The Wolf of Mayfair
: Chapter 7

How then are we to look for love in great cities, where selfishness, dissipation, and insincerity supply the place of tenderness, simplicity and truth?

—Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho

Seated on one of the leather wingback chairs, with his elbows on the arms of his seat and his fingers steepled, Wingrave stared absently out the center panel of the wide bow window to the pristine white snow blanketing the vast gardens below.

Wingrave had always possessed an affinity for the library.

As a small boy, Wingrave had considered the immense, coffered-ceilinged room, lined with wall-to-wall bookshelves, each shelf filled with an endless number of leather tomes, a place of magic and wonder.

Then, as the forgotten spare to the duke’s ever-precious heir, Wingrave had been unencumbered by the same constraints placed on his late brother.

In time, he’d realized the inherent silliness in the stories he’d once eagerly read in the early hours of the morn. The ridiculousness of the Greek legends and Roman ones, which he’d believed wholeheartedly to be real.

For it hadn’t been long into his rigorous edification of his role as future duke that Wingrave realized his father avoided books the way a sinner steered clear of church.

The only reason Wingrave’d come and read here, and the only reason he continued to do so, was because it had become a habit.

Not because he was in search of a distraction following his caddish behavior, which had sent intrepid-until-now Helia fleeing.

He’d have to possess a heart and conscience. Fortunately for him, he had neither.

What he’d not, however, anticipated, was how intolerably retentive past memories were, sitting in the library, while a storm brewed outside.

. . . but it is snowing, Evander! Snowing!

Wingrave drew back in his seat.

When was the last time he’d thought of that day? In fact, when had thoughts of his late brother last slipped in?

Not because it hurt to do so. Wingrave was no longer a man capable of puling emotions.

In short, he couldn’t be hurt.

Which was mayhap why those faraway remembrances whispered forward.

In Wingrave’s mind’s eye, he saw himself in this very spot, a book on his lap and silence his only company, until he’d snapped whatever title he’d been reading shut and gone in search of his brother.

So many times, Wingrave had caught sight of his sad-eyed sibling, elder by but a year.

That hadn’t always been the case. Before Evander’s studies as future duke commenced and their sire severed the connection between them, Wingrave and Evander had been inseparable.

But then Evander had been all but locked away in His Grace’s office, with the duke and the army of stern-faced, monotone tutors who’d hammered away at all Wingrave’s brother needed to know about the duchy and the responsibilities that accompanied it.

In contrast, Wingrave had found himself blessed with free rein to explore, to pursue whatever curiosity fascinated him in a given moment, and each and every one of those many moments had involved losing himself in the pages of the books shelved here. They’d been a poor substitute—inanimate companions—but companions nonetheless for a then newly lonely Wingrave.

Wind wailed and gusted, sending flecks of ice-mixed snow pattering against the windows like little crystalline teardrops the skies had stirred to life from memories of long ago, and Wingrave sat motionless, his unblinking gaze riveted on the whorl of flakes whirring outside those frosted panes.

In his mind, the past mingled and mixed with the present, a kaleidoscope of images and words and sounds.

The duke responding to an urgent summons that had arrived from London.

Evander’s tutor choking on his ink-filled tea and running from his employer’s office.

And Evander. All the while, a fifteen-year-old Evander, home for winter recess from Oxford, put to work on the Blofield books. Through that sudden and intrusive chaos that had drawn both duke and tutor elsewhere, Evander remained with his head bowed, his pen scratching away at the open pages before him. Evander . . . a changed figure, now a shadow of the boy, brother, and friend he’d been.

“Come,” he urged. “The lake is frozen, and it won’t be long before the duke realizes there’s no emergency requiring his attention.”

Evander finally looked up, with clever—and stunned—eyes. “You did this?”

He flashed a proud grin at his big brother, then sketched a flourishing bow.

Evander frowned in return. “I cannot leave. I’ve the books to see to,” he said, his pen flying across the page once more as he returned to work.

He came around to the space left between the duke’s desk and the imposingly heavy and ornate desk adjacent it that his brother occupied.

“We always used to skate, Evander,” he said quietly.

“I don’t have time—”

“I miss you.”

