A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet #2)(53)

And fury.
Ramsgate would pay for this. Ramsgate would pay, and maybe Hugh would pay, too, and by God, the whole world would pay if Anne’s eyes never opened again.
One foot in front of the other. That’s what he did, until Whipple Hill came into view. And then he was on the drive, and in the circle, and finally, just when his muscles were screaming and quivering, and his knees threatened to buckle, he made it up the three steps to the grand front entrance and kicked the door, hard.
And again.
And again.
And again and again and again until he heard footsteps hurrying toward him.
The door opened, and there was the butler, who let out a loud “My lord!” And then, as three footmen rushed forward to relieve Daniel of his burden, he sank to the floor, spent and terrified.
“Take care of her,” he gasped. “Get her warm.”
“Right away, my lord,” the butler assured him, “but you—”
“No!” Daniel ordered. “Take care of her first.”
“Of course, my lord.” The butler rushed over to the terrified footman who was holding Anne, oblivious to the rivers of water rushing down his sleeves. “Go!” he ordered. “Go! Take her upstairs, and you” —he jerked his head toward a maid who had come into the hall to gawk—“begin heating water for a bath. Now!”
Daniel closed his eyes, reassured by the flurry of activity unfolding around him. He had done what he needed to do. He had done all he could do.
For now.

Chapter Fourteen


When Anne finally came to, her mind slowly shifting from unrelenting black to swirling clouds of gray, the first thing she felt were hands, poking and prodding, trying to remove her clothing.
She wanted to scream. She tried to, but her voice would not obey. She was shivering uncontrollably, her muscles were aching and exhausted, and she wasn’t sure she could open her mouth, much less make a sound.
She’d been cornered before, by overconfident young men who viewed the governess as fair game, by a master of a house who figured he was paying her salary, anyway. Even by George Chervil, who had set her life down this road in the first place.
But she had always been able to defend herself. She’d had her strength, and her wits, and with George even a weapon. Now she had none of those things. She could not even open her eyes.
“No,” she moaned, squirming and shifting on what seemed to be a cold, wooden floor.
“Shhh,” came an unfamiliar voice. It was a woman, though, which Anne found reassuring. “Let us help you, Miss Wynter.”
They knew her name. Anne could not decide if that was a good thing or not.
“Poor dear,” the woman said. “Your skin is like ice. We’re going to put you in a hot bath.”
A bath. A bath sounded like heaven. She was so cold—she couldn’t remember ever being so cold before. Everything felt heavy . . . her arms, legs, even her heart.
“Here we are, love,” came the woman’s voice again. “Just let me get at these buttons.”
Anne struggled once more to open her eyes. It felt as if someone had placed weights on her lids, or submerged her in some sort of sticky goo she couldn’t quite escape.
“You’re safe now,” the woman said. Her voice was kind, and she seemed to want to help.
“Where am I?” Anne whispered, still trying to force her eyes open.
“You’re back at Whipple Hill. Lord Winstead carried you back through the rain.”
“Lord Winstead . . . He—” She gasped, and her eyes finally opened to reveal a bathroom, far more elegant and ornate than the one to which she was currently assigned up in the nursery. There were two maids with her, one adding water to a steaming bath, the other attempting to remove her sodden clothing.
“Is he all right?” Anne asked frantically. “Lord Winstead?” Flashes of memory rushed at her. The rain. The horses breaking free. The horrifying sound of splintering wood. And then the curricle, hurtling forward on just one wheel. And then . . . nothing. Anne could not recall a thing. They must have crashed—why couldn’t she remember it?
Dear God, what had happened to them?
“His lordship is well,” the maid assured her. “Exhausted as a body