They carried the bodies away. How long before the rest of them washed to shore? How many would there be? Or maybe they wouldn’t wash ashore at all. Maybe they had crashed into the rocks, broken and mangled, then dragged back into the sea.
Ella shivered and accepted the hat Dunn offered her.
“To keep off the rain, Miss Woodhart,” he shouted over the wind. “Though I wish you would return indoors.”
She couldn’t. Not where Peter slept upstairs, oblivious to what had happened. Who would tell him?
Your father is dead, Peter. The words whispered across her consciousness, but she forced them away. No, he is not dead—
“Dunn.” A servant trotted toward them, panting. “Dunn, sir, a few of the men have spotted movement.”
“Of what kind?”
“Could just be the mast of the ship, sir, not yet sunk.”
Ella scanned the waves. So much turmoil, so much churning, so much crashing white …
Lightning again. “There.” Dunn stepped forward. “That thing … that is no mast.”
“Sir?”
“The rowboat.” Dunn broke into a run. “Let’s get the men out there. There’s people hanging onto the edge!”
“Hold on.” The arms clamped tighter around his neck. “Hold on.” Over and over again, until the water filled his mouth and he couldn’t speak.
He knew she was a woman. Sometimes her dress tangled around his legs. Other times, he heard the choking of her sobs.
For a long time, he heard nothing. He wondered if she was dead. Another life on his conscience. Didn’t matter, though. Not now.
The upturned rowboat dipped again. His fingers lost hold of the edge. No. Under again. Couldn’t keep on like this. Couldn’t carry the weight. Couldn’t rise to the top.
God, I beg. Air again, but the relief lasted only a moment before the boat thrust itself into his face. He took the blow without sound and groped for the edge. Stay afloat. All he had to do.
“Help …” Her voice again.
Then another voice carried over the waters. “Lord Sedgewick!”
Help.
“Lord Sedgewick!”
Here … help …
“Lord Sedgewick!” Drifting farther away, until he couldn’t hear anymore. Or maybe he had gone under again. Yes, he was underwater. That was why he couldn’t hear, why his name was no longer called, why he could no longer breathe.
Rough hands hauled him up. God? He was lifted, dragged, then laid back against hard wood.
“… still breathing …”
Beating his back until his mouth sputtered with water.
“… saving the girl … not responding …”
She’s already dead. Another death on my hands. His last coherent thoughts before another sea of blackness devoured his mind.
The water foamed across Ella’s half boots.
Servants tugged the rope until the boat slid onto the sand. Two men piled out of the craft, but Dunn remained. “Take the woman.”
Woman?
A limp form was lifted from the vessel. Her white arm dangled in the air, but no one spoke if she was dead or not. She was carried away.
Ella crept to the boat.
Servants crowded around, hoisted another body, then laid him across the sand.
He is dead. She went forward when she had no right, and she knelt next to him where it wasn’t her place. “Is he …”
“No.” Dunn knelt too. “No, he is alive.”
Lord Sedgewick’s eyes were shut, his lashes dark and wet. A gash cut across his forehead, and a tiny trickle of blood slid down an ashen face.
Ella brushed his cheek. Just a faint whisper of a touch, but his eyes opened.
He stared at her—confused, no doubt, why one who had treated him so coldly would caress him now.
She hardly understood herself.
“We had better get him inside.” Dunn rose and pulled her back.
The servants lifted Lord Sedgewick into their arms and hurried him away.
Henry sat close enough to the hearth that his skin reddened and tingled.
Across the room, Mrs. Lundie’s slow, rhythmic snores filled the silence. She’d watched over him, no doubt, until sleep claimed her. She would be angry if she knew he had slipped out of bed.
Impulse had driven him into the rowboat. He shouldn’t have. He should have known they didn’t stand a chance, that he was risking more than his own life.
Collin had paid the price.
God, forgive me. His eyes burned. I wish to heaven there was no more guilt. He was weary of failing. He was weary of awakening sick and lying down with a thousand regrets.
He should be accustomed to it by now. Even as a child, he had been less than what he should have been. He didn’t know how. He never knew for sure—only that there must have been something because she left anyway.
“Mother, please.” His father had held him back with one arm, Ewan with the other. “Please do not go.”
But nothing they had said stopped her. They had never known why.
Henry jumped when a knock sounded at the door. Too soft to be Dunn’s, too high on the door to be Peter’s. “Who is it?”
“Miss Woodhart.”
He did not wish to see her. He half wondered if he had imagined her down at the beach. Certainly he had imagined her hand on his cheek, hadn’t he?
“May I come in?”
He was dressed in no more than his nightclothes and banyan. What did she think she was doing here?
“Lord Sedgewick?”
“The door is unlocked.” His hands fisted. “Come in.”
She entered fully dressed, though the curls around her face were limp. She glanced to Mrs. Lundie opposite the room. “Dunn said I might come for a moment.” Color rose to her cheeks. “We thought you would be asleep.”
