Page 40 of A Perfect Gentleman

“Information?” He stared. “Information about what?”

“About . . . about . . . my father.” She was shaking so hard her teeth were chattering.

Graeme subsided. He would have liked to ask her what she’d learned and why someone in England would know anything about Thurston Price, but his anger had fizzled out as rapidly as it had come, and he felt a brute for interrogating a woman who had almost drowned.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t plague you.” He rubbed his hand up and down her arms and back, trying to bring some heat to them.

The ride home seemed to take forever, though the rattle of the carriage on the street told him that the driver was setting as fast a pace as Graeme had told him to. When they reached Montclair House, Graeme jumped out of the cab and reached back to lift Abigail down.

The front door was flung open and the butler himself hustled out. “My lord! What—” His eyebrows shot up. “You’re wet!”

“Yes. Pay the man, Norton, whatever he says.” He strode into the house and headed for the stairs, snapping out orders to the gaping servants. “Build a fire in my room. Get me blankets. Brandy. Draw a warm bath. Now.”

As they scattered to do his bidding, he rushed up the stairs toward his bedroom. His grandmother, swathed in a dressing gown, her hair enveloped in a puffy white nightcap, flung open her door as he passed.

“Graeme!” She trailed out into the hall after him. “What is the meaning of this? You’re getting water all over the floor.”

“Not now. I’ll explain later.”

“Well!” the countess said in an affronted tone, but she did not follow him.

He laid Abigail down on the rug in front of the fireplace. One of the maids bustled in to stir up the fire and add coal to it, followed by two more carrying blankets and brandy.

“Libby’s drawing a bath now, sir.”

He merely nodded as he knelt beside Abigail, struggling to untie the sodden knot that fastened her cloak, his fingers rendered clumsy by haste and cold.

“Sir!” His valet burst into the room and halted, staring in shock. “You’re wet!”

“I am well aware of that fact, Siddings. I don’t know why everyone finds it necessary to notify me of it.”

“Beg your pardon, sir. But—”

“Pour me some of that brandy if you want to be useful. Hah! There.” The stubborn ties finally parted beneath Graeme’s fingers, and he pulled the cloak off Abigail, tossing it aside on the floor. It landed with a thud as well as a splat. No doubt it contained her supply of weaponry.

Siddings returned with a glass of brandy. Graeme curled his arm around Abigail’s back, lifting her to a sitting position. “Here.” He held the glass to her lips. “Drink this.” He gave her a little shake. “Abigail, blast it, drink this.”

He tilted the glass, and though some liquid spilled down her front, she swallowed. Her eyes flew open and she turned her head away.

“Thank God. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t wake up. Take another drink.” He held the glass to her lips again, and though she frowned, she sipped at it. She gasped, feebly pushing at his hand, and began to cough.

“Good.” Graeme drained the rest of the glass himself and handed it back to his valet.

“My lord, you must get out of these garments,” Siddings said, setting the glass aside.

“Later.” Graeme laid Abigail back down, and her eyes closed again, but he thought this time her color was better.

“But sir, you’ll catch cold.” Siddings plucked at his shoulders.

“Oh, the devil.” Graeme shrugged out of his jacket. “There! Now go away. And close the door behind you.” Graeme turned back to Abigail and started on the buttons of her dress. Lord, there must be a hundred of them, and they were all the size of a pea. “I cannot imagine why you bought this dress. It’s the very devil to unfasten.”

In frustration, he jerked at one recalcitrant button, and it popped off. He eyed the little thing rattling across the floor, then grasped either side of her dress and yanked, sending more tiny buttons flying.

That roused her to open her eyes. “Graeme? What are you doing?”

“Trying to get you out of these damned clothes before you catch pneumonia.” Graeme pulled the bodice down and was faced with the armor of a corset. With a curse, he rose and went to his dresser, returning with a pocketknife. Flipping it open, he slid it beneath the top of the laces and cut them all the way down the center.

“You’re de-destroying . . . my clothes.” Abigail pushed feebly at his hands.