“I don’t know, it seems very presumptuous.” Her mother frowned. “We are not family."

“He doesn’t have family!"

Lady Winstead caught her lower lip between her teeth. “He was such a nice boy, but I just don’t think . . .” Honoria planted her hands on her hips. “If you do not come with me, I will go alone.” “Honoria!” Lady Winstead drew back with shock, and for the first time in the conversation, a spark flared in her pale eyes. “You will do no such thing. Your reputation will be in tatters."

“He might be dying.” “I’m sure it’s not as serious as that."

Honoria clutched her hands together. They had begun to shake, and her fingers felt terribly cold. “I hardly think his housekeeper would have written to me if it weren’t."

“Oh, all right,” Lady Winstead said with a little sigh. “We will leave tomorrow.” Honoria shook her head. “Today."

“Today? Honoria, you know such trips take planning. I couldn’t possibly—"

“Today, Mother. There is no time to lose.” Honoria hurried back down the stairs, calling over her shoulder, “I will see to having the carriage prepared. Be ready within the hour!"

But Lady Winstead, showing some of the fire she’d possessed before her only son had been banished from the country, did even better than that. She was ready in forty-five minutes, bags packed, accompanied by her maid, and waiting for Honoria in the front drawing room.

Five minutes later they were on their way.


The journey to northern Cambridgeshire could be made in one (long) day, and so it was near to midnight by the time the Winstead carriage pulled up in front of Fensmore. Lady Winstead had fallen asleep a bit north of Saffron Walden, but Honoria was wide awake.

From the moment they had turned onto the long drive that led to Fensmore, her posture had become tense and alert, and it was all she could do to keep herself from gripping the handle to the door.

As it was, when they finally came to a stop, she did not wait for anyone to come to her aid. Within seconds she had pushed open the door, hopped down, and was hurrying up the front steps.

The house was quiet, and Honoria spent at least five minutes banging the knocker up and down before she finally saw a flicker of candlelight in a window and heard footsteps hurriedly approaching.

The butler opened the door—Honoria could not remember his name—and before he could utter a word, she said, “Mrs.

Wetherby wrote to me about the earl’s condition. I must see him at once.” The butler drew back slightly, his manner every bit as proud and aristocratic as his employer’s. “I’m afraid that’s impossible."

Honoria had to grab hold of the door frame for support. “What do you mean?” she whispered. Surely Marcus could not have succumbed to his fever in the short time since Mrs. Wetherby had written to her.

“The earl is asleep,” the butler replied testily. “I will not wake him at this time of night."

Relief rushed through Honoria like blood to a sleeping limb.

“Oh, thank you,” she said fervently, reaching out and taking his hand. “Now, please, I must see him. I promise I will not disturb him."

The butler looked vaguely alarmed by her hand on his. “I cannot permit you to see him at this time. May I remind you that you have not even seen fit to give me your name."

Honoria blinked. Were visitors so common at Fensmore that he could not recall her visit less than a week prior? Then she realized that he was squinting in the darkness. Good heavens, he probably could not see her clearly. “Please accept my apologies,” she said in her most placating voice. “I am Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith, and my mother, the Countess of Winstead, is waiting in the carriage with her maid. Perhaps someone might help her.” An enormous change came over the butler’s wrinkled face.

“Lady Honoria!” he exclaimed. “I beg your pardon. I did not recognize you in the darkness. Please, please, come in.” He took her by the arm and led her inside. Honoria allowed him to steer her along, slowing the pace ever-so-slightly to turn around and look back at the carriage. “My mother . . ."

“I shall have a footman attend to her with all possible haste,” the butler assured her. “But we must get you to a room immediately.

We do not have one prepared, but there are several that can be made ready at short notice.” He paused at a doorway, leaned in, and pulled several times on a cord. “The maids will be up and about at once."

“Please do not rouse them on my accord,” Honoria said, although from the vigor with which he had yanked on the bellpull, she suspected it was too late for that. “Might I confer with Mrs.

Wetherby? I hate to wake her, but it is of the utmost importance.” “Of course, of course,” the butler assured her, still ushering her deeper into the house.