The frantic and fast strokes of Evander’s pen slowed, then stopped. His serious features, so very like his own, made seeing his face like looking into a mirror.

After a seemingly endless quiet, a smile built slowly on Evander’s lips.

Evander snapped his book closed and jumped up so quick, his mahogany Hepplewhite armchair flew back and landed with a loud clatter on the floor. “I’ll race you there.”

Before that final word had left his mouth, Evander took off, running from the office, and he set after him, racing in swift pursuit.

The sounds of their laughter—the final laughter they’d ever shared as brothers and the final expression of stupid mirth Wingrave had ever known—rang in the chambers of his mind.

Emitting a sound of annoyance, he gave his head a firm shake.

Good God. He couldn’t recall a time in recent memory when he’d thought of his late brother.

What accounted for those maudlin thoughts?

Maybe this was his penance for scaring the young lady?

Wingrave’s lips twisted in a mocking grin. Or, as she liked to refer to herself, his new . . . friend.

His wry mirth faded.

She was the reason for the remembrances now plaguing him. He, who didn’t think about the past, and who’d long ago ceased to care about anyone or call a person a friend, since his brother’s death.

Wingrave growled.

Why, she was the reason the word “friend” had reentered his consciousness.

She who’d come in here like a whirlwind, with all her bold defiance and innocent eyes.

Well, it wouldn’t be for much longer. Soon enough, she’d be on her way, and he’d be free of her and the lust for her that consumed him.

After propelling himself to his feet, Wingrave stomped over to the window and, planting his feet wide, clasped his hands behind him and glared out.

Nay, the lady was nothing but a blasted bother. A titian-haired nuisance with as bountiful a number of freckles on her face as there were illimitable words on her big, bow-shaped lips.

She was . . .

Outside.

Wingrave frowned.

Impossible. The chit was driving him to madness, or . . . she’d already done so, because he was seeing her everywhere.

Nothing else accounted for why, after she’d persuaded Wingrave to offer her shelter from the elements, in the midst of this raging storm, she’d chosen to go traipsing about his family’s snow-covered, wind-battered gardens.

Wingrave jammed the heels of his palms against his eyes and pressed hard.

Only, when he let his arms fall to his sides, the sight of her remained.

A mere speck on the horizon, distant and faint but decidedly there.

“What in blazes are you doing?” he lashed out, amidst the quiet . . . as if she could answer him, as if she could even hear him.

It appeared she’d gone out into the storm, all so she could—Wingrave pressed his forehead against the cool windowpane so quickly, and so hard, it was a wonder he didn’t shatter the glass—hug a tree.

Aye, she’d gone mad. There was nothing else for it.

Another growl built deep in his chest. It climbed and climbed until it emerged from his lips, a low and feral sound.

And it appeared madness was contagious, because he’d descended into delirium right with her.

For Wingrave shouldn’t care either way what the hell happened to her. If she wished to venture out into a storm and catch the ague, then so be it.

“All the better for me,” he muttered.

With that reminder, he marched back over to his leather chair and fell into its comfortable folds.

He steepled his fingers once more and drummed them together, the pads of those digits colliding and then separating. Over and over again.

I do not care . . . I do not . . .

With a black curse, he jumped up once more and strode for the door.

He was going to wring her neck.

As he pounded along the corridors, he thundered for his cloak and hat.

Two footmen were stationed nearby. Each took off running; the click-click-click made by their slightly heeled shoes echoed as they went.

He still didn’t care whether she went and got herself ill. The absolute only reason he even went to replace her now was so that he could rail at her for being a daft ninny and remind the lady that if she wasn’t at all fearful of the elements, perhaps she could take herself elsewhere sooner rather than later.

Wingrave’s frown deepened.

Nay, she’d likely meet his challenge, and then she’d definitely get herself killed of the cold and would absolutely delight in haunting him. He’d never have a moment’s peace again—a moment’s peace, which was beginning to look like an unattainable fate.

He reached the south hallway that led out to the terrace and his mother’s prized gardens.

Lined with floor-to-ceiling windows and two crystal doors at their center, this portion of the residence emitted more light than this family deserved.

