Page 16 of Once Upon a Midnight Dream

Unexpected empathy filled him.

She lifted a rounded shoulder again, a movement he was coming to recognize as her way of saying she did not care when she did.

“C’est la vi.” The merest trace of regret threaded her voice.

True, life did not always go as one wanted or thought it would.

For he had certainly never planned on being abducted, beaten to a pulp, suffering from amnesia, and being a burden to a children’s school director.

Eyes narrowed in thought, Miss Granger put a finger to her chin. “The Countess of Jersey is an Almack peeress, is she not?”

“Is she?” How the blazes did he know? “However, I think I may have connections to the haut ton or know people who do.”

“Excellent.” Her smile might have been fashioned for a child who had, at last, mastered their multiplications.

“Let’s write down everything that you can recall, shall we?” she said. “Mayhap a pattern will emerge.”

She skirted the bed and then lifted the slanted cover to her secretary. After removing a sheet of foolscap, she opened her inkwell and dipped a pen into the ink.

A ray of sun filtering through the window cast her in a golden glow.

Why did she seem to grow prettier by the minute?

Even the few pockmarks on her cheeks appeared less noticeable. In truth, artfully applied cosmetics might conceal the shallow scars completely.

How do I know anything about cosmetics?

Do I have sisters?

Does my mother use paints?

Perhaps, I am acquainted with actresses.

And who did he know who wore lavender?

For that matter, how did he know about herbs’ medicinal smells?

“It is a place to start, I suppose,” he ventured, still uncertain anything he had recalled so far was of genuine worth in the quest to identify him.

“Well?” She arched an expectant eyebrow. “What have you remembered?”

He sighed. “We have already determined I know something of Osterley Park House.”

“Yes, indeed.” She scratched away on the foolscap, her lips pressed into a tight ribbon. “Very telling, I should think.”

He wished he were as confident as she was.

It would help if he could speak with Doctor Montrose and ask him how long he could expect to wait to have his memory fully restored.

“What else?” she gently probed.

“I believe I was in the military—a soldier. Perhaps, an officer.” He gestured toward his eyepatch. “I am not sure how I acquired this, however. I know I was beaten, but I do not know where or by whom.”

“Uh, hum.” With her lower lip clamped between her teeth, she recorded the details.

He brushed his bandaged hand along his jaw, wincing as the rough bristles caught the cloth.

Lord, he needed a shave.