“And my mother . . .” Honoria said with a nervous backward glance. After her original protests, Lady Winstead had been a marvelously good sport all day. Honoria did not want to leave her sleeping in a carriage. The driver and grooms would never leave her unattended, and of course her maid sat on the opposite cushion, also fast asleep, but still, it did not seem right.

“I will greet her just as soon as I convey you to Mrs.

Wetherby,” the butler said.

“Thank you, er . . .” It did feel awkward, not knowing his name.

“Springpeace, my lady.” He took her hand in both of his and squeezed. His hands were rheumy, and his grip unsteady, but there was an urgency in his grasp. Gratitude, too. He looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers. “May I say, my lady, that I am very glad that you are here."


Ten minutes later, Mrs. Wetherby was standing with Honoria outside the door to Marcus’s room. “I don’t know that the earl would like your seeing him in such a state,” the housekeeper said, “but seeing as you’ve come so far to see him . . .” “I won’t disturb him,” Honoria assured her. “I just need to see for myself that he is well."

Mrs. Wetherby swallowed and gave her a frank look. “He is not well, miss. You should be prepared for that."

“I-I didn’t mean ‘well,’ ” Honoria said haltingly. “I meant, oh I don’t know what I meant, just that—” The housekeeper laid a gentle hand on her arm. “I understand.

He is a bit better than he was yesterday, when I wrote to you."

Honoria nodded, but the motion felt tight and awkward. She thought that the housekeeper was telling her that Marcus was not at death’s door, but this did little to reassure her, because it meant that he had been at death’s door. And if that was true, there was no reason to think he would not be there again.

Mrs. Wetherby put her forefinger to her lips, signaling to Honoria to be quiet as they entered the room. She turned the doorknob slowly, and the door pushed open on soundless hinges.

“He’s sleeping,” Mrs. Wetherby whispered.

Honoria nodded and stepped forward, blinking in the dim light.

It was very warm inside, and the air was thick and dense. “Isn’t he hot?” she whispered to Mrs. Wetherby. She could barely breathe in the stuffy room, and Marcus appeared to be buried under a mound of blankets and quilts.

“It is what the doctor said to do,” Mrs. Wetherby replied.

“Under no circumstances were we to allow him to become chilled."

Honoria tugged at the neck of her day dress, wishing there were some way to loosen the collar. And good heavens, if she was uncomfortable, Marcus must be in agony. She couldn’t imagine it was healthy to be cocooned in such heat.

But if he was overheated, at least he was sleeping. His breathing sounded normal, or at least what Honoria thought was normal. She had no idea what one might listen for at a sickbed; she supposed anything out of the ordinary. She moved a little closer, bending down. He looked terribly sweaty. She could only see one side of his face, but his skin glistened unnaturally, and the air held the stale scent of human exertion.

“I really don’t think he should be under so many blankets,"

Honoria whispered.

Mrs. Wetherby gave a helpless little shrug. “The doctor was most explicit."

Honoria stepped even closer, until her legs touched the side of his bed. “It doesn’t look comfortable."

“I know,” Mrs. Wetherby agreed.

Honoria reached a tentative hand out to see if she might be able to pull his covers back, even if just for an inch or two. She caught hold of the edge of the topmost quilt, gave the tiniest of tugs, and then— “Aaaaaach!” Honoria shrieked and jumped back, grabbing onto Mrs.

Wetherby’s arm. Marcus had practically thrown himself into a sitting position and was looking wildly around the room.

And he did not appear to be wearing any clothing. At least not from the waist up, which was what she could see.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” she said, but her voice lacked confidence. It didn’t seem all right to her, and she didn’t know how to sound as if she thought otherwise.

He was breathing hard, and he was terribly agitated, but his eyes did not seem to focus on her. Indeed, she wasn’t sure if he realized she was there. His head snapped back and forth, as if he were looking for something, and then it seemed to speed up into a strange shake. “No,” he said, although not forcefully. He didn’t sound angry, just upset. “No."

“He’s not awake,” Mrs. Wetherby said softly.

Honoria nodded slowly, and the enormity of what she had undertaken finally settled upon her. She didn’t know anything about sickness, and she certainly didn’t know how to care for someone with a fever.

Was that why she had come? To care for him? She had been so frantic with worry after reading Mrs. Wetherby’s message that all she’d been able to think about was seeing him for herself. She hadn’t thought ahead to anything past that.