Even with the grey storm clouds that hung over the household, the snow which had piled up high outside added a blindingly bright whiteness Wingrave had to squint against in order to see.

He blinked furiously to accustom his eyes to that vision, adding yet another thing to be annoyed with, which only reminded him that he now waited for his belongings.

Wingrave turned and bellowed, “Where—”

He nearly collided with a pair of out-of-breath, bewigged footmen, who’d just reached him.

Letting out another curse, Wingrave grabbed his greatcoat first. He drew the garment on and then, with furious movements, promptly fastened himself up. “And my—”

The other servant proffered Wingrave’s beaver hat.

He snatched it from the younger fellow and jammed the high, straight-sided, flat-topped article on his head.

This time, before Wingrave could open his mouth and utter an impatient query, the same footman who’d given him his cloak extended Wingrave’s leather gloves.

Wingrave took the set and made to tug them on.

Furious energy, however, made the ordinary task a sloppy chore.

“Damn it all,” he muttered, continuing to fight his fingers inside their respective slots.

The demure pair of servants each drew open a door.

Straightaway, wind gusted inside; at the same time the bitter east breeze sucked the breath from Wingrave’s lungs, a mixture of ice, snow, and rain slapped him square in the face.

“Dead,” he growled. “I’m going to kill her.”

That was, if the minx didn’t perish before the upbraiding he intended to rain on her ears.

Ignoring the nervous looks exchanged by his servants, Wingrave gritted his teeth against the sting of cold and stomped outside.

The petrified pair instantly brought the doors closed behind him.

At least someone feared him. Albeit the wrong someone.

He looked off to see whether the right someone had at some point sprouted a brain and begun her return to the damned residence.

Alas . . . in addition to family, friends, resources, and funds, the lady appeared to be equally lacking in common sense.

Wingrave glanced down at the blanket of snow, but for the sprite-like footprints made upon the thick, otherwise untouched, white path.

He set off in pursuit. As he walked, in an attempt to bring warmth to his already cold digits, Wingrave rubbed his gloved hands together vigorously.

With every heavy step he took through the snow-covered gardens, Wingrave’s ire spiraled with a ferocity to match the storm that held London in its grip.

When she’d arrived last night, he’d been determined to throw her out on her delectable buttocks.

He took another furious step, grinding up thick, wet snow as he went.

But she’d pleaded to stay.

She—a temerarious woman with her courage, pluck, and mettle—had begged him.

The wind sent the hem of his greatcoat snapping in an angry consensus.

All the while, he glowered at that very still, unsuspecting figure at the vibrant tree.

Why, it was as if she’d been determined to replace the farthest place to venture and now sat under the tree as though it were a summer day, and she a fine lady partaking in a picnic under those colorful branches.

He’d let her stay.

“What in blazes are you doing?” he lashed.

With all the grace, calm, and aplomb of two people meeting in a London drawing room, Helia stood and turned about, slowly.

The chill of the winter’s day had left an entrancing crimson hue upon her cheeks, a shade so bright it’d engulfed those tiny specks of freckles.

“You!” She smiled as she greeted Wingrave, briefly taking him aback.

Had anyone smiled at him? Or for that matter, even near him? Certainly, never because of him.

And yet, this woman’s green eyes . . . glowed.

Unnerved, Wingrave dusted his palms together. “You know, if you’d been determined to get yourself killed from the cold, we could have avoided all previous arguments and exchanges we had prior about your seeking out shelter.”

“W-we haven’t argued.”

“Haven’t we?” he drawled.

The lady gave a wave of her spare hand. “Mere differences of opinions. And you n-needn’t worry about me—”

“I’m not worried.”

“I’m not afraid of a little c-cold. I’m—”

“Scottish. Yes, I believe we’ve ascertained as much.”

A little laugh bubbled from her trembling lips.

Frowning, Wingrave drew back. Any and all previous fear she’d shown in his presence was no more. What accounted for this absolute cheer?

“I was going to say,” she stammered through her shivering, “I’m not at all cold. In fact, I’m feeling quite w-warmish.”

Warmish?

Wingrave eyed her dubiously.

