Merritt’s stomach plummeted.
Who is she? Was he joking? No . . . he was staring at her as if she were a stranger he didn’t particularly want in the room with him. Was something wrong with his vision?
Garrett made a subtle patting motion in the air, signaling for her to stay calm. “Mr. MacRae,” she asked, “do you not know this lady?”
His baffled, wary gaze returned to Merritt, and he shook his head. “Have we met?”
Her throat wouldn’t work. She nodded, tried again to speak, and couldn’t. Realizing she was still nodding dementedly, she forced herself to stop. Yes, as a matter of fact, you spent most of last night in my bed, making love to me in every position except upside-down. She still felt the trace of intimate soreness, and the strained muscles of inner thighs that had been spread for hours.
And he didn’t recognize her.
“This is Lady Merritt,” Garrett told him in a matter-of-fact tone. “You made her acquaintance a few days ago upon arriving in London.”
“Sterling’s widow,” Keir said in that rough voice, frowning as if the effort to think caused him pain. “I beg your pardon, milady.”
“That’s . . . quite all right,” Merritt managed to say.
Garrett reached over to adjust an ice bag beside his head. “Nothing to worry about,” she said. “It’s time for more oxygen.” She turned the valves on the oxygen cylinder, fiddled with the tubing and attached wash bottle, and placed the cup against his mouth and nose. “Are you able to hold this while I speak to Lady Merritt for a moment?”
“Aye.”
By tacit agreement, the two women went to the threshold. Merritt stood out in the hallway, while Garrett spoke softly through the partially open door. “First . . . there’s a very good chance he’ll survive.”
“And recover?”
There was a worrisome hesitation before Garrett replied. “As far as I can tell, there are at least two ribs that are either fractured or badly bruised, but either way they’ll heal. The lungs are a more concerning issue. There’s a particular injury associated with explosions—I saw it once during my residency in France when a young soldier was brought to the hospital, and more recently when I treated a patient whose kitchen boiler exploded. Even though there’s no obvious external damage to the chest, the force of the blast bruises the lungs. Mr. MacRae’s case doesn’t seem to be severe, however. With rest and good care, I would expect his lungs and breathing capacity to return to normal in ten to fourteen days.”
“Thank God,” Merritt said fervently.
“The more serious problem is the concussion—a trauma to the brain caused by a blow to the head. It’s a good sign that he’s had no seizures, nor is he slurring his words. However, I need to evaluate him more thoroughly before giving you a realistic prognosis. There could be lasting after-effects such as headaches, problems sleeping, difficulty with things like reading or tallying numbers . . .”
“And memory loss?”
“Yes. The good news is, he’s perfectly cognizant of who he is and where he lives, and he’s told me the names of family and friends, as well as a few details about his business. But, the last thing he remembers is departing for London. I estimate he’s lost approximately a week’s worth of memories.”
Merritt sagged against the doorjamb and stared fixedly at the doctor.
A week, she thought numbly. A small loss, most people would say, all things considered. She might have said the same thing herself, not long ago.
But now she knew how important a week could be. A life could change course in a few days. In an hour. A single moment. People could gain and lose the world.
A heart could be broken.
For hours, Merritt occupied a chair in the corner of the guest room and watched as Garrett took care of Keir. She did what she could to help, taking away used rags and towels, emptying basins of soapy water, and holding the oxygen mask over Keir’s face while Garrett stepped out of the room from time to time.
“Why don’t you go to your room and lie down for a bit?” Garrett had offered, around midnight. “I promise to wake you if there’s any change in his condition.”
“I’d rather stay, if you don’t mind. You probably think I’m very foolish, carrying on over a man I’ve known only a matter of days.”
An odd little smile crossed Garrett’s face. “Someday I’ll tell you about my courtship with Ethan.”
At approximately two o’clock in the morning, there came a tap at the guest room door, and Merritt heard her brother’s voice.
“Merritt. It’s me.”
She sat up in the corner chair she’d occupied for hours, and rubbed her sore, tired eyes. “Come in.”
The door cracked open to reveal Luke’s grimy face. “Better not,” he said ruefully. “I’m filthy, and I’ve been toasted like Welsh rarebit.” He glanced around the edge of the door, surveying the scene.
Keir was sleeping on his side, while Garrett sat nearby, monitoring his condition and administering oxygen at intervals.
