Page 75 of Memories Made At Midnight

Flicking a long, elegant finger toward a small brown bottle on the nightstand, Her Grace said, “Fletcher left a bottle of laudanum for pain. Do you need a dose?”

Beatrice considered her discomfort for a moment.

As long as she lay still, the pain was bearable.

Afraid to jar her leg, she gave the teensiest shake of her head. “Not right now, thank you. Perhaps later if the pain worsens.”

Her grace laid a perfumed hand against Beatrice’s forehead. She smelled as lovely as she appeared. Cassius hadn’t exaggerated either. His mother was the epitome of kindness.

“Excellent. No fever.” The Duchess of Latham smiled broadly, revealing perfect white teeth. “I am so relieved. Cassius fretted something awful because he said you had been quite ill, and fever after a bullet injury is worrisome.”

“Thanks to Cassius and Layton’s care, I was already on the mend.”

Before being shot, that is.

Emotion flickered across the duchess’s face, but she swiftly schooled her features into a pleasant mien. For a woman just past her sixth decade, she had remarkably few lines. Just a few fine creases around the outer edges of her eyes and bracketing her mouth when she smiled. Still slender, despite having birthed eight children, she possessed a figure many younger women would envy.

Beatrice smoothed her hands across the sheet, neatly folded over the lush counterpane, noticing for the first time the lace-edged sleeves of the light blue silk nightgown she wore.

The duchess’s or perhaps Cassius’s sister’s garment?

No, Althelia had married and lived with her husband now.

This nightgown must belong to her grace.

Beatrice slid a curious glance around the room, taking in the décor.

The chamber they’d given her was breathtakingly beautiful.

Elegant wallpaper adorned with a lovely design of flowers, leaves, and vines upon an ivory background covered three walls. The matching rosewood four-poster bed, armoire, dressing table, writing desk, and floral upholstered chairs bespoke understated wealth and luxury. Several plants, including ferns and a rubber plant placed around the room, gave the chamber an almost tropical atmosphere.

A petite, raven-haired woman popped her head into the room. Her blue eyes fairly sparked with energy as she came to stand at the foot of the bed.

“So you decided to rejoin the living,” she said in a lovely Irish burr. “I’m Siobhan Westbrook, Fletcher’s wife.”

This was the woman who had pretended to be a boy at Fletcher Westbrook’s social club so she could earn a living to care for her younger brother and sister.

Cassius had told Beatrice all about his siblings and their spouses.

What a fascinating family.

“Our patient is awake at last, non?” Another beauty entered the chamber. From her French accent, Beatrice assumed she was Aurelie Westbrook, the Marchioness of Edenhaven and future Duchess of Latham. She gingerly perched on the other side of the bed. “Zut, you gave us quite a scare, Miss Fairfax.”

“I’m so sorry to be such an inconvenience.” Arriving in a frazzled, dirty state was one thing. Being hauled in bleeding and unconscious was another entirely.

“None of that flimflam.” The duchess waved an elegant hand. “I know I speak for all of us when I say how very glad we are that the men chased those scoundrels off.”

The three women gazed at Beatrice, expectation in their eyes, but they were too polite to ask the obvious question.

“My uncle, the Earl of Highbury, sent those men.” Beatrice glanced toward the door.

Where was Cassius?

Had he checked on her at all?

In her fevered state at the cabin, she’d overheard him tell Layton that as soon as they arrived at Hefferwickshire House, he meant to wash his hands of her.

Had he already done so?