“Yes,” he drawled, giving her bundled and shivering frame an up-and-down look. “You look like the epitome of summery.”

“Aye, well, you were the one to point out that I a-am S-Scottish.” Her eyes glittered with more of her mirth, a sparkling in her irises that proved as captivating as it was unnerving.

He wasn’t a man to be taken in by a pretty pair of eyes. With that reminder fresh in his head, he sharpened his gaze on the shivering woman before him.

“First, claiming a connection to the duchess,” he jeered. “Now, professing to be warm in the midst of this storm? With those two yarns you’ve spun, I’m led to wonder what else you may have lied about. Certainly, the invented Gothic-romance tale of a nasty guardian determined to steal your virtue and your dowry.”

A frown chased away her smile, and damned if in her doing so, the air around them didn’t go several shades colder. “Cousin.”

Wingrave just stared at her.

“H-he is not a guardian. He is my cousin, and h-he inherited after my da passed.”

“Forgive me,” he said drolly. “Of course. Your nasty cousin. Never tell me? He locked you in your rooms and denied you meals until you consented to be his bride.”

“He didn’t d-deny me m-meals on a-account—”

She swayed slightly, then steadied herself. “O-on account, he—”

Helia tottered on her feet once more.

Wingrave frowned. “What—”

He shot an arm about her waist just as she would have this time fallen.

His words trailed off as he took in the specks of perspiration at her damp brow, the inordinate red of her cheeks he’d previously taken for stamps made by the cold, the glazed look in her feverish eyes.

“You are ill,” he said sharply, those three words an accusation.

“N-no. I do not g-get ill.” Her assurances came so threadbare, the north wind nearly swallowed it whole. “I g-got you this.”

Puzzling his brow, he followed his gaze to the twig of berries she proffered. “A stick,” he said flatly. “You came outside to fetch a stick with berries.”

“Aye. And it isn’t a stick. And n-not just any branch. ’T-tis a rowan twig.”

“Oh, forgive me. Not a stick, but a twig,” he said, keeping his face expressionless.

Yes, she was decidedly mad, after all.

But then again, he was out here debating over the terms “stick,” “branches,” and “twigs.” What did that make him?

Helia frowned. “I-I can detect sarcasm, you ken. As I was saying—”

Another sharp wind whipped around them, sending whorls of snowflakes spattering against their faces.

“Might you say it later, when we are safely indoors?”

That elvish glitter in her eyes deepened. “Afraid of the cold, are you, Wingrave?”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Everyone is afraid of someth—”

“Your s-stick, Miss Wallace,” he snapped, his own teeth beginning to chatter incessantly in the cold. “Y-your stick.” He ground those two words out.

“Och, forgive me. Ye see, in Scotland, burning the twig of a rowan tree is a tradition during the festive s-season. The l-lore has it that in doing so, a-any bad f-feelings of m-mistrust between f-friends will be cleared away.”

She smiled widely, looking so very pleased with herself and her story.

“Really?” he finally said.

The imp nodded.

He stared incredulously, searching her cherry-red cheeks for a hint of a jest. And found . . . none. Since his brother’s death, Wingrave had subsisted on a diet of logic and sharp rationality. He’d apparently found the one person, however, who made hogwash her main course.

“Miss Wallace,” he said, looking down the length of his nose, “that is the silliest thing I’ve ever—”

“Helia,” she corrected him.

“Very well. That is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard, Heli—”

She pressed a palm against his chest. Not just any palm, but the one filled with that rowan twig and berries.

Wingrave stared in befuddlement at the snow-dusted branch against the vivid blackness of his overcoat.

“’Tis for you,” she said softly.

“For . . . me.”

Helia nodded. “For you,” she repeated, in a confirmation he’d humiliatingly spoken those two halting words aloud.

And yet . . .

“I’ve never received a gift,” he said gruffly. He didn’t even know why he’d made the reluctant acknowledgment.

Helia looked up at him with sad eyes. “Surely you’ve received something, through the years?”

“Don’t you know, madam, it is improper for lords and ladies to exchange gifts.” He strove for aloofness but remained strangely unable to pull his gaze from the branch of red berries she still held against his chest.