“What did you wish to derive from a sleeping man?”
“Nothing but a measure of comfort.”
“Comfort?”
“Yes.” Her eyes fell. “I wished to see for myself if you were well.”
If he possessed any strength at all, he would have ordered her away. He would have rid the room of another threat, another person who might deepen his wounds.
But as it was, when she sat down next to him, he did nothing to stop her. Undoubtedly, she must have known the impropriety of such a situation. Where was her sense?
Her eyes lifted to his with warmth and empathy as no other woman’s ever had. “You must have known the danger,” she said.
He hadn’t stopped to think.
“Your life might have been taken so easily.”
But it wasn’t. Another, more innocent than he, had been taken instead.
“My lord.” Now there were tears. How beautifully they glistened. “The fate of your valet cannot be blamed on your courage.”
“My courage, Miss Woodhart, or my recklessness?”
“You are too severe on yourself.”
“With reason.” Collin’s life was not the only blood on his hands.
Silence dropped a curtain between them, but it lasted only for the space of a heartbeat.
“You were at the beach,” he whispered.
The rose color touched her cheeks again. She nodded.
“Why?”
Her gaze melted into his, as probing and deep as anything he had ever known. She removed herself from the chair and left without saying anything.
His heart sank. How foolish to wish she would have told him she cared.
Ella had remained downstairs helping attend to a young sailor who had washed ashore. He died in the early hours of the morning, however, and his body had been carried away.
Dunn shared a small breakfast with her in the kitchen. “I am most grateful, Miss Woodhart, for your diligence in all of this.” He set down his teacup. “You have a good heart.”
A good heart. Ella had never endeavored to do anything good. On the contrary, she was most usually troublesome and ridiculous. Never once had anyone spoken such words to her.
“Is something the matter?”
“No, no.” Ella smiled. “I was eager to be of service. I am only sorry the poor fellow died.”
“I was not only speaking of him.” Dunn returned the smile. “Your endurance of the storm and rain was most commendable. You must care for his lordship a great deal.”
She did not answer. How preposterous to think she could care for a man who had destroyed her sister’s life, as well as her father’s. Yet Lucy had not been innocent. What could that possibly mean?
“I would ask one more small favor of you, Miss Woodhart.” Dunn removed his napkin. “If you are not too fatigued.”
“What would you have me do?”
“The woman who was rescued last night. I thought perhaps you could relieve the maid I sent to watch her. Mrs. Lundie will be with Peter until you are ready.”
“Certainly.” Ella departed the kitchen and made her way to the bedchamber. She eased open the door as quietly as possible, dismissed the maid, then took her place in the chair.
Exhaustion nudged at her, but she chose to study the woman rather than sleep.
Pale and of lovely features, the stranger’s face was surrounded by auburn ringlets. Her lips were bow-shaped, her cheeks smooth, and her lashes of the darkest shade.
How beautiful. A green thread of envy tightened about Ella. No wonder Lord Sedgewick went to such strains to save her—
“I quite abhor being stared at.” The woman rolled her head to face her. “Pray, who are you?”
Ella blinked. Twice. “Uh, Miss Woodhart.”
“Charming.” She scratched the end of her nose with her finger. “You may call me Miss Tilbury. Now will you kindly adjust this pillow? My head is in a most vicious state of pounding.”
“I would imagine.” Ella held the woman’s head long enough to modify the pillow. “Is that better?”
“Quite, thank you. Are you the same maid who tended to me before?”
“No, I am not a ma—”
“Good, because I detested that creature. She had very cold fingers, and after nearly drowning in that formidable sea, I should not be forced to endure frigid hands. One would have thought she could have warmed them before prodding at me so.”
“No doubt, she did not think of it.”
Miss Tilbury frowned. “Well, I daresay she should have.” She directed emerald eyes to the door. “Has Sedgewick been to see me?”
“You are acquainted with his lordship?”
“Acquainted?” A droll smile curved her lips. “Why, I would venture to say we are much closer than that. I would not have traveled all the way from Essex to visit a stranger, now would I?”
A stab of hurt. “Then he knew you were coming.”
“Why, you are an enigma! You cannot suggest I would arrive without first sending a letter?”
Ella rose. “Excuse me, Miss Tilbury, but I have other duties—”
“Wait.” She leaned forward. “Deliver a message to Sedgewick for me.”
“He is not well himself.”
“He cannot be so injured that he would not wish to see me.”
Ella’s fingers dug into her palms. “Very well. I shall tell him.”
“And girl?”
Fire seared up the back of her neck and leaked into her answer, “Yes?”
“Do fetch me smelling salts. I am afraid I do not feel well at all.” With that said, Miss Tilbury collapsed back into her pillow, and Ella made a quick escape.
Prolonging the inevitable was a most craven attribute. She should have entered with her ward and at least spoken to Lord Sedgewick.
She certainly shouldn’t have lingered in the doorway, unseen by the man as he bestowed hugs and kisses upon his child.
