Nathaniel studied him. “So eager for any assignment that relieves you of your house steward duties?”
He tucked his chin. “You know me too well.”
Margaret couldn’t sleep. Tired of tossing and turning, she pulled on her wrapper and shawl and tucked her hair into her mobcap, just in case. She walked downstairs and out onto the balcony, but it was empty, as was the arcade below. Restless, she took herself down to the main level and across the dark, echoing hall.
She entered the sickroom on the pretense of seeing if the nurse needed anything, only to find Mrs. Welch asleep. Margaret sat in a chair near the door, oddly comforted by Lewis’s regular breathing and even by the elderly nurse’s soft snoring from the settee across the room. An oil lamp burned atop the mantel. Embers glowed in the hearth. This room was warmer than her own, and Margaret felt comfortable in her nightclothes and shawl. She didn’t expect to see anyone at this hour except Mrs. Welch, who wouldn’t mind her state of dress—especially as she slept on, undisturbed by her presence.
The tall case clock struck midnight, but sleep felt far away. Margaret’s spirit was troubled. For Lewis’s sake, for Helen’s, for Nathaniel’s, even for her own, she thanked God Lewis still lived. But something wasn’t right, beyond the fact that Lewis Upchurch had been shot in the first place. It had been three days and he had yet to wake.
Margaret found herself thinking of all those nights her dear papa had been called away—or had gone on his own initiative—to sit at the bedside of an ailing or dying parishioner. She felt somehow closer to her father, keeping vigil in Lewis Upchurch’s sickroom.
A creaking door startled her.
A man whispered, “How devoted she is, sitting by his bedside like a loyal hound.”
“Mr. Upchurch...” she breathed, rising to her feet. Nathaniel lounged against the doorjamb fully dressed, arms crossed. He did not look pleased to see her there.
She tiptoed to stand near him. She spoke in an accent, and a whisper to avoid waking Mrs. Welch. “I had only come to check on him.”
“And where is the nurse? Or are you assuming that role as well?”
“Of course not.” She gestured toward the settee, where the woman lay on her side, a lap rug over her middle. “I couldn’t sleep, while Mrs. Welch clearly does not share that problem.”
She tentatively grinned, but he did not return the gesture.
“I hope, Nora, that you do not cherish any... romantic notions about my brother.”
Margaret frowned in surprise. “Why would you say that, sir?” As Nora, she had not knowingly flirted with anyone. Yet Nathaniel had seen them together at the servants’ ball....
“You would not be the first to do so, nor the last....” He winced. “God willing, not the last.”
“You needn’t worry, sir. I don’t think of him that way.”
His gaze pierced hers in the lamplight. “Do you not?”
Why did she feel like he was askingher, and not Nora the housemaid? She shook her head. “I do not. Besides,” she faltered. “Your brother is... That is, I believe another woman has already captured his heart.”
“Are we speaking of Miss Lyons again?”
“No, sir. Not a London lady.”
“What makes you think so?”
She hesitated. For Lewis’sheartmight have had nothing to do with those late-night rendezvous. She felt her cheeks heat at the thought. “I... It’s just that...”
“You needn’t protect him, Nora. I am familiar with my brother’s... proclivities. But I want to find out who did this.” He gestured toward the unnaturally still figure in the bed. “Anything you can tell me about Lewis’s affairs, so to speak, might be important.”
She nodded. “It is only that I have seen him come in very early in the morning.”
“An early ride, perhaps.”
“No, sir. I mean very early. Five or six o’clock in the morning. As though he’d been out all night.”
“And what are you doing up so early... beyond spying on my brother?”
“Spying?” She pulled a face. “You forget, sir. While you are still abed, I am up by five thirty, opening shutters and polishing grates.”
He slowly shook his head. “How you must hate it, having to rise before noon.”