“Och,” she scoffed. “I’m well aware of the rules of decorum. Friends and family are permitted to bestow a g-gift upon one another.”

Yes, she was right in that regard. Decorum and social rules dictated that social equals such as friends and family may exchange or accept gifts. The Blofields, however, were a power cut above the rest. Though Wingrave’s tenderhearted mother would have likely been all too happy to give gifts, her husband didn’t allow it. For the current duke considered no one his friend. And as for family? They may as well be strangers who happened to share a name and the same dwelling.

“I’ve already told you,” he finally brought himself to say. “I do not have friends.” And he preferred it that—

“You do now,” Helia said softly, and unlike every other word she’d uttered thus far, which had been lent a quaver by the cold, these three emerged strong and unwavering.

Wingrave stood there dumbly, uncertain for the first time in his life, his mind addled at her lack of nervosity about him.

He’d become so accustomed to people being daunted by him that he didn’t know what to do with this intrepid, tiny slip of a woman who smiled at him and absurdly declared herself to be . . . a friend.

To him.

When still he made no move to take the slender twig, Helia folded the right lapel of his jacket back a fraction, and with an unflinching boldness, she reached inside and tucked her present to Wingrave within his pocket.

And strangely, as she edged away from his arms, and with the wind and sleet battering at him, Wingrave felt the most peculiar . . . warmth.

A muscle twitched irritatingly at the corner of his right eye.

Warmth? It had absolutely nothing to do with a ridiculous and inconsequential offering.

“You’re w-welcome,” she said.

“I did not say thank you,” he snapped. To do so would have to mean he appreciated or even wanted her gift. Which he didn’t. He didn’t need anything, and most certainly he neither wanted, nor needed, Helia Wallace’s friendship.

“What should I be thankful for or about?” He gave her a frosty look. “That you’re out here risking your foolish neck to bequeath me some rowan bra—”

Her eyes twinkled brighter than the North Star, momentarily distracting him from his error.

“Stick,” he gritted out through his teeth. “Some stick.”

“Y-you needn’t worry about me. Remember, I’m a Scot.”

“How can I forget? You keep reminding me,” he muttered. “As if I needed any reminders.”

“I’m h-hale and hearty.”

Another sharp wind gusted, making a liar of her, as she swayed slightly on her feet.

This time he caught her at the elbow to keep her from falling. “Oh, yes,” he said drolly, giving his gloved palms another vigorous rub. “You look like the epitome of stalwartness.”

The tiniest of snowflakes peppered the lady’s eyes, and her coppery lashes fluttered. “I-I’m really quite . . .” Her voice faded. “F-fine.”

And then, with that tangible third lie she’d given him, Helia pitched forward.

Wingrave caught her about the waist once more and drew her against him. Were it any woman other than this tart-mouthed minx, he’d have believed her actions deliberate, and her intention to snag his notice.

“Yes,” he said ironically. He knew Helia Wallace hardly at all, but he knew enough to gather she wasn’t the swooning-and-fake-fainting sort. “You appear most hale and . . .”

His words trailed off.

Even through the layers of their garments, a spectacular heat poured from her trembling frame. A heat as unnatural as the captivating chit herself. A heat that defied the logic of a bitter winter’s day. A heat that could only come from . . .

Wingrave reeled as it hit him.

“You’re feverish,” he barked.

There was no quick retort or witty rejoinder, only a stark silence, made all the grimmer by its rarity from the lady, who challenged him at every turn.

He glanced at the woman tucked against his side.

Sure enough, her eyes remained closed, as if she’d fallen asleep standing up and been frozen that way by the unforgiving northern wind.

A dangerously childlike panic settled in his bones.

For he, who prided himself on fearing nothing and no one, had one Achilles’ heel. It was one that he never readily acknowledged, even to himself, but that had lingered in the far corners of his mind since his brother had died all those years ago.

“You would be the one to bedevil me by acknowledging my own aversions,” he muttered into the unnatural quiet. “You are a witch, madam. An infuriating, extraordinary, titian-haired witch.”

In one fluid motion, Wingrave swept her up into his arms. For one who snacked and feasted with the gusto he’d observed, she was remarkably as insubstantial as the flakes.

