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“Who would dare do such a thing?”

“Those answers will have to await the constable. Jack?”

The first footman hurried around the table. “My lord.”

“See Lord Pratt is shown to a room so he may dry out.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They were on the stairs then, hurrying up them without heed to the trail of water and mud they left behind. For a moment, Deirdre wondered who would have to scrub it all clean again.

But it didn’t matter. She would do it herself if necessary, and sure and the others would feel the same. So long as death didn’t visit them tonight. So long as his lordship didn’t fade away again into the man he had been before she came.

There’d been laughter in the house, even with Lady Ramsey and her daughters gone back to London after the Duke of Stafford’s funeral.

Under her breath she whispered a prayer for perhaps the first time since Da died. “Save her, Lord Jesus. Save her.”

At the main floor, Jack led Pratt off in the direction of the bachelor’s wing. Deirdre took the chance to slide around his lordship so she could hurry ahead to the baroness’s room. She reached it half a minute ahead of him and Mrs. Doyle, giving her just enough time to snap open a spare sheet to lay across the coverlet.

Lord Whitby lowered his daughter’s muddied form onto it with agony on his face. “Look what he’s done to her. The monster.”

Deirdre glanced only a moment at her face, scraped and bruised. It would hurt her, aye, but it wasn’t what had knocked her into darkness. She undid the buttons on the lady’s riding jacket and hissed out a breath at the bright red blood staining the side of her once-white shirt.

“Step back now, your lordship,” Mrs. Doyle said, her voice calm and soothing and brooking no argument. “Let us tend her as we can. Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

“I don’t know.” He sounded helpless. Looked it, as he sank into a chair and stared into the corner. “I saw her ride back in, dismount. The horse was skittish, but she tried to get him inside. Then . . . I don’t know. The lights were out, but I thought perhaps the storm—then I heard a gunshot. And saw someone pushing her down when the lightning flashed. So I ran. Pratt reached her first and shot the man when he pulled out a second gun.”

Deirdre tried to ease the jacket off the lady’s shoulders. She groaned and pulled away. “Shh, now, my lady. Sure and we have to get you out of these muddy clothes.”

The baroness blinked her eyes open, though they were glazed. “Deirdre?”

“Aye.” She smoothed the sodden locks from her ladyship’s face. “Your jacket.”

The lady shifted but moaned again. “My shoulder.”

Mrs. Doyle came to her aid. “The jacket is ruined anyway, we’ll cut it off. And don’t you fret, my lady. You won’t feel a thing.”

Lady Berkeley must have been clenching her teeth against the pain, given the pulse in her jaw. But she nodded and let them cut away the dark blue fabric. And, once free of it, said, “Papa?”

Lord Whitby was on his feet again in half a blink, taking Mrs. Doyle’s place when she turned to fetch the basin. “I am here.”

Deirdre had to give the lady credit—she nearly managed a smile.

“I see that. And in quite a state. You should go and get dry.”

“Absolutely not.”

“They need to help me from the rest of my habit.” She swallowed and pressed a hand to her oozing side. “It isn’t so bad. I think the corset must have deflected the worst of the blade.”

Perhaps he believed her—or perhaps the mention of corsets did its work. Either way, Lord Whitby heaved a sigh but nodded and, after leaning down to kiss her forehead, headed for the door. “Ten minutes, and I’ll be back. Is there anything I can get for you?”

Mrs. Doyle stepped forward, setting the basin on the side table where
La Bible
usually rested. “She’ll want coffee, my lord. That steam-pressed concoction the chef makes.”

His lordship chuckled and gripped his daughter’s hand a moment.

Her attempt at a smile faded. “Oscuro?”

“Safe and well. The grooms had been knocked out and bound, but they were working themselves loose when you fainted. Francis is giving your horse an extra cup of oats for his heroics.”

She nodded, swallowed, and then fastened her eyes on her father. “Is he dead? The man?”

Whitby hesitated a moment and then nodded. “I imagine the constable will want to speak with you. Tomorrow is soon enough for that though.”

Deirdre tucked away a wisp of hair that had slipped from her cap and turned to the baroness’s feet. She would remove the muddy boots rather than stand idle.

“No, don’t put him off. I would as soon get it over with.”

“We shall see.”

