The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(35)

“Removing him to a disease-riddled hospice will only exacerbate his condition and might, in fact, kill him,” the doctor had affirmed.

And he could not permit the last member of a family who had served his for countless generations to be forced to suffer such an indignity. Following Blakeney’s advice, he had instead sent Barrack to be looked after by a couple in Caister-on-Sea, whose coastal locale had helped many an injured man’s recovery.

So William remained at Hartwell, wishing he could be back in London, wishing he could see her even as duty demanded his attention here.

Evening heat made him tug off the bedcovers. He stared at the shadows slowly marching across the walls. What was she doing? Who was she with? At whom did she smile?

Apprehension slithered through him. He guessed young Fanshawe would be her preference, with his elegant manners and ease of address. But he suspected the young viscount would not meet with the approval William’s own suit would. Yet he had no wish to pursue the unwinnable. If her heart was given elsewhere, what was the point? His heart panged. If only she had not smiled at him and given wings to a hope that scarcely dared to breathe.

He rolled to his side. What was the point in even thinking such things? Until matters were resolved here, he should not indulge his dreams. His arrival back from London had been greeted with the news that a mysterious disease had claimed the seedlings he’d nurtured on the Home Farm for nearly two years. Hapgood insisted it was due to some kind of poison—which meant the soil would take even longer to recover. His estate manager had instigated a search in the nearby villages for any stranger, to no avail. Another pang of annoyance rose. Who would want to do such a thing? First Barrack, then the poison. It was almost enough to make him believe the old wives’ tales about the mysterious cursed happenings at the Abbey.

A thin wail carried on the air.

On this hot night the windows of the baby’s rooms must be open, too. The wail came again, longer this time. After a few long seconds he heard the window screech shut.

He closed his eyes, but like before, the crying started again, muffled but still audible. Every so often it would cease, and his body would relax, then the wails would resume. Poor mite. To be so warm without means to cool oneself must be a trial.

The wailing picked up again, louder and longer. Even longer. It was as if the child had found some new source of energy and was determined to keep crying until the matter was finally resolved. Previously dulled senses sharpened to a needlepoint, and he sighed. There’d be no returning to sleep now.

He got up, yawning as he moved to the window. From this position the Abbey’s grounds extended as far as the horizon. Moonlight bathed trees in an unnatural glow, shadows stretching long into the night. A pretty, some would say haunting, setting. He rubbed a hand over his face, through his hair. Studied the serene scene, ripe for painting. It was beautiful. He was blessed. The myriad of responsibilities his title carried didn’t make him feel terribly blessed at times, though. Perhaps he needed to focus more on the good things, like he’d read about in Philippians that morning—

He blinked. Was that a shadow moving? He peered again. Nothing. Was he going mad?

The wailing ceased. For a precious few seconds it seemed he might be able to resume his bed, but then it began again. Annoyance flickered, subsided. The nursemaids were doing their best. He didn’t envy them their charge.

He groaned, and pulled on a heavily brocaded robe.

“Sir?” Jensen appeared, bleary-eyed. “I thought I heard something.”

William pointed above. “I know I heard something.”

His valet’s grin flickered. “Would you like me to see if I can quiet—?”

“No, I’ll go.”

Doubtless the child had awoken the entire household, and whilst his staff might show his valet a level of respect, it would not silence the grumbles like his presence would.

He trudged up the steps, the noise growing louder, found the old nursery that used to be his world, and entered.

“Your Grace!” Martha’s red face almost rivaled that of the screaming infant. “We did not mean to wake you!” she almost yelled to be heard above the sobbing girl.

“I’m sure you did not.” He nodded to Meg, a maid, whose presence was no doubt requested by the older lady, before turning his attention to the child. “Come now, that’s enough.”

The little girl started, and ceased crying, as if the sound of his deeper voice was something new and peculiar and warranted attention.

“It is the height of bad manners to behave so.”

She stared at him a moment, then the little face screwed up again and the high-pitched wail continued.

“She’s been like this for weeks now.”

“I know,” he said grimly. “Give her to me.”

“Oh, but sir—”

“Now, if you please.”

The jiggling efforts stopped, and Martha handed him the pink-swathed bundle, in which instant he realized he’d never held an infant before.

“How do—?”

“Like this, sir.” She guided his arms until he was supporting the head with the crook of his elbow, leaving him one hand free to tug at the blankets tucked up to her chin, the move instantly causing the crying to cease, to be replaced by a series of hiccups. He laid two fingers on her forehead. Frowned.

“No wonder she’s crying. She’s too warm.”