“There was an accident. I hit her with the curricle.”
The older servant gasped and covered her mouth. “Oh, dear Lord.”
Trevor gently laid the unconscious girl on the bed, stepping back as Mrs. Smythe pulled down the covers. Now, with better light and a chance to look more closely, the full extent of her condition became painfully clear. She was covered in grime from head to toe, her hair matted and filthy, its color impossible to discern after what must have been weeks, if not longer, without a proper wash. Her skin was layered with dirt, and her clothes—little more than rags—hung loosely from her thin, frail frame.
He shook his head, his heart sinking. A vagabond, clearly, likely an orphan. The gauntness of her face, the way her bonesjutted out beneath her skin—she was half starved. A wrenching pain gripped his chest as he gazed at the pitiful figure before him. Poor thing. And to thinkhe’dbeen the one to run her over. But she was alive, and as long as she breathed, there was hope.
Trevor’s thoughts shifted from guilt to resolve. He could help her, not just by saving her life, but by giving her a chance at something better. He would see to it that she was well fed, cared for, and clothed properly. And once she recovered, he’d find her a position—perhaps as a maid or cook in a decent London household. Anything to ensure she never returned to the streets, never again had to endure the life she had clearly suffered through. He couldn’t bear the thought of her continuing to starve, shivering in tattered clothes for the rest of her days.
“Mrs. Smythe, please clean her up before the doctor arrives.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And take care not to disturb the wound on her shoulder.”
His housekeeper gave a single nod before hurrying out of the room, her short legs moving as fast as they could carry her. Trevor bent over the girl, gently brushing the tangled hair away from her face. His mind whirled with questions. What had brought her to this state? How long had she lived like this? And then a darker thought crossed his mind. Could she be dangerous?
But as he studied her again, taking in her delicate, almost frail features, the idea seemed absurd. She couldn’t possibly be a threat to his household. Her slim arms and legs showed no signs of strength, and whatever life she had led, it clearly hadn’t prepared her for violence or mischief. She looked more like a girl who had been worn down by the harshness of the world than someone capable of harm.
The sticky feeling of blood on his hand and sleeve caught his attention, snapping him from his thoughts. He glanced down, realizing he was still covered in it. While waiting for thephysician, he would need to clean himself up. Before he could move, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. Trevor turned just in time to see Mrs. Smythe return, followed by two maids, their arms laden with towels, bandages, and a clean nightdress.
They moved swiftly and efficiently, prepared to tend to the injured girl. Trevor stepped back, grateful for their assistance, though the sight of the blood reminded him of the urgency of the situation.
“I shall leave now that the girl is in good hands.”
“Not to worry, Your Grace,” Mrs. Smythe promised. “We’ll take special care of her.”
Nodding, Trevor let out a long, weary sigh and strode from the room, his mind heavy with frustration. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t gone out tonight. His mother had insisted that the evening’s dinner party was amust-attendevent, the perfect way for him to reenter Society after his period of mourning. Dowager duchesses often knew such things, but even she couldn’t have foreseen the streak of bad luck that had shadowed him ever since his ill-fated marriage three years ago.
As he entered his chambers, he gave his valet instructions to prepare a bath. Wearily, Trevor sank into a cushioned chair, running his fingers through his hair and closing his eyes. The exhaustion wasn’t just physical—it was a deep, gnawing weariness that seemed to settle into his bones. He couldn’t keep the girl here, no matter how much he pitied her. She was young, probably just past adolescence, but far too young to fit into any role in his household. He had no position for someone like her, and keeping her here would only complicate things further.
Yet, despite his rational mind insisting he should send her away, a nagging guilt tugged at him. He couldn’t shake the image of her frail body, half starved and bleeding, lying helpless in the road. What had her life been like for her to end up in such astate? As he sat there, the weight of responsibility pressed down on him, harder than ever.
Thomson, his ever-efficient valet, rushed through the door with buckets of steaming water, two more servants trailing behind, carrying additional loads. Trevor began to undress, trying to push away the haunting memories of Gwendolyn that always seemed to resurface at the worst times. The ache of betrayal throbbed in his head like a dull, relentless drumbeat. If only he could forget her—forget the past that had left him so scarred. Gwendolyn’s actions had altered him, darkening his once-optimistic outlook and leaving behind only cynicism and mistrust.
Perhaps that isn’t entirely a bad thing,he thought bitterly. After all, women could not be trusted, and learning that lesson early was a hard-earned advantage. It would serve him well in the future, preventing further heartbreak.
Trevor hurried through his bath, scrubbing quickly as if he could wash away not only the grime but the unwelcome thoughts of Gwen. He needed to focus on the present—on the life he was determined to rebuild. His new life, free of past mistakes, started today. Yet, in one disastrous evening, he had nearly ruined it by running over a girl, leaving her on the brink of death.
A heaviness settled in his chest as he recalled her pale face and fragile frame.She could still die,he realized, and the weight of that thought made his heart sink. What should have been a fresh start now felt tainted by guilt and uncertainty.
Thomson had already laid out fresh clothes for Trevor, making it easy for him to dress quickly. Once he’d pulled on his crisp shirt and trousers, he ran a comb through his damp hair, smoothing it into place. Without wasting any more time, he strode out of his chambers and hurried back to the guest room, his mind fixed on the injured girl.
As he approached the door, Mrs. Smythe and the maids were just stepping out, their arms filled with bloodied towels and soiled garments. They paused briefly to nod respectfully as Trevor approached, their expressions a mix of concern and quiet efficiency. Trevor’s heart quickened as he stepped past them, hoping for a sign that the girl’s condition had stabilized.
“How is she?” he asked, stepping inside the room.
“She’s still unconscious, Your Grace.” Mrs. Smythe frowned. “Poor woman has scrapes and bruises all over her.”
Trevor blinked in surprise. “Woman? She’s not a young miss?”
“No, Your Grace. I’d say she was at least in her early twenties, perhaps a mite younger.”
“But she’s so tiny.”
“That she is. She’s nothing but skin and bones. We’ll need to fatten her up, I’d say.”
He nodded. “My thoughts exactly. As soon as the doctor has checked her over, I want some soup brought up. Will you see to that, Mrs. Smythe?”