Merritt stood and stretched her sore back, and went out to the hallway to talk with Luke. He was sooty, muddy, and clearly exhausted, and his clothes reeked of smoke. “Poor old Buster,” she said with a frown of concern. Luke had earned the affectionate family nickname as an energetic toddler, mowing down everything in his path and leaving broken teacups and vases in his wake. “What can I do for you? Are you hungry? I’ll make sandwiches and tea. Do you—”
“First tell me how MacRae is.”
She relayed everything Garrett had told her about Keir’s condition.
“Naturally we’ll make sure he has the best of care,” Luke said. “But he can’t stay here, sis. He really can’t.”
“It’s not up to you, dear,” Merritt replied gently.
“Hang it all, I know that. But you still can’t—”
“Did you send word to the insurance company?”
“Yes, and then I went to the docks. The fire’s under control now. The transit shed burned down, but the other warehouses are intact.”
“That’s a relief.”
Luke nodded and rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “I saw Ethan Ransom there with the fire inspector, and I went over to talk with them.”
Merritt blinked in surprise. Garrett’s husband, Ethan, held a position of considerable power and authority in the Metropolitan Police. Even though the warehouse fire had been serious, an investigation would ordinarily have been handled by someone much lower down.
“Do they suspect arson?” she asked.
“Yes. It had to be. As I told Ransom, every Sterling employee knows the fire safety rules. They routinely check their pockets for stray matches every morning before entering the warehouse. No machinery was in operation, so it couldn’t have been a stray spark. The only person who had access to the building was MacRae, and I can’t conceive he would have been fool enough to start a fire in the flat. Furthermore, even if he had, it would have been contained in there, because the flat—and the stairwell leading up to it—were built with fireproof brick walls instead of frame.” Luke paused. “Ransom asked if he could stop by here tonight to check on his wife and ask a few questions in the bargain. I told him I thought you wouldn’t object.”
“On the contrary, I’ll be very pleased to see him.”
“Good, because he’ll be here soon.” Luke paused before asking hopefully, “Did you say something about sandwiches?”
Merritt smiled. “I’ll bring a tray to the front parlor.”
She went to the kitchen, fetched various items from the larder and pantry, and set the teakettle to boil. Although most ladies of her position rarely, if ever, set foot in the kitchen, Merritt had fallen into the habit of making small meals for herself on Cook’s days off. It was faster and more convenient than waiting for things to be brought to her, and there was something soothing about puttering in her own kitchen. She made sandwiches with brown bread, ham, and mustard, and added hard-boiled eggs and pickles on the side.
By the time Merritt brought a tray out to the front parlor, she found Luke talking with Ethan Ransom.
“My goodness,” she exclaimed, entering the room, “I didn’t hear you arrive, Mr. Ransom. Luke, dear, if you’ll take this and set it on the low table—” She handed the heavy tray to her brother and turned to Ethan. “I’m so very glad to see you,” she said, giving him both her hands.
Ethan Ransom pressed her hands firmly in his and smiled down at her. “My lady.” He was a good-looking man with black hair and dark blue eyes, his handsomeness agreeably roughened by a scar or two, and a nose that had once been broken. He had the perpetually vigilant gaze of a man who was all too familiar with the more dangerous streets and rookeries of London. But when he was among family and friends, he had a quiet, relaxed charm that Merritt liked immensely.
As the illegitimate son of the late Earl of Trenear, Ethan was the most enigmatic member of the Ravenel family. Very little was known about his past, and he preferred to keep it that way. However, he was good friends with West Ravenel, who was married to Merritt’s best friend, Phoebe, and Phoebe had told her a great deal about him.
“Ethan once worked as a government agent,” Phoebe had said. “He was part of an intelligence force that was secretly funded by the Home Office. It had something to do with espionage and foreign intelligence, and one’s better off not asking too many questions about it. But Ethan was a highly trained agent.”
Bringing her thoughts back to the present, Merritt asked Ethan, “How long have you been here?”
“I’ve only just arrived,” he replied.
“If you’ve come to retrieve your wife, I’m afraid we can’t give her back yet,” Merritt said with a wan smile. “She’s the only reason Mr. MacRae has survived.”
“How is he now?”
“Badly injured. He has a concussion and can’t remember anything about the past few days.”
“At all?” Ethan frowned, his gaze turning inward. “Damn,” he muttered.
Luke, who had picked up a sandwich and was in the process of wolfing it down, volunteered with his mouth half full, “Dr. Gibson said the memory loss may be temporary.”
