Her eyes dropped to the wrist he’d manhandled. Her fingers moved over her bared skin. “No one knows. Even if Griston was the culprit, it wouldn’t matter now.”
“Why not?”
She lifted her eyes to his. “Lord Griston was confined to Bedlam on the date of his thirty-third year. A short article appeared in theGazette.”
Harlowe grunted. It wasn’t as satisfying as putting a musket ball in the man himself, but it was something. One rarely escaped Bedlam, chained to the wall as they commonly were. A shudder rolled through him. How easily that it could have been him committed to Bedlam rather than the private asylum of Tranquil Waters.
A tap sounded at the door and a man entered. Not Casper.
“My lord?” He looked at Maeve. “I’m Rory, milady. I’ll be takin’ over for Casper the rest of the night.”
“Oh. All right then, come in, Rory,” the tart-mouthed Lady Alymer answered for him. Her change of demeanor was as swift as her rising and making for the door. “I believe Lord Harlowe will sleep better now,” she said to Rory. She turned to Harlowe. “Oh. Will that be all, my lord?”
As if she’d heed any answer he might give, slipping—no, hurrying—out before he could think of the slightest task to retain her. If Harlowe’d had the energy he would have laughed.
To Rory, it likely appeared she glided across the Persian rug, but Harlowe saw differently. She ran as if the hounds were on her heels.
Undignified as it was, Harlowe was forced to accept Rory’s assistance for the chamber pot’s use.
“No cramps, milord?”
“No,” Harlowe said. “It appears the woman knows what she is about.”
Rory went to the window.
“Leave the window, Rory, it’s stuffy in here. I need the air.” He actually preferred Rory over Casper, for whatever reason.
Rory settled in the darkest corner of the room away from the crisp waft pouring in from the window. Harlowe felt a little sorry for him, but his own recent bounded internments, in both the asylum and the ship’s hold in which he’d been dumped, had Harlowe relishing the cold breeze.
Harlowe folded one arm behind his head and stared into the black of the canopy overhead. “Rory, what do you know of Lady Alymer and her late husband?” Rory was an ex-bow street runner. Harlowe appreciated that very fact about him.
“Not much, milord. The man was a bookworm to my recollections. They, Lord and Lady Alymer, spent most of their time in the country ’cordin’ to Kimpton and Brockway. T’was only since the old man’s, er, demise, did she come to town to stay with her mother.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Don’t know, milord. Reckon as I could find out for you.”
“That would be excellent, Rory. Discreetly, of course.”
“Of course, milord.”
“How are your valet skills, Rory?”
The chair Rory sat in creaked with his movement. “Nonexistent, milord.”
“Mm. Teachable?”
“S’pose so.”
“Of course, you’ll be compensated for your rise in stature,” Harlowe told him.
“Are ye in danger, milord?”
Harlowe let out a sigh. “I won’t know until my memory comes back, will I?”
“S’pose not.”
Quiet resonated through the chamber but for the pops and hisses of the fire. Harlowe was determined to stay awake, take in his freedom, the breath of cool air from the window, the luxury of heat, and the comfort of an actual bed. He was indeed lucky to be alive.
