had already born him an illegitimate child.”
“Really? There must have been a terrible scandal. How did he avoid it?”
“He didn’t. It’s the talk of the town at the moment, as he married Cassandra less than a month ago.” She lowered her gaze. “I don’t think my brother and his wife will be accepted anywhere for quite some time.”
“I’m very sorry,” Chelsea offered. “How dreadful for them. Where is she now?”
“She is at the house they just purchased in Newbury, settling in and choosing furniture. But it is not dreadful for them, not at all.” Charlotte spoke with optimism. “And that is my point, you see, and the reason I am telling you this. They don’t care one way or another if they are accepted in society. They are deeply in love, and thankful just to be together, when it had seemed impossible not so long ago.
“Besides,” she added, looking out the window again, “Cassandra had already been an outcast after bearing his child out of wedlock, so it truly makes no difference to her. They are talking about going abroad for an extended honeymoon—possibly to Egypt or the Orient—until the dust settles.”
“If it ever does,” Chelsea warned. “I’m afraid I have some experience in that regard.”
“Oh, yes,” Charlotte replied, speaking with some fascination. “I heard about your shocking elopement seven years ago. What a daring woman you are, Chelsea. I quite admire you.”
More than a little surprised by the young lady’s liberal mind-set, Chelsea felt inclined to speak responsibly. “That is very kind of you to say, Charlotte, but don’t be too quick to mark me as a hero. I’ve been hiding away in exile on the other side of the English Channel for the better part of my adult life. My experiences these days are hardly what I would call daring. My life has been very quiet and dull.”
“Until my brother arrived.”
She sighed despondently. “Yes, until your very handsome brother arrived and upset everything.”
“Do you have any regrets?”
Chelsea looked down at Blake, still sitting on the bench in the devastated garden, sketching the statue of Venus in the center of the fountain.
“No,” she replied. “No matter what happens, I will never regret those weeks we spent together.”
“So you are in love with him, then?”
There was no point in trying to hide the truth. She had already ventured outside the lines of propriety in so many ways.
“Yes, I am. And I would do anything to earn his forgiveness. I’m just not sure it’s possible.”
“Oh, anything is possible,” Charlotte replied. “I’ve just witnessed the nuptials of two very rakish brothers—both of whom no one ever believed would succumb to marriage, much less love—and they are happier now than they ever imagined they could be. Vincent especially. So do not lose heart. Think of what he overcame, by marrying his mistress, and consider that your circumstances are no worse. Just continue to be the woman you are, and win him back.”
Chelsea looked out the window. “I just wish I knew how to go about it. Whenever I apologize, he walks away from me. If you have any advice…”
Charlotte thought about it. “I wish I could offer you some, but it’s been a long time since I’ve had any personal experience in such matters. One thing I can share with you however”—her voice became animated—“is a marvelous Pembroke secret that has resulted in numerous marriages over the centuries.”
“What is it?”
Charlotte took her by the hand. “Come with me.” She led her across the room, pulled the corner tapestry aside and pointed down at a small door cut into the wainscoting. “This will lead you into a network of passages, some of which go straight down to the ancient foundations of the old abbey.”
“What old abbey?”
“The building was a monastery before my ancestor accepted it as a gift from the monarchy and transformed it into its present grandeur. The east courtyard was the old cloister.” She reached down and flicked the latch. The door swung open.
“This looks like another good way for me to get lost,” Chelsea said.
“Yes, it most certainly is, but you will not lose your way this morning, because I am going with you, and I will show you exactly how to get to Blake’s rooms…” She grinned mischievously. “…in case you ever decide the time is right for a private conversation.”
She took Chelsea by the hand and led her through the secret door.
Blake looked up from his sketching when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the butler coming down the stairs from the house, his gait swift and determined.
“Good morning, my lord,” the butler said, slightly out of breath when he stopped in front of the bench.
Blake lowered his sketch.
“You have visitors, my lord.”
“Visitors,” Blake repeated. It seemed strange that he would have guests, when he still felt like a guest here himself.
“They are waiting for you in the green drawing room.”
Blake slipped his pencil into his pocket and stood. He crossed the garden and climbed the stairs energetically, taking two or three steps at a time to the top, while the butler followed at a distance. When Blake walked through the door, however, and found himself standing in the back hall, he looked uncertainly left and right.
The butler entered behind him.