Nonplussed by her brother’s oafish manners, Merritt said, “Dear, why don’t you make yourself comfortable on the couch?”
Luke gave her an unrepentant glance. “Sis, I know you’d prefer me to sit and eat like a civilized person. But if you knew everything these trousers have been through tonight, you wouldn’t want them on your furniture.”
Ethan’s lips twitched.
“I made several sandwiches,” Merritt told Ethan. “You’re welcome to have some if you’d like.”
“Thank you, but first I’d like to see my wife.”
“I’ll take you up to her,” Merritt said promptly, leading him out of the parlor.
Luke’s muffled voice came from behind them. “I’ll keep an eye on the sandwiches.”
As they crossed the entrance foyer on the way to the stairs, Ethan stopped Merritt with a low murmur. “My lady.”
She turned to him with an inquiring glance.
“Before we go upstairs,” Ethan said carefully, “there’s something I need to ask. I’m in the process of putting a puzzle together, and your help would be very much appreciated. Obviously, whatever you tell me will be kept in confidence.”
“Is Mr. MacRae a part of the puzzle?”
He stared at her directly as he replied. “He’s the center of it.”
That gave Merritt a chill. “Has he been accused of something?”
“No,” Ethan said with reassuring firmness. “Nor is he under suspicion of any wrongdoing. At the moment, my primary concern is keeping him alive.”
“In that case, ask me anything.”
“Last night, after Garrett left here . . . did MacRae end up staying for dinner?”
“He did.”
“When did he leave?”
Merritt hesitated. It was no small risk to answer that question. Were it to be made publicly known that she’d spent the night with a man out of wedlock, her reputation would be ruined. She would become a fallen woman—as in fallen from the grace of God—and treated as an outcast by polite society. Even sympathetic friends would have no choice but to shun her or have their own reputations ruined by association.
She felt color flooding her cheeks, but she held his gaze as she replied calmly, “He stayed here the entire night, and left soon after the bells at St. George’s rang.”
It relieved her to see no trace of censure in Ethan’s gaze. “Thank you,” he said simply, acknowledging her trust. “Did he happen to mention where he was going?”
“He had business meetings. I’m not sure with whom, but . . .” Merritt paused as she heard a decisive knock at the front door. “Who on earth . . . ?” she said blankly, and went to answer it.
As the door opened, a gust of cold autumn wind blew in, causing the hem of the visitor’s flowing black overcoat to flicker like a raven’s wings. He cut a magnificent figure, looking as fresh and alert as if it were morning rather than the dead of night.
“Uncle Sebastian?” Merritt asked in bewilderment. It was unheard-of for a duke to wait on someone’s doorstop. Usually a footman would first come to knock and make inquiries before the lord or lady descended from the carriage. Tonight, however, it seemed that Sebastian, the Duke of Kingston, had decided not to stand on ceremony. He smiled at Merritt.
“Darling girl,” he said quietly. “May I come in?”
As soon as he was inside, Merritt went to Phoebe’s father, and his arms closed around her in a brief, comforting embrace. She and her siblings had always known Kingston as the kind, handsome man with an abundant supply of funny stories, and always made time to play jackstraws or checkers with bored children. As Merritt had grown older, however, it had been impossible to avoid the gossip about his notorious past. She found it difficult to reconcile that version of him—the skirt-chasing scoundrel—with the devoted family man whose entire world centered around his wife. Whatever Kingston’s past, he was like a second father, and she would have trusted him with her life.
The duke looked down at Merritt with a mixture of fondness and concern. “I’m sorry about the warehouse,” he said. “Whatever you need, you have only to ask.”
“Thank you, Uncle, but . . . how did you find out so quickly? And why are you here?”
For all Kingston’s charm, he was a difficult man to read, habitually keeping his thoughts and feelings concealed. “I came to ask after the injured man,” he said. “I happened to make his acquaintance at my club the day before yesterday.”
“Yes, he told me about that.”
Sharp interest flickered in the duke’s gaze. “You saw him afterward?”
Merritt shrugged evasively, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.
“And now you’ve brought him to your own home,” he commented.
“The warehouse flat was destroyed,” Merritt said, trying not to sound defensive.
“Tell me the nature of his injuries.”