They would see who was the more stubborn. Deirdre untied the riding boots and slipped them off as the earl finally left.

Mrs. Doyle closed the door behind him. And they got to work.

The scissors came out again to remove the ruined shirt. While Mrs. Doyle put it with the jacket pieces, Deirdre unhooked the corset and let it fall to the sides. From there, they could shift her chemise and get their first glimpse of the wound.

The baroness sucked in a fast breath but made no complaints as Mrs. Doyle sponged away the blood.

“It isn’t as deep as I feared, and the bleeding is slow,” the housekeeper said. “But it’s long and will still require stitches.”

“And let’s pray this eye doesn’t blacken and the scrapes heal quickly.” Deirdre picked up the wet rag that had already cooled and set it gently over the swollen side of the baroness’s face. “Otherwise you’ll be a fine sight for your cousin’s wedding next week.”

Lady Berkeley lifted her uninjured arm to hold the cool cloth in place. “Aunt Mary will be furious with me.”

“She couldn’t be, child. You were attacked.” Mrs. Doyle pressed her lips together and shook her head. Still, Deirdre caught the glint of tears in her eyes, and sure and the baroness did as well. “I cannot think why anyone would do this to you.”

Deirdre’s hands shook as they moved to assist her out of the split skirt. “Glad I am that Lord Pratt killed the monster.”

“No.” The lady’s eyes slid closed. “Now I’ll never know what he wanted from me.”

“Leave it to the law and his lordship to figure that out, child.” Mrs. Doyle held out a hand for the mud-caked skirt. “I agree with O’Malley. No one should be allowed to hurt one of our own. He got what he deserved.”

The baroness didn’t open her eyes, but she sniffed, and her nostrils flared. “One of your own?”

“Aye.” Deirdre headed for the door when there was a knock upon it. She cracked it open, smiling when she saw Monsieur Bisset in the hall, a steaming cup in hand. His lordship couldn’t have put in the order yet. But the chef had known. She took the espresso with a nod and could feel her da smiling down on her when she set it on the table. “And don’t you be forgetting it, my lady.”

As soon as they had her dressed again and settled in to await the doctor, Deirdre gathered the ruined habit to take down to the laundress. The split skirt possibly could be saved—and she knew that was the important part for her ladyship.

When she reached the bottom of the service stairs, those gathered in the kitchen all stood. Hiram stepped forward. “How is she?”

Deirdre nodded. “Awake again, and the bleeding has stopped.”

A collective sigh filled the room, and chatter sprang up. She
didn’t try to make sense of all the mutters of outrage and sympathy. She headed for the laundry.

Hiram fell in beside her. “Jack said Pratt will be staying the night—I wanted you to know. He’s changed already and is in the library, so keep yourself above stairs with her ladyship, Dee.”

She paused in the empty, close hallway so she could look up at Hiram. “Don’t be worrying for me, Hi. I know how to steer clear of the likes of him.”

“I can’t help it.” He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and half turned toward the kitchen. “I know he comes sniffing around after the baroness whenever he can find the excuse, but usually his lordship boots him out as soon as is decent. Tonight he invited him to stay. It could make the lout bold.”

“But not so bold as to come to the baroness’s room—and that’s where I’ll be, for sure and certain.” She smiled, because she was glad he cared, even if she shouldn’t be. Then she nodded toward the laundry. “I need to take care of these. I thank you for the warning, Hiram. It’s good to know to mind my step.”

He gave her a thoughtful little smile that seemed to say
I wonder
and spun back for the kitchen.

Deirdre sighed and shifted her muddied, bloodied burden. She would wonder too, if she dared to let herself.

Laundry deposited for a scrubbing, she headed back up without speaking to anyone else. Not all the way to the family’s floor though—no, she headed for the library, checking over her shoulder often to make sure no one saw her go that way.

Ready to beard the lion, as they said, in his den. Feeling more certain with every step, she opened the door without hesitation, stepped inside, and clicked it shut behind her.

Lord Pratt stood by the fire, an arm braced on the mantel. At her entrance, he glanced up but then back to the flames. “How is she?”

“Well enough, I think.” Squaring her shoulders, she marched
over to the fireplace. “Are you behind this, my lord? Did you hire him? Because I swear if you did, I’m done helping you. She could have been
killed
!”

