Page 5 of Rescuing Lord Inglewood

The doctor’s forehead wrinkled. “Then it is there I will call upon you tomorrow, Miss Fox. Good day to you.” He bowed to Silas. “And to you, my lord.” The doctor left the room, so only a servant, Silas, and Esther remained.

Silas let out a slow breath as he moved to the couch. Esther, whose eyes were closed, rested her head on a cushion. He traced her features with his gaze, trying to see the girl he remembered in the lines of her face. Her cheeks were not so round as they’d been, and they lacked the rosiness of her childhood. Her hair had been a lighter brown with golden tips, but now the rich curls tumbling freely down her back were dark. Little Essie had grown into something of a beauty.

And Isaac would have Silas’s head for thinking any untoward thoughts about his sister.

“Esther?” he said aloud, going down to one knee beside the couch.

Her brow furrowed and she opened one eye to look at him, then the other came open as both went wide. “Lord Inglewood.”

Right. They were not children any longer. He saw ample evidence of that in the changes of her features. The fact that she recognized him immediately did not escape him. “Miss Fox. Good morning.” Was it still morning? It felt more like it ought to be evening, or another day entirely.

“Why are you here?” she asked, her lips pursing in puzzlement over the question.

“You do not remember? I am the man you flung yourself at on the walkway.” He tried to grin at her, to adopt the teasing tone from their childhood. It made the experience a little easier to bear, thinking back on those summer days. Esther had followed her brother and his friends wherever they went, whether it was up into trees, the attics of houses, or along sandy beaches. Despite being five years their junior, she was determined to be part of all their doings.

Her color came back into her cheeks, but it faded away again. “Truly? And you are unharmed?” She studied him from the top of his head down to his knees, as though looking him over for injury.

Silas stood and raised his hands then turned in a circle. “It is touching that here you are, injured, and your concern is for me. I am well, Miss Fox.” He lowered his arms and bowed. “Thanks to your quick thinking, I will have no more than a bruise or two.”

“I am glad of that, my lord.” She smiled weakly. “Even if my head does pound rather terribly.”

He pulled one of the chairs in the room closer to her and gestured for the footman to bring his towels and basin nearer. “Perhaps a cool cloth will help with that.” After removing his gloves, he prepared one of the smaller cloths by dipping it in the clean water. The doctor had left a towel beneath Esther’s head, which was spotted with blood—not so much as what was on Silas’s sleeve. How much of her blood had been spilled on his account?

Isaac would have something to say about it, were he present.

Silas folded the cloth over and then carefully laid it upon her forehead. She released a gentle sigh, her blanched lips parting. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Does it pain you to speak?” he asked, gentling his voice to an almost-whisper. “Or for me to speak to you?” Sitting in silence for however long it took someone to come for her might be best, but curiosity over his rescuer’s circumstances nipped at him. He had not heard word of Isaac in some time.

“No. I would prefer to talk. It might take my mind off my stomach, if not my head.”

Yes, the doctor said she might feel sick. He looked about for the bucket he had seen before and then pointed to it, catching the eye of the footman. The servant put the basin of water on a table, then fetched the bucket from near the hearth and brought it to Silas’s side before returning to his post against the wall.

That precaution taken, Silas studied the woman before him. She wore a fine gown, and appeared to be in good health, aside from the wound recently acquired for his sake.

His insides twisted with guilt. Why hadn’t he been paying attention to where he walked?

“Do you hear from Isaac often?” he asked. Speaking of her brother might be best, since he hadn’t seen Esther in years.

“His letters come as regularly as the post allows.” She kept her eyes closed, though her expression tightened. “From what I can tell, his duties in the army keep him extremely busy. Thus far, he remains safe.”

Isaac, as a baronet, had no obligation to serve in the British military. Yet he had purchased his own commission and went across the channel three years previous, to fight Bonaparte. Silas had not understood his friend’s need to take up arms, but he respected Isaac for it. “I am glad to hear it. I admit, I think of him every time the idiots in Parliament speak of the war effort.”

“I hope that means you do what you can to aid Isaac from home.” One of her eyes opened again, fixing him with a rather stern gaze. “He will not return until it is all over and done.”

“Which ought to be soon, since we expect France to surrender at any time.” Everyone knew Napoleon’s defeat at the hands of Russia had crippled the French army. The self-proclaimed emperor’s own generals had begun to turn against him. But talk of war likely was not the best way to occupy Esther’s mind. Silas cleared his throat and changed the subject. “How have you amused yourself in your brother’s absence?”

“As anyone in London does. I go to balls and card parties.” Her lips twitched slightly. “And I do my very best not to mortify my stepbrother’s wife. She is determined to see me wed and is forever in despair of failing me.”

Although the activity of seeking husbands for unattached ladies was not a secret, rarely had anyone spoken to Silas so openly of the pursuit. That Esther would, entertained him. “I suppose it is kind of her to take such an interest in you.”

“Mm.” The sound of amused agreement made him relax. “Diana—Mrs. Aubrey that is—promised my brother she would look after me while he was away. She is quite tenacious in keeping that promise.”

“How is your stepbrother?” Silas recalled little of the man. He had already been at school when Esther’s mother, the widow of a baronet, married the senior Mr. Aubrey. From all accounts, the match had been a good one for both families. Isaac had been raised by a good man, though it took the Fox children away from Woodsbridge and entirely out of Suffolk, where they had grown up together.

“He is a harried soul, or so his wife says.” Her lips parted in a grin before she groaned and raised a hand to the cloth.

“Ah, I have neglected your headache. Forgive me.” Silas reached for the cloth, his bare fingers brushed the cool, damp skin of her forehead. He swallowed, somewhat guiltily, as he damped the cloth and wrung it out again. He carefully laid it back upon her brow, arranging it to stay out of her face.