“Shh,” she interrupted. “Just relax. Shh. I’m going to turn down the lamp just a bit.”
She moved away to turn down the flame in the lamp on the table beside his bed. He groaned as though the pain had spiked. Returning her hands to his face, she began circling her fingers over his temples.
“Your hand.”
“It’s not bothering me,” she lied, not certain why she felt this great need to ease his suffering even at the expense of her own comfort. Perhaps the scuffle last night had formed a bond between them. They’d fought the same battle and survived. “Did you send a missive to Frannie?”
He moved his head slightly from side to side. “They’ll know.”
Then this was something he’d suffered before, no doubt suffered alone. Why wasn’t Frannie here to ease his hurt?
“What did Dr. Graves recommend?”
“He gave me a powder. Didn’t help.”
His breathing became less labored. “Now, tell me about this man.”
Even now when he was in pain, he was concerned about her. And even though she was alone in his bedchamber—in his bed for that matter—he was being a perfect gentleman.
She’d always thought of Lucian Langdon as a rogue, a scamp, and far more unflattering terms, but she was discovering the legend of Lucian Langdon was far removed from the reality. The legend was a man to be despised; the reality was one that she thought she could very easily come to care for a great deal. She wanted to end his discomfort and bring him what comfort she could.
“I don’t know. I’m probably being silly, but I keep seeing a gentleman. I think it’s the same gentleman. It’s difficult to tell, because I’ve only been able to catch glimpses of his face. He always turns away, and it would be entirely improper for me to approach him.”
“Then perhaps it’s nothing.”
“That’s what I tried to tell myself, but it’s his not trying to garner attention that captures my attention. Yesterday I went into various shops, made unnecessary purchases, and he always seemed to be waiting when I came out. When I looked away to see if anyone else was about, and then looked back to where he’d been, he’d disappeared.”
“Perhaps he’s one of your many admirers.”
She scoffed. “I have no admirers.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
He sounded as though he was on the verge of drifting into sleep, and she couldn’t help but believe her ministrations were causing his pain to recede. She tried to squelch the spark of envy that flared with the thought of Frannie being here and ministering to his needs. She liked Frannie. She truly did. She was sweet, and kind, and so unpretentious.
Catherine understood why the young woman feared moving about in aristocratic circles, where ladies were so much more confident.
“This fellow…is there a reason for him to follow you,” Claybourne asked.
“None that I can think of. You don’t suppose he’s responsible for last night’s attack, do you?”
His eyes flew open, concern furrowed his brow. “Why would you think that?”
“It just seems too coincidental. I can’t think of a reason for anyone to follow me.”
“I’m certain the attack last night had more to do with me than you. A description of the fellow would be helpful.”
“Helpful for what?”
“For determining who he is.”
“Oh, you know all the ruffians in London, do you?”
“I know a good many. So what does he look like?”
“He wears a large floppy hat pulled low so I’m not certain of his hair color. Dark I think.
His features are very rough-looking, difficult to describe because there’s nothing distinctive about them.”
