Her heart beating fast, she withdrew her hands. “Why did he write that atrocious letter?”
Debnam shrugged. “He carries a grudge against my father and because my father isn’t available, I suppose he takes it out on me.” He searched her eyes. “Let’s forget about Gaylord. I intend to make your stay here as pleasant as possible.”
The nearness of him, his familiar male scent, and something intrinsically him made her yearn to be close to him. She swallowed, her throat tight. “Thank you, Debnam. Caring for Robert will leave little time for anything else. We’ll leave as soon as he is well enough.”
He stood and moved the chair back into place. “You should spend time outdoors to get some fresh air,” he said with a hand on the door latch. “A walk tomorrow? You could accompany me on a ride once your brother is over the worst.”
“We must wait and see.”
He opened the door. “Will you join me for luncheon?”
It was hard to be near him, to gaze at his handsome mouth and remember his kisses. She shook her head. “No, thank you. I expect Robert will wake soon.”
“I’ll have Redfern order a tray.”
When the door closed, Laura sniffed back tears. What a watering pot she’d become. She pushed a wispy lock of hair back from her brow. She must stay strong for Robert. His recovery would depend upon it. She tried to ignore the disappointment she felt at not joining Debnam at luncheon. “Incurable!” she said aloud, annoyed by her weakness.
Robert groaned and stirred. He opened bleary eyes. “Oh, you’re here, Laura. I’m glad.”
“Of course.” Laura smiled. “Where else would I be?” She silenced her unruly thoughts and leaned over him, pleased to find his face a better color and his breathing steadier.
*
In his bedchamber,Brendan changed into riding clothes. He’d decided against luncheon. His anger at Gaylord had robbed him of appetite. He came downstairs, the crop tucked under his arm, pulling on his gloves. In the hall, Redfern instructed a new underfootman. He turned as Brendan came in. “How is the baron, milord?”
“Not in any immediate danger, thank you, Redfern.” Brendan settled his hat on his head. “I won’t be in for luncheon. Please order a tray for Miss Peyton. She wishes to remain with her brother.”
“Certainly, milord.”
Brendan strode along the gravel drive to the stables with Hunter at his heels. In the courtyard, waiting for his horse to be brought out, he walked over to where the young, fair-headed stableboy swept the cobbles. “Jeremy, has Lord Gaylord been here in the last few days?”
“Yes, milord.”
“Did you speak to him?”
Jeremy shook his head. “Devon had a word with him.”
Devon, his head groom and stable manager, emerged from the stable interior, leading Bruno by the reins. He bowed his gray head. “Milord.”
“I believe you had words with Lord Gaylord a day or so ago.” Brendan patted his horse’s glossy neck.
“Yes, milord. He inquired about Miss Peyton. I said I knew nothing. Didn’t like it, got short with me.”
“Did he indeed? See that the staff don’t divulge any information to my uncle should he ask, no matter how trivial.”
He mounted Bruno and rode out of the stable yard, Hunter running behind. Someone in his household must have talked to Gaylord. But who? Did his uncle have an ally at Beechley Park, supplying him with information? The lengths to which the man would go to discredit Brendan were both disquieting and unfathomable.
Turning Bruno’s head, he rode toward the front gates. It was time to pay the man a visit and have a chat on Brendan’s terms.
As he rode down the drive of Camelia Grove, his mother’s childhood home, he viewed it with a sense of nostalgia and deep sadness. She had told him delightful stories of her life here before she’d married his father. His mother had loved her elder brother, Simon Mather, who’d died when he’d been twenty-four, but she’d rarely spoken of Ralph, his younger brother by two years, who’d inherited the title of Viscount Gaylord along with the estate. Back then, Brendan had never taken to his uncle. He’d sensed Gaylord had disliked him. Gaylord hadn’t remained long in England after Brendan’s parents’ funeral, soon departing for a lengthy stay in France.
Brendan’s father’s trustees had taken control and while they’d dealt efficiently with the distressed and frightened boy he must have been, they’d lacked any understanding of what Brendan had really needed. Someone to hug him and explain why his parents were gone. Bewildered and grieving, he’d struggled to adapt to the unforgiving life at boarding school while left to deal with the tragic circumstances his father’s apparent murderous rage had dealt him.
He dismounted and tossed the reins to a groom. “Look after my dog, Hunter.”
“Aye, milord. Come, Hunter.” The groom led the horse away. Hunter remained at Brendan’s side until the groom’s shrill whistle sent him bounding after him.
Brendan crossed to the front door of the pretty, pale-stone Georgian building. A butler, whom Brendan didn’t know, answered the door. Brendan stripped off his gloves, aware of an ominous tightness at his temples. “Earl of Debnam. I don’t believe we’ve met. Is your master in?”
