Saxby sipped. “Never said she was a lady.”
Nathaniel fisted his hand. “Then we are not speaking of Miss Lyons?”
The man’s eyes flashed anger of his own. “No, we are not. Not that Lewis hasn’t tried his charms in that direction. But that lady prefers a more... sophisticated gentleman.”
“Meaning yourself.”
He shrugged and flicked a piece of invisible lint from his coat sleeve. “A gentleman does not like to brag.”
“Then who? Who was she?”
“I don’t know her name. Some local chit, I gather.”
Was it really some other woman, or was Saxby trying to cover for Miss Lyons? To save face by not admitting his lover had left the ball—alone at night—with Lewis?
Knowing he might very well say something he regretted if he stayed longer, Nathaniel excused himself and went to join Helen in the sickroom.
Before dawn the next morning, Nathaniel trudged downstairs in his dressing gown to check on Lewis. The chamber nurse, Mrs. Welch, reclined on the settee in the corner, softly snoring. Helen sat on a chair near the foot of the bed. She was bent forward at the waist, her arms folded on the bed, her head on her arms. Asleep. Poor thing had sat there all night.
Lewis lay, unmoving. Yet beneath the bedclothes his bandaged chest rose and fell. His breaths were shallow, but he was still alive. Nathaniel thanked God.
He gently touched his sister’s shoulder. “Helen?” he whispered.
“Hmm?” she murmured, eyes flickering open, then widening when she saw him. She pushed up from the bed, her gaze flying to Lewis’s face. “Is he...?”
“He’s breathing. Go up to bed. I shall get dressed and then sit with him while you sleep.”
“I did sleep,” she protested.
Nathaniel was reminded of when they were children. Helen, small for her age, had always been determined to prove herself as strong and capable as both her older and younger brother. Now, seeing the imprint Helen’s sleeve had left on her cheek, he felt tenderness for her tighten his heart.
“Go on,” he gently urged. “Besides, you need your beauty sleep.” He winked. “I shall be down directly. In the meantime, Mrs. Welch will tend him.” He turned his head and said more loudly, “Won’t you, Mrs. Welch?”
The older woman sputtered awake, straightening on the settee. “I was only resting me eyes.”
Brother and sister shared wobbly grins.
Nathaniel returned to his room and set about washing and dressing. A knock sounded at his door.
“Enter.”
Connor stepped inside. “I was wonderin’, sir.”
“Yes?”
“Would you like a shave? With Mr. Lewis abed, I would consider it an honor to valet for you.”
Nathaniel ran a hand over his bristly jaw. “Very well. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, sir. I wish there was more I could do.”
A few minutes later, Nathaniel sat before his dressing mirror, face lathered and a white cloth tied at his neck to shroud his clothes. Connor stood, wielding the razor far more deftly than Arnold ever had. The valet tilted Nathaniel’s jaw and stroked the straight razor across his whiskered cheek, pausing between strokes to swish the blade in the basin of water.
Connor began, “You told me, sir, to tell you if I thought of anything....”
“About?”
“About the man who shot Mr. Lewis.”