Still, even with her slight form and following the same path he and she had traveled separately in the garden, the heavy, wet snow made Wingrave’s journey back inside agonizingly slow.

His breath came fast and hard as he stomped through the gardens, those quick inhalations and exhalations a product of his exertions and certainly not any fear on his part.

Absolutely it wasn’t fear.

As he’d told her, he feared nothing and no one.

He certainly wasn’t going to worry about an insolent visitor who didn’t have a brain in her—

“What possessed you to go outside in the middle of a bloody snowstorm,” he railed.

Her head wobbled against his arm, bouncing about like that of a child’s doll, and Wingrave quickened his pace.

She was burning up.

“Quite fine, are you,” he bit out. “Oh, yes, as I said, you are the epitome of hearty and hale.”

Once more, no cheeky response or dauntless reply met his jeering. The always loquacious chit remained unnaturally still and silent.

An odd sensation, something that felt very nearly like panic, beat away in his chest.

Not because he cared about her either way. Nay, the only fear he did possess was that she’d perish here and her ghost would remain to haunt him. He merely sought to send her on her merry way.

In the greatest hint of irony, the snow at some point had stopped, and only the occasional whisper of wind filled the landscape. That and the crunch of snow under his lone pair of boots.

Helia whimpered, and he glanced down.

Her auburn lashes lay vividly bright against her stark-white cheeks.

Wingrave quickened the already fast pace he’d set, breaking into a near run.

“Y-you had to go out so b-bloody far,” he said into the quiet, his breath coming quick.

Only more of that unnatural silence met his livid assessment.

Cold little puffs of white gusted forth from his swift exhalations and inhalations, those little breaths having absolutely nothing to do with fear.

He’d have to care to be afraid.

He didn’t.

“I-I don’t. I-I don’t.” That mantra came from his lips over and over, until, at long last, he arrived at the snow-covered limestone steps leading to the terrace above.

Wingrave readjusted his hold on Helia and took the steps quickly.

The moment his feet touched the patio, the double doors were thrown open and two servants rushed out.

One of the strapping footmen reached for her.

Wingrave reflexively drew her closer. “Now you’d come,” he taunted. He’d not hand her over to either of the inept pair who’d allowed her to go out and not immediately reported the lady’s whereabouts to Wingrave. For if she died, Wingrave would be the one she haunted—not them. “Fetch me a damned physician!”

One of the men immediately dropped a bow and bolted in the opposite direction, while the other servant kept pace at Wingrave’s side.

“And you—see that a hot bath is readied this moment,” Wingrave ordered.

“Yes, my lord. Immediately, my lord.”

Wingrave shifted the woman in his arms. “It’s not ‘immediate’ if you are still walking with me and talking.”

“Yes—”

Wingrave’s low growl ended the remainder of the footman’s affirmation.

The tall fellow with an enormous Adam’s apple nodded, then took off racing.

Spared of that unwanted company, Wingrave shifted his focus back to the sickly woman in his arms.

“You couldn’t have fallen ill before you came from wherever it is you hail,” he said tersely. He glanced down and then promptly regretted it.

Beads of sweat dotted Helia’s brow. She whimpered and shivered, burrowing against him like a cat who’d escaped a drowning and now sought warmth.

This marked a first: the first time anyone had looked to Wingrave for comfort.

“You’d be best to replace a different heat source, madam,” he warned. “I’ve not a hint of warmth in my body, and my soul is even colder.”

Except, despite his own warning, Wingrave tightened his hold upon Helia, drawing her even more snugly against him. His legs ached, as did his lungs and arms, from the onerous task he’d put to them.

Out of breath, he reached the massive staircase that led to the guest suites and stopped at the bottom. Wingrave slumped against the hand-carved oak stair rail with a wide-mouthed ogre fashioned into the wood.

As a boy, after his mother had commissioned a new staircase, Wingrave had avoided it because of that menacing rendering. Now he borrowed support from the railing; he sucked in a breath, and another, and attempted to get his lungs back to proper working order.

And then he felt it—the quaking tremor that racked Helia’s slender form.

