“No, thank the Lord.” The woman sank back against the squab.
“My mother has been sick,” the young girl said, snuggling into the earl’s coat. She looked to be not much above ten years old. Her pelisse had a large patch on the sleeve and her boots were worn. Mary pushed her fair braids back over her thin shoulders, her hazel eyes anxious as she watched her mother.
“I am indebted to you, my lord.” The woman, who was also shabbily dressed, passed a hand over her brow as if her head hurt. “I am Mrs. Anne Joyce, and Mary is my daughter. We were on our way to stay with my aunt in Horsham.”
“That is a fair distance from here,” Lord Debnam said. “There’s an inn a few miles on. You can recover from your ordeal there. Your coachman must have gone to the village seeking help.”
“He is not my coachman,” she said faintly. “I hired the carriage, but it was a terrifying journey. I feared something like this would happen. He cracked the whip over those poor horses going too fast. After we crashed, I couldn’t open the door! Mr. Frisk didn’t help us. He took off with the horses.” She put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “I feared we would drown.”
“I’ll have a word with him,” Lord Debnam said, a tick beginning in his jaw. “Find out what happened. And arrange new transport for when you are ready to continue on to your aunt.”
The woman still shivered with cold and shock. “You and your footmen were brave, sir, and so very kind. I cannot thank you enough.”
Laura tucked the rug more snuggly around the woman. “Rest until we reach the village.”
With a murmur of thanks, she closed her eyes.
“You will be all right, Mama. This nice man will take care of us.” Mary patted her mother’s arm. “You’ll feel better after a hot drink.”
The girl seemed wise beyond her years.
Laura glanced at Lord Debnam. He would be cold and uncomfortable in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his trousers and his highly polished boots soaked, but he seemed not to notice them. His brave rescue impressed her. But she would not change her mind about him. Would the earl care? She didn’t know, but she would never forgive Robert.
To keep his promise to her brother, Brendan had told the innkeeper Laura was a relative. If he’d hoped to leave the inn the following day, he was doomed to disappointment. Mrs. Joyce’s condition worsened, and she developed a high fever. He sent for the village doctor to treat her. From what he was told by the innkeeper, Dr. Williams was a capable man. That should have been enough, in Brendan’s view, but not Laura’s. She tirelessly nursed the ill woman and insisted on remaining to take care of Mary until the woman rallied. She’d be ill herself if this went on too long. He would have to hurry things along.
Leaving Laura to deal with what occurred upstairs, Brendan sought the owner of the ruined carriage and found the fellow in the taproom, deep in his cups. He took him by the shoulders and shook him, but the man’s eyes rolled, and he slumped over the table senseless. Leaving the innkeeper to deal with him, Brendan went to the village stables to arrange for a carriage to take Mrs. Joyce and her daughter the rest of their journey.
He dealt with some correspondence in his private parlor during the day, while impatient to get on. In the afternoon, he read the two-day-old newspapers and talked to the innkeeper. They discussed racehorses after the man had discovered Brendan had raced two thoroughbreds, one of which had won at Newmarket.
When Laura joined him for dinner, her conversation centered on the two people she cared for. Frustrated, he could but enjoy looking at her. In a lacy dinner gown of primrose, her dark-blonde hair swept into a careless updo, she was undeniably lovely. He admired her slender arms and dainty hands. Her lissome body, he tried not to think too much about. After dinner, she returned to the sick room, and he saw no more of her until breakfast. He was down in the breakfast room the next morning, although it wasn’t his habit to eat until close to midday. But the maid told him Laura had eaten her breakfast in her bedchamber.
At first, he suspected Laura merely hoped to avoid him, but he came to realize she really cared about the woman and her child. On the next evening at dinner, she seemed more relaxed and talkative. He tried to draw her out, but she avoided any reference to what lay ahead for them. Nor did she flirt with him. That was a novel experience but unsettling. Had he made a mistake in inviting her? He still didn’t know why he’d taken such a chance with a woman he barely knew. It had been purely selfish on his part. Laura’s brother might have found other means to pay his debts, although they were substantial.
Longworth was a fine estate, yet obviously rundown. Peyton was a gambler, Brendan had learned. And he had no patience with such men. Especially considering how his actions had affected his sister’s life. Laura had more mettle than that selfish weakling. She showed more compassion for the two upstairs than her brother would have been capable of.
“Anne Joyce was widowed last year,” Laura said. “It is very sad. She has nowhere to live and must make a home with her aunt. I have feared that I might face a similar fate.”
“Why?” he asked, outraged for her.
She shrugged her slim shoulders. “When we faced financial ruin, I considered casting myself upon my Aunt Gertrude’s good graces.” She smiled, but it failed to reach her eyes. “Aunt Gertrude isn’t an easy person.”
She pushed her meat around the plate with her fork, not attempting to eat it. “Mary is a bright child. She deserves better.”
“Sad, indeed,” he agreed. “That animal on your plate is dead, Laura. There’s no need to kill it again.”
Her blue eyes met his filled with laughter, then he watched them grow shadowed. She ducked her head. Brendan cursed, but he grew hopeful that in time, they might laugh together. Especially as she had opened up to him tonight about herself. It had maddened him to hear it. Her brother needed a good thrashing.
If only they could leave this inferior inn and reach his estate, then this infernally polite wall between them would disappear. Beechley Park was a place made for romance, although it had seen little of it. “Is Mrs. Joyce rallying?”
“Her fever abates.”
“Excellent. We can leave tomorrow.”
Laura’s frown condemned him for such a rash statement. “We cannot leave them yet. Not until Mrs. Joyce is out of bed and able to take care of her daughter. We cannot leave a young girl alone in an inn. Anything could happen.”
Brendan poured her a glass of wine. “And does the doctor know when that might be?”
Laura twisted a curl in her fingers. “He says it’s too early to say.”
