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“Look at me, Miss Doyle.”

Miss Doyle raised her head, and Rosalind caught her breath. Then, taking Miss Doyle by the hand, she drew her into the circle of candlelight and turned her so that Jonas could see her face.

Fury, fast and burning hot, surged through him at the sight. Half her face was navy blue. Her right eye was swollen closed, her cheek and lower lip were puffy and misshapen, and a cut ran across her upper lip. Her skirts hung wet and muddy, and she was shaking uncontrollably.

“Who did this to you?” he said, stepping closer.

She started, and he realized that she had not known he was in the room. “My . . . my father, Your Grace, my lord . . .”

Only by sheer force of will did Jonas curb his tongue. He had known the man was evil, but to treat his own daughter in this manner was inconceivable. “My lord is sufficient,” he said. “I am the Viscount Langton, brother to the Duchess of Kelbrook.” He took another step toward her. “Why would your father do such a thing?”

Miss Doyle kept her head up. “Because I refused to wed the man with whom he’d made a marriage agreement.”

Mr. Cummings. And the marriage agreement had probably involved a significant sum of money.

“Viscount Langton.” There was a hint of urgency in Rosalind’s voice. Jonas turned to her. “I think Miss Doyle is in dire need of some warm clothes and some medical attention. Perhaps your questions could wait until she’s been cared for.”

“Yes, of course.” Cursing himself for being such an idiot, Jonas marched to the door. “Tolley,” he called. The butler appeared immediately. “Have Mrs. Beecham make ready the yellow guest room for Miss Doyle. She’s to be given a warm bath, dry clothes, and whatever medical assistance the housekeeper deems necessary.”

“Yes, my lord.” The butler inclined his head and quickly left in search of Mrs. Beecham.

Rosalind walked Miss Doyle to the door and eyed the staircase in the hall uneasily. “I think Miss Doyle may also need assistance with the stairs.”

“Please . . . please don’t trouble yourselves.” The innkeeper’s daughter swayed slightly. “I can manage on my own.”

Jonas ignored her. Grasping her trembling elbow with his right hand, he led her slowly across the hall. “It is no trouble, Miss Doyle,” he said. “Believe me, I am well acquainted with the challenge afforded by staircases.”

Chapter 12

Elizabeth woke to the chirping of swallows. She turned her head toward the sound, instantly feeling the pain in her shoulder and cheek. Memory came flooding back, and she opened her eyes. Or tried to, at least. One eye obeyed; the other eyelid pushed back against her swollen skin without success. With a moan, she raised her hand and gently touched her face. It was tender, the puffiness seeming even more pronounced than it had the day before.

Last night, flickering candlelight had shrouded the rooms at Langton Manor in mystery. This morning, sunshine was pouring through the windows, and with her functioning eye, Elizabeth slowly surveyed her surroundings. She was lying in a large four-poster bed. The eiderdown was the same pale-yellow color as the canopy above her head, and the mattress was as soft as the covers. In keeping with the yellow theme, the walls were papered in floral wallpaper, the yellow roses standing out against the greenery.

Across the bedchamber, a small writing desk and a couple of chairs were situated between two large windows. At each window, a cushioned seat invited guests to sit and admire the view. A fireplace took up much of the wall to her left, and a large mirror hung above the mantelpiece. It was, without doubt, the most beautiful room she’d ever seen, and it was also, without doubt, somewhere that she did not belong.

Placing her weight on her left side, Elizabeth inched into a sitting position and tried to piece together the events that had brought her here. When she’d finally arrived at the servants’ entrance, her despair that the cook wished to turn her away without listening to her pleas had been assuaged when a young man named Hancock had offered to make inquiries. Her relief had been short lived, however. Being summoned before the Duchess of Kelbrook and Viscount Langton had been one of the most terrifying experiences of her life—especially given her deplorable condition at the time. She could scarcely remember what had been said, nor did she understand how she’d ended up in this magnificent bedchamber. Her exhaustion had been so complete, perhaps the viscount had simply wanted her out of the drawing room before she’d collapsed in an inelegant heap on the floor.

It was possible that she’d never be given the opportunity to thank him for his kindness. No matter her assertion to the contrary, it had quickly become obvious that she was incapable of climbing the stairs unaided, and he had helped. She’d not looked at the viscount once, choosing instead to focus on the basic need to place one foot before the other, but his right arm had been a firm anchor the entire way.

By the time they’d arrived at this room, the housekeeper and maids had been ready with a bathtub of steaming water positioned before the fire. The viscount had turned her over to Mrs. Beecham’s care and had disappeared without a word. Elizabeth had been led inside, unable to stem her tears.

As much as she’d wanted to soak her broken body in the warm water, she’d known she did not have the strength to do it. Mrs. Beecham had seemed to understand. She’d set the two maids to work. They’d stripped her of her wet and muddy clothing and had helped her bathe and wash her hair. When they were finished, Mrs. Beecham had reappeared with a clean nightgown and a salve to ease the swelling and bruising.

Elizabeth touched her face again and sighed. It appeared that her facial injuries had proven too much for the liniment.

Sliding out from under the covers, she rose to her feet and crossed the room on stiff legs. The fire in the fireplace had long since died, but the sunshine promised a warm day. Perching on the edge of one of the window seats, she looked outside. A long gravel driveway curved around the front of the building and disappeared between tall privet hedges. Flower gardens stretched out beyond the hedges, ending with a wide expanse of lawn that led down to a pond. Trees, some standing tall and alone and others clustered in small groves, dotted the scenery, and above them all, swallows swooped up, down, and around in a magnificent display of acrobatics.

To the left, she could just make out the corner of another building built of the same cream-colored stone as the main house. As she watched, a man came out, leading a black stallion with a white stripe down its nose. He mounted swiftly, but rather than taking the driveway, he turned his horse the other direction and headed for the open fields beyond the trees. She followed his progress until he disappeared from sight behind a copse of trees, then she rose once more and moved to stand before the mirror.

She should have been better prepared for the sight that met her. The tightness and tenderness of her skin had hinted at the damage—but they had not been clues enough. She barely recognized herself. Half her face was distorted and discolored. Deep navy circled her eye and spread into purple and then gray as it traveled across her cheekbone toward her red, swollen lip. For the first time since her father had hit her, she wondered if her face would ever truly recover.

A soft knock interrupted her sorry assessment, and Elizabeth turned in time to see the door of the bedchamber open.

“Ah, good. You’re awake.” The Duchess of Kelbrook smiled, then she walked in, followed by a young maid carrying a tray. “Place the tray there, Bridget.”

The maid obediently set it on the small desk. “Will that be all, Your Grace?”

“Yes, thank you.”