“What happened to your head, Papa?” Peter curled beside his father in the huge bed. “Did you fall off Miss Staverley?”
His chuckle was warm, easy, a sound very contrast to what she knew of him. “What an honor that would have been,” he said, “but I am afraid I was beaten by something far less noble.”
“What, Papa?”
“A rowboat, but you mustn’t tell a soul. I cannot have the coxcombs of England thinking I can be knocked about by a mere slip of wood, now can I?”
Peter grinned. “You can’t be knocked by anything, Papa.”
Another laugh, just as his eyes lifted to the doorway. His expression changed. “Miss Woodhart.”
She despised the way her own heart betrayed her—how it throbbed faster and squeezed, even knowing it shouldn’t.
“Did you wish to speak with me?”
“No.” She took one step backward, then remembered Miss Tilbury’s demand. She eased back into the doorway. “There is a request for your presence, my lord. Miss Tilbury greatly desires to see you.”
She watched for any sign of eagerness, but his features remained unaffected.
“Come along, Peter.” Ella motioned to her ward. “Allow your father his rest, for we must begin your lessons.” She ignored the child’s sigh and the father’s disconcerting eyes.
Long after she had left his bedchamber, however, Lord Sedgewick’s laugh remained in her mind. Had Lucy cherished that laugh?
Or had her sister even noticed it?
The diary. Ella did not wish to read anymore. Every page she conquered was more difficult, leaving her with more wounds than before. Ewan, Ewan. Who was this stranger who had bewitched her sister’s judgment?
“Lucy.” Her skin crawled. The strange man … the one who had frightened Ella so many times. Of course. How could I not have realized? The resemblance was so clear. The same hair, same eyes, same build as Henry.
She turned to the next page and read on—words of secret nights, of love that was wild and forbidden, of passion nearly too great to conceal.
Then she read of the will.
The stipulation.
My beloved Ewan is ever entreating me to run away with him, to marry him—but Henry has told me of their father’s will.
Deceased Sedgewick, God be with his soul, must have known his youngest’s vices, his sins of gambling, thus the stipulation that Ewan inherits nothing Henry does not bestow on him. As for Henry, he has no choice. For the rest of his life, he is to provide for his brother.
Ella stared at the pages with ripples of disgust. Henry’s brother? The man at the beach, the library, behind the bed-curtains. The one who had wooed Lucy from her husband … how could this be? What kind of man would steal his brother’s wife?
And Lucy. Had she not cared for Henry at all? The threat of poverty must have been the sole tie keeping her in this house. How long did she imagine she could go on like that?
Slipping away in the night, writing of another love in her journal, deceiving the husband who knew nothing of her scandalous heart.
How much kinder if she had run away with the man called Ewan.
How much more merciful if she had told Lord Sedgewick the truth.
Though Henry’s strength was returning swiftly, he half wished he were still weak in bed. At least then he would not be forced to make such an insufferable visit. One I would not make at all were she not the major’s daughter.
He entered behind the maid. Selina Tilbury was seated, dressed, and decorated. Almost as if she’d prepared for him. Which she undoubtedly had. “Miss Tilbury.”
She held out her hand. “Lord Sedgewick.”
Out of courtesy, he brushed his lips against her bare knuckles. He dropped her hand just as quickly. “I am thankful you are safe, Miss Tilbury. Your father will doubtless suffer at the thought of what could have occurred.”
“But did not occur,” she purred, “thanks to you.”
“I wish I could have done more.”
“Indeed. When I ponder any time at all on the dresses and turbans that now litter the ocean floor, I quite despair.”
“I was referring to lives, Miss Tilbury.”
“Oh.” Her dimples deepened with a frown. “Of course.”
He waited a moment, then two—long enough that he might excuse himself without causing offense. “Well, Miss Tilbury, I had better leave you to your rest—”
“How considerate of you to worry over me.” She rose, offered her hand a second time. “I hope, now that I am here, we shall see quite a lot of each other. Truly, your brief visit to Essex was not half long enough.”
“Months is hardly brief, Miss Tilbury.”
“To one so ardent as myself, I am afraid, it is very brief indeed.”
Emotion unwound inside him, hatred he knew all too well. “Excuse me—”
“Wait.” She took one step closer. Alarmingly close. “I cannot think so lowly of you as to assume you do not know why I am here. I regard you as a most insightful man, Lord Sedgewick, thus my reason for being so candid.”
He refused to meet her eyes. “Proceed, Miss Tilbury.”
“My father has great expectations for his only daughter, and it seems his search for a proper match has long since ended.” A smile. “For me, as well.”
“Oh? Then I must offer felicitations. Who is the dandy?”
She gaped. “My lord?”
“You did say, Miss Tilbury, that your search had met an end?”
“Why—yes.” Bewilderment silenced anything further she might have said. She sank into her chair and mumbled something about a maid who had never returned with her smelling salts.