“The green drawing room is…?” Blake pointed to the right.
“It’s this way, my lord,” the butler helpfully answered, gesturing to the left. “Allow me to show you.”
Blake wondered how long it would take before he learned his way around this monstrosity of a house.
The butler led him through the long library, across another central hall of marble, and through two more drawing rooms, before they arrived at a third larger one, which boasted floor-to-ceiling tapestries on two facing walls and green floral paper on the others.
Seated on the sofa at the far end of the room was a young couple he did not recognize. Devon and Rebecca sat in two chairs opposite, engaged in conversation with them. Rebecca was pouring tea.
The moment he walked into the room, they fell silent.
Without a single idea about who these people were, he stood inside the door, waiting for someone to say something.
Devon stood. “Blake, you’re here at last.”
“I was sketching.”
His brother cleared his throat and gestured to the others. “Allow me to introduce…” He hesitated, however, and looked down at the couple on the sofa, the young lady in particular. “I do beg your pardon. This must seem strange.”
The lady’s face flushed with color. She appeared to be fighting tears. “Yes, Lord Hawthorne.”
Devon turned back to Blake. “I’ve explained to our guests that you lost your memories in the accident, so this is somewhat awkward—introducing you to people you already know.”
Blake studied them both carefully. The gentleman was close to his own age, with blond hair and a taste for fashionable attire. The lady was younger—perhaps eighteen or so—with a quiet, oval face, a dainty, upturned nose, and shiny auburn hair.
He made every effort to remember them and hunted through his mind for something to grab hold of, even a tiny splinter of an image, but there were no recollections. None at all.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “What my brother told you is true, and I apologize for what must seem to be rudeness on my part.”
The gentleman squinted at him, as if trying to decipher if this was some kind of trick, while the lady’s expression grew more despairing.
A heaviness settled in his stomach, while he stood locked in the young woman’s emotional gaze.
“So you don’t remember us at all?” the gentleman asked, still watching him skeptically. “You have no recollection whatsoever of our friendship, or your relationship to my sister?”
Blake tried to relax. He glanced questioningly at Devon, who stepped in at once to offer an explanation. He gestured toward the young couple. “This is Mr. Fenton, and his sister…” He paused, as if unsure what to call her. “…Elizabeth.”
Devon allowed Blake a moment to comprehend the names. A horrible sensation of dread washed over him.
His brother continued. “Their father is Baron Ridgeley, who is the director of the London Horticultural Society. They have recently returned from France, after a brief stop in Jersey shortly after we departed. They were searching for you, just as we were. Earl Neufeld informed them that I had arrived the day before and already brought you home. So here they are.”
Blake regarded the young lady again. She was holding her chin high, but he could see she was also holding her breath. Her hands were clasped together so tightly, her knuckles were white.
“Rebecca and I,” Devon continued, “have just learned that before you disappeared, you were traveling with the Fentons to France on their private sailing vessel, which I regret to say collided with another ship in a storm. The boat went down, but thankfully all the passengers were pulled from the water. All except for one.”
“Me, obviously,” Blake said, relieved at least to finally hear an explanation as to why he had spent a night thrashing about in the frigid waters of the English Channel.
They were all quiet for a long time, waiting for more of a reaction from him, perhaps.
“But there is something else,” young Mr. Fenton said, sitting forward, still scrutinizing him, as if he were waiting for a slip that might reveal that Blake was lying, and was in fact in full possession of his memories. He did not seem able to accept that it was possible for a man to completely forget his life.
“Something very important,” Devon added. “You might want to sit down, Blake.”
“I prefer to stand.”
Devon glanced uneasily at Rebecca, then at last offered the rest of the story. “The morning before you boarded the ship bound for France, you and Elizabeth were married under special license. She has the certificate to prove it, and even has a letter from our father, who evidently had written to give you his blessing and had sent you on your merry way.”
Blake stared at his brother, baffled. “But he has said nothing about it.”
“No, but his memory, I’m sorry to say, is worse than yours.”
Blake frowned. This was all quite impossible to believe. He was married to this woman? Married?
“It’s true, Blake,” Devon said, standing up. “I’ve seen the certificate myself. Elizabeth is your wife.”
Blake looked down at her. She maintained her composure for only a brief moment, then cupped her forehead in a trembling hand, bowed her head, and surrendered to a fit of weeping.