You foolish, foolish chit . . .

A young servant stepped forward and reached for Helia.

Wingrave quelled the liveried footman with a single black look, and then forcing his tired legs to resume their forward movement, he proceeded to take the marble steps two at a time.

As soon as he reached the guest quarters, he found the head housekeeper, Mrs. Trowbridge; a trio of maids; and a pair of footmen stationed outside one of the rooms.

Wingrave promptly headed for them.

“My lord,” Mrs. Trowbridge greeted at his approach.

The three maids stepped aside and let him past, while one of the footmen drew the panel open.

A black cat immediately darted from the room, bolting around Wingrave’s legs.

The maids all gasped and crossed themselves.

Wingrave looked to that thick creature, ambling down the hall as quick as its corpulent frame might allow.

“What the hell is that creature doing here?” he demanded as the stout animal darted off, surprisingly quick for its size.

“A black cat, my lord,” one of the girls whispered.

“I know what it is,” he snapped. “Why is it . . .” In Helia’s rooms.

The terrified maid’s whisper cut over the remainder of Wingrave’s actual question. “A bad omen, it is.”

The maid beside her nodded. “If a black cat walks into the room of an ill person and the miss dies, it will be because of the cat’s powers.”

An odd sensation squeezed at his chest.

If the miss dies . . .

It’d be her fault. Not some damned cat’s. Why did that not drive away an emotion that felt more like fear than annoyance?

“Enough of your silly superstition, you stupid girls!” As unaffected as the only servant who ever resided in this miserable residence could be, Mrs. Trowbridge, who also happened to know everything about this household, had the answer. “It is one of the mousers, my lord.”

“Keep that vexatious creature away from these rooms,” he demanded. Not because he was superstitious. Just . . . because, rather.

Several servants stationed near the end of that hall promptly took off, chasing after the thing.

Black cat forgotten, Wingrave stormed into Helia’s rooms and focused on his current vexation.

The source of all his woes and miseries.

The group converged on him, with a servant reaching to take Helia from him.

Wingrave glared sharply back, and just like the previous footmen had, this fellow, too, fell back.

Mrs. Trowbridge took charge of the room and began calling out directives and orders. “If you will, place the lady over there.” She pointed to the big tester bed.

Wingrave headed swiftly over—and then stopped.

His arms, of their own volition, tightened about the slight figure in his arms, and he glanced down.

A vicious tightening centered somewhere in his chest and gut.

“My lord?” Mrs. Trowbridge’s no-nonsense voice broke him from his musings.

He immediately set her down and fell back, feeling an unfamiliar sense of gratitude as the housekeeper took full charge.

Mrs. Trowbridge stepped between Wingrave and Helia and went back to calling out orders.

While servants set to work all around him, Wingrave’s unblinking gaze remained fixed on a frail and still Helia.

She looked so very small and delicate upon that big feather mattress. Helia, so slight of form, did not so much as leave an indentation upon the soft bedding.

Her cheeks, flushed from fever, had taken on a shade to rival the deepest crimson found in her auburn tresses. Those curls that now spread damp and limp about her pillow.

Past merged with present as distant and long-buried memories danced with the moment.

You are now my heir, the future duke . . . Your brother proved himself weak, after all. He did not survive.

She will not survive. She will not survive.

Fevers ravaged bodies, and if a person managed to triumph over the ague, then they were forever transformed, left shallow, hollow, empty versions of their former selves—as Wingrave had been.

He reflexively balled and unballed his hands at his sides, his fingers sinking into the sodden fabric of his gloves.

I do not care. She is nothing to me. No one is anything to me . . . certainly not—

“My lord.” That sharp, authoritative utterance brought him rushing back to the chaotic moment.

Mrs. Trowbridge pointed over his shoulder, and he followed that gesture over to the door, just as a team of footmen bearing a copper tub and bucket of steaming water poured inside.

Wingrave found his feet and hastened from the room.

The moment he stepped into the hall, the stalwart team of footmen came rushing out.

Wingrave looked past them, stealing one more glance to where Helia lay, but managed to catch but a sliver of a glance of her before a maid pushed the door shut, and then she was gone from sight.