had washed in the trough, he rather missed the simple necessities of soap and warm water. But she had given him another crust of bread with a bit of cheese for his supper.
After he’d eaten, the cat crawled on his lap. Iain rubbed the feline’s ears for a moment, and the sound of low purring filled up the empty space of the room. There was no fire lit in the hearth, but the room was warm, if a bit dusty. Iain guessed he could cross the room in three long paces. The candlelight cast shadows against the wall, and he saw a stack of old paintings on the other side of the room, half-covered by a white cloth. The remaining contents of the tiny room were brooms and tin buckets.
Iain stripped off his shirt, and he leaned back on the narrow cot. He tried to think of how he could prove his identity. Either he had to find out which of the boys had stolen his ring or he had to rely on Lady Wolcroft to help him. He needed to question Beauregard once again. He’d tried earlier, in the stable, but the lad had refused to speak at all. In time, Iain intended to get back everything that had been stolen.
He lay awake, trying to hold back the darker memories of famine. After the first failed crop of potatoes, he had quietly begun hoarding food for his family and the tenants. Careful rations had helped them to survive, but they needed more.
He tried to envision Ashton with green fields and prosperity, refusing to dwell upon the past—only the means of atoning for it. And he had promised Michael that he would see it done.
His mother, in contrast, had fled Ireland, claiming she would never return. She didn’t believe for a moment that Iain would succeed, and he suspected she would spend her energy trying to wed her daughters to American millionaires. He hadn’t spoken to her in half a year, and rather doubted he would see her again. She loathed the sight of him, and he’d never really understood why. Michael had been the golden saint who could do no wrong—whereas Iain had been the black-hearted sinner.
His mother would find it fitting that he’d fallen into the ranks of the servants in this place. But not for long. He was rather looking forward to seeing Lady Rose’s reaction when she learned that he truly was an earl.
He did find her entertaining, and he’d enjoyed her company on the ride. After they had brought Beauregard home, Lady Rose had drawn her horse into a slow walk, taking the time to enjoy the night moments.
It occurred to him that this was her only means of moving about. He hadn’t seen a Bath chair anywhere and wondered why she chose to rely on servants to carry her. Earlier, in the garden, she’d attempted to stand and failed. Was she avoiding the chair because she did not wish to feel imprisoned by it?
Though he had been partly teasing when he’d suggested that they wed, it wasn’t entirely out of the question. Lady Rose intrigued him. She was lovely of face, and he also liked her wit. But then, if she was already spoken for, he would respect her wishes. It was entirely possible that they could become allies and help one another, however.
He let his mind turn over the idea as he lay back on the thin mattress and listened to the sounds of the old house. Outside his door, he heard a slight sound of someone walking up the stairs. He tensed, waiting for a knock.
When none came, he got up and walked to the door. “Who’s there?”
Again, nothing.
He didn’t bother to put on his shirt, but pushed on the door handle and was surprised to find that it opened easily. Mrs. Marlock had put the key inside, but either she’d neglected to lock it, or she’d only pretended to do so.
Iain pushed it open softly and saw a figure dressed in gray, walking down the narrow staircase. Quietly, he shadowed the person, keeping his footsteps light. It soon became evident that Lady Penford was walking in her sleep.
“Are you all right, Lady Penford?” he asked softly, hoping to gain her attention. She swayed a little, but
After he’d eaten, the cat crawled on his lap. Iain rubbed the feline’s ears for a moment, and the sound of low purring filled up the empty space of the room. There was no fire lit in the hearth, but the room was warm, if a bit dusty. Iain guessed he could cross the room in three long paces. The candlelight cast shadows against the wall, and he saw a stack of old paintings on the other side of the room, half-covered by a white cloth. The remaining contents of the tiny room were brooms and tin buckets.
Iain stripped off his shirt, and he leaned back on the narrow cot. He tried to think of how he could prove his identity. Either he had to find out which of the boys had stolen his ring or he had to rely on Lady Wolcroft to help him. He needed to question Beauregard once again. He’d tried earlier, in the stable, but the lad had refused to speak at all. In time, Iain intended to get back everything that had been stolen.
He lay awake, trying to hold back the darker memories of famine. After the first failed crop of potatoes, he had quietly begun hoarding food for his family and the tenants. Careful rations had helped them to survive, but they needed more.
He tried to envision Ashton with green fields and prosperity, refusing to dwell upon the past—only the means of atoning for it. And he had promised Michael that he would see it done.
His mother, in contrast, had fled Ireland, claiming she would never return. She didn’t believe for a moment that Iain would succeed, and he suspected she would spend her energy trying to wed her daughters to American millionaires. He hadn’t spoken to her in half a year, and rather doubted he would see her again. She loathed the sight of him, and he’d never really understood why. Michael had been the golden saint who could do no wrong—whereas Iain had been the black-hearted sinner.
His mother would find it fitting that he’d fallen into the ranks of the servants in this place. But not for long. He was rather looking forward to seeing Lady Rose’s reaction when she learned that he truly was an earl.
He did find her entertaining, and he’d enjoyed her company on the ride. After they had brought Beauregard home, Lady Rose had drawn her horse into a slow walk, taking the time to enjoy the night moments.
It occurred to him that this was her only means of moving about. He hadn’t seen a Bath chair anywhere and wondered why she chose to rely on servants to carry her. Earlier, in the garden, she’d attempted to stand and failed. Was she avoiding the chair because she did not wish to feel imprisoned by it?
Though he had been partly teasing when he’d suggested that they wed, it wasn’t entirely out of the question. Lady Rose intrigued him. She was lovely of face, and he also liked her wit. But then, if she was already spoken for, he would respect her wishes. It was entirely possible that they could become allies and help one another, however.
He let his mind turn over the idea as he lay back on the thin mattress and listened to the sounds of the old house. Outside his door, he heard a slight sound of someone walking up the stairs. He tensed, waiting for a knock.
When none came, he got up and walked to the door. “Who’s there?”
Again, nothing.
He didn’t bother to put on his shirt, but pushed on the door handle and was surprised to find that it opened easily. Mrs. Marlock had put the key inside, but either she’d neglected to lock it, or she’d only pretended to do so.
Iain pushed it open softly and saw a figure dressed in gray, walking down the narrow staircase. Quietly, he shadowed the person, keeping his footsteps light. It soon became evident that Lady Penford was walking in her sleep.
“Are you all right, Lady Penford?” he asked softly, hoping to gain her attention. She swayed a little, but
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