‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.
Isabel gasped, taking a step back, but he did not release her wrist.
‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you ... or hurt you,’ she added, seeing pain in the tightened lips and sunken eyes.
Slow comprehension softened the unshaven face, and he released her wrist. His eyes closed, and he let out a softly aspirated breath.
‘My apologies to you, lady. I didn’t mean to scare you. Just a soldier’s instincts,’ he said.
Rubbing her wrist, she looked down at the man and caughther breath. There could be no denying this man was a Somerton. He had his cousin’s finely chiselled cheekbones and well-shaped mouth, but his jaw had a strength to it that Anthony had lacked.
‘Are you ...’ she began, quelling the uncertain quaver in her voice. ‘Are you Captain Sebastian Alder, son of the late Marjory Alder of Little Benning in Cheshire?’
His eyes opened again, but all the fight had gone from him. Beneath the stubble on his chin, his face looked grey, the eyes feverish and sunken in his skull.
‘My mother has been eighteen years in the grave. Why do you want to know about her?’ His gaze flicked to Bragge, and he frowned as if he were trying to bring them both into focus. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am the dowager Viscountess Somerton, and this is my late husband’s man of business, Bragge. We have been looking for you for over six months now.’
He frowned. ‘Looking for me? What do you mean? What is your business with me?’ His voice rasped with the effort of speech.
‘We’ve come to take you home,’ Isabel said.
His mouth quirked into a humourless smile. ‘That is a nice sentiment, Lady Somerton, but I doubt I would survive such a trip. It’s nigh on two hundred miles to Cheshire.’
‘Oh, not to Cheshire. We are taking you to your new home: Somerton House in Hanover Square.’
The man ran a hand across his eyes. ‘This is a jest or some strange fever dream that I’m going to wake from. Lady Somerton, or whoever you are, I do not live in Hanover Square. I told you, my home is in Cheshire.’
‘It’s no jest, Captain Alder. You are now the Viscount Somerton of Brantstone, first cousin to my late husband and, as such, the heir to his estates.’
To her surprise, Alder covered his face with his hands and laughed.
Ignoring him, she continued, ‘The doctors said you would beall right to be moved such a short distance, and I have arranged the best doctor to see to you.’ She glanced at Bragge. ‘Please go and fetch the coachmen.’
Bragge inclined his head and turned away, leaving Isabel alone with the new Lord Somerton.
Alder removed his hands from his face and watched her with puzzlement in his eyes—brown eyes, she noted, a soft, warm brown, not the cold grey of Anthony’s.
She looked around the ward and shuddered. ‘This is a terrible place,’ she said, more to herself than to him. ‘I’m surprised anyone survives it.’
‘They don’t.’
The man on the pallet tried to sit up, falling back with a groan.
‘’Ere! Who are you then?’
A strident cockney voice caused Isabel to turn on her heel. She was confronted by a soldier of Alder’s regiment, judging by the yellow facings of his jacket. He carried a bowl of water and some cloths, and he looked at Isabel as if she were some ill-intentioned assassin.
Isabel straightened.
‘I’m Lady Somerton. Who are you?’
‘I’m Bennet, Corporal Obadiah Bennet, and you ain’t got no business with my captain. He ain’t strong enough for visitors.’
Alder’s hand clutched at his corporal’s sleeve. ‘Lady Somerton is just leaving, Bennet,’ he croaked.
Isabel glanced down at the sick man. He had to come with her. Without him, she would be lost. It was not his choice. He had obligations and responsibilities to assume. Didn’t he understand that?