“And you think I want that?” Temper flashing in his eyes, he straightened. “I want to marry her, you dolt, not attend her funeral. What possible good could she do me dead?”

He came a menacing step closer, but she didn’t retreat. Not today.

“But your plan could have gone wrong. You could have hired him still, to scare her, then happened by at the right moment to rescue her. Play the hero, win Whitby’s gratitude and her favor.”

He advanced another step, glared down at her. “You think me so low. So base. So willing to flirt with death for
favor
—yet you dare come in here and accuse me of it?”

It might well be her undoing, but she lifted her chin. “Did you do it?”

For a second, he held her gaze, and the familiar devil looked back at her. Then he looked away. “No.” His voice had lost its edge. “I did not hire that sot to scare the baroness so I could rescue her. Satisfied?”

She wasn’t sure. She shouldn’t be . . . Yet she believed him. Perhaps he had lied before, but this seemed different.

She backed up a step. “I had to ask. I don’t want to see her hurt again.”

“I assure you, Deirdre. Neither do I.” He returned to his place by the grate, turning his face back to the flames. “Go tend your mistress.”

She eased toward the door, hesitant to turn her back on him. But he seemed lost in the dance of the fire. She spun and slipped out again. As she made her way back to the baroness’s chamber, though, she could scarcely make sense of it.

Was it possible he actually cared about her ladyship? No—he
hadn’t mentioned feeling, just that she wouldn’t do him any good dead.

She winced now, where she hadn’t before. Something had to be dead inside
him
, to speak so.

Voices came from the bedchamber when she arrived, and she found Lord Whitby inside with the doctor from Eden Dale. They were both smiling and making encouraging noises, so Deirdre slipped behind them and headed for the dressing room and its attached lavatory. Much as the baroness needed it, she wouldn’t feel up for the bath Deirdre had drawn. She drained the water.

Rising again, she set things to rights, taking her time. When she headed back through to the bedroom, the doctor was following Mrs. Doyle out.

The baroness seemed to be asleep.

“He gave her a bit of laudanum,” his lordship said from the chair he had pulled up beside her bed. “Just enough to ease a bit of the pain so she can rest.”

Deirdre crossed to the other side of the bed and pulled up another chair. “I daresay she needs it.”

But it looked none too peaceful. Lady Berkeley turned her head from side to side, little restless noises coming from her lips. Then the “
Non, non, non
” Deirdre knew so well.

Lord Whitby did not. He leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Perhaps I should have let her refuse it.”

“’Tisn’t the laudanum, your lordship. It’s the nightmare. She has it most every night.” But she shouldn’t have to suffer it
this
night. Deirdre sat on the bed, ran her fingers along her ladyship’s face as she would have Molly’s, and then caught up her hand. “
Shh
now, my lady. It’s only a dream. Only a dream.”

“The same one? Every night?”

She tilted her head toward Lord Whitby. “She never speaks of them—but they always look like this.”

“She’s never said a thing to me.” And the hurt of it made
creases around his eyes. But still he took her other hand, cradled it in his. Murmured, “All is well, my little Brooklet. Hush now. Hush.”

For a second it seemed she would listen. Then she gasped, her eyes flew open, and her chest heaved. “My mother—it must be. ‘
You have all her things
,’ he said. All her things.”

Now his lordship looked to Deirdre, panicked question in his eyes.

She could only shrug. “
That
must be the laudanum, my lord.”

He sighed and brushed the fair curls from his daughter’s forehead. “Easy, precious. Go back to sleep.”

Her eyes unfocused, she shook her head. “
Non
. They always find me there. The lightning and the thunder and the night and . . .”

“Shh. They’ll not find you tonight. I’m here.”

“Papa.” She blinked rapidly, and a measure of awareness lit her eyes. “What was I saying?”

“Nothing.” He smiled and kissed her forehead. “Rest. I’m here. Rest.”

Deirdre slipped from the mattress and went to the window. Arms folded across her middle, she fought back the burn of tears. Her da had done the same thing when one of them had the fever or woke up in a fright. He had looked at her and her siblings with that same light of love. Family, it seemed, crossed from abovestairs to below with few differences, at the heart of it.

She sighed and looked past the pattering rain. The thunder had moved off. The lightning had ceased. But the night was full and dark and promised to be a long one.