“Well, you see—wait, before we go into that, why have you taken such an interest in Mr. MacRae? And how—” Merritt stopped and looked up at Ethan, who had come to her side. She realized the two of them knew something about Keir that she didn’t. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
“I sent word to His Grace earlier this evening,” Ethan replied, “as soon as I found out MacRae had been injured.” He turned to Kingston with a slight scowl. “Sir, I thought I made it clear there was no need for you to come.”
“You did,” Kingston said calmly. “However, in light of the fact that over the course of two nights the lad was nearly carved up and roasted like a saddle of mutton, my involvement is obviously called for.”
Luke spoke up then, having come from the parlor at the sound of the duke’s arrival. “Hello, Uncle Sebastian. What did you just say? Carved up like a . . . did something happen to MacRae that I don’t know about? Involving a knife?”
Merritt answered reluctantly. “Someone attacked Mr. MacRae in an alley the night before last, when he was on the way here for dinner. I sent for Dr. Gibson to come stitch him up.”
“On the way here for dinner . . .” Luke repeated, and gave her a dark look.
Ethan, meanwhile, regarded the duke with thinly veiled exasperation. “With all due respect, Your Grace . . .” He paused to search for words.
After a few tense moments, Kingston let out a short sigh. “Ransom, everyone knows the phrase ‘with all due respect’ never precedes anything respectful whatsoever. Just speak your mind.”
“Yes, sir. Your involvement at this point is only going to complicate the situation. It would be best for all concerned if you’d go home and wait for me to send word.”
The duke leveled a cool glance at him. “You know why I’m not going to do that.”
“He might know,” Merritt burst out, “but I don’t, and I’d like someone to explain what you’re being so mysterious about.”
Ethan looked apologetic as he replied. “I’m not at liberty to say, my lady.”
She turned to Kingston. “Uncle?”
“My dear, as of yet there’s nothing to tell, only unconfirmed suspicions. I’d rather not discuss it now.” The duke focused on Ethan. “Ransom, what did you find out at the scene of the fire?”
“It was arson,” Ethan said quietly. “The fire inspector found discarded kerosene cans by the road between the warehouse and the export sheds. And someone tampered with the exterior door to the bonded warehouse. The deadbolt was locked and the door handles removed. Whoever did it waited until MacRae was in the warehouse flat, and made sure he couldn’t escape after the fire was set.”
Merritt began to tremble with horror and rage. “Why would someone want to kill him?”
“I don’t know yet,” Ethan replied. “But I’ll find out. In the meantime, he can’t stay here.”
Luke broke in triumphantly. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“We need to take him out of London,” Ethan continued, “to a place where he can recover in safety while I find out who’s behind this.”
“I’ve already decided to convey Mr. MacRae to Hampshire,” Merritt said, “to Stony Cross Park.”
Her brother looked at her blankly. “Home? Our home?”
“Our parents’ home,” she said. “I’m sure they won’t mind taking him in and helping me look after him.”
“He’s not a stray puppy, Merritt!”
Ethan intervened before an argument began in earnest. “My lady, since we don’t yet know why MacRae is in danger, or who might be after him, I think it’s better if you and your family are kept out of it.”
“Ransom is right,” the duke told her flatly. “You have more than enough to keep you occupied, and you have a reputation to consider. Don’t worry about MacRae. You have my personal assurance he’ll receive the best of care.” He leveled a glance at Ethan. “He’ll recuperate at my home in Sussex. My estate is large and well-guarded, and my wife and two youngest children are away on a trip to Paris.”
“Uncle Sebastian,” Luke asked in bemusement, “why do you want him? In fact, why are you here at all?”
Kingston ignored the questions, his attention remaining on Ethan. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements for transportation,” he said. “If the doctor says MacRae can be moved, I’ll have him out of here by morning.”
Ethan considered that, and agreed with a nod. “I’ll tell Garrett there’s no choice,” he said quietly. “He won’t be safe here, and neither will Lady Merritt, until he’s gone.”
Merritt was filled with anxiety as she realized the situation was now out of her control. Keir was being taken away from her. Decisions would be made for him, involving his safety and health, that she would have no part of. She couldn’t let that happen.
“I’m coming with you,” she burst out. “I insist. I must.”
As all three men looked at her, she realized how odd her behavior must appear. She was far too agitated, too emotional, over the fate of a man she barely knew.
A curious, speculative expression flickered across the duke’s face. “Why must you?” he asked softly.
Merritt took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and replied calmly, “You see, Mr. MacRae and I are engaged.”
