"He's not going to be hungry, you silly chit. When one loses blood, the most important thing is adequate hydration. I read it in a medical book." Giving him a man-to-man look from the foot of the bed, his younger brother added, "The girls have been quite worried. But I told them you'd be alright."
Seeing the anxious line between the lad's brows, Ambrose said gently, "You were correct, Harry. I am quite well, and there is nothing to concern yourselves over."
"Now that we are here, we will take care of you," Emma said.
"Perhaps what our brother truly needs is time to rest." This came from Thea, who entered the room with their father. She smiled her gentle smile. "You must be tired, Ambrose."
Ambrose began to shake his head—and the room suddenly wavered.
"We best leave him be." Leaning on his cane, Samuel came forward and peered down at the bed. Gruffly, he said, "Do you have everything you need, son?"
"Yes. Marianne's been tending to me," Ambrose said.
Six pairs of eyes turned to Marianne, who'd retreated silently to a corner.
"Well, then. Nice to know the boy's in good hands," Samuel said.
Marianne blushed, a rare sight indeed.
"Thank you, my lady," Emma said. "You look like you could use some rest yourself. If you'll tell me what needs to be done, I'll—"
"I'm staying." Marianne's gaze met his, and he basked in her verdant warmth, his pain subsiding. "I'm not leaving him."
"Perhaps, Marianne, you might take Miss Kent up on her offer for a few minutes?"
The cultured feminine tones came from the doorway. Surprised, Ambrose looked over to see the Marquess and Marchioness of Harteford standing there. What were they doing here?
Typically the epitome of politeness, Lady Harteford ignored him and said, "I believe you and I have a matter to discuss, Marianne. In private."
Behind his petite wife, the marquess took in the scene with an impassive gaze. "I trust that you are well, Kent?" he said gravely.
"Thank you for your concern, my lord," Ambrose said, still confused. "I hope you have not come all this way on my behalf?"
"We came at Lady Draven's behest, and we've brought along Dr. Farraday as well," Harteford said.
At the mention of the famed Scottish physician, Ambrose winced. Though undoubtedly skilled—Farraday had attended to the great Wellington himself—the doctor did not possess a soft touch.
"Now that Mr. Kent is attended to," Lady Harteford said with that strange steel in her voice, "shall we find some place to talk, Marianne?"
Marianne's cheeks had lost their color. Squaring her shoulders as if preparing for battle, she said to her friend, "We'll find privacy in the garden."
* * *
Pendleton's rose garden was a formal affair. Marianne led the way to the gazebo in the far corner, away from prying eyes. From beneath the sloped, gabled roof, she had an unimpeded view of the house as well as the precise, colorful rows of rose bushes. Currently, the only movements in the garden came from butterflies and buzzing insects—the non-human kind. The houseguests were still abed at this hour.
Helena remained standing, her gloved hands curling around the gazebo's railing. Beneath the graceful brim of her straw bonnet, her hazel eyes shone with accusation.
"Is it true what you wrote in the letter?" Helena said in a tight voice.
Shame and fear mingled sickly. For so long, Marianne had kept her secrets—even from this woman, her closest friend. Now there was no longer any place to hide.
"Yes," she said in a low voice. "I have a daughter, Helena."
"And she… she is Thomas' child?"
Marianne swallowed. "Yes. Your brother and I… we were together. In the months before the carriage accident."
The marchioness looked away. Marianne knew how much the loss of Thomas had affected Helena, who'd been a girl back then. An innocent who'd idolized her older brother—who'd had no idea what he and her bosom friend had been up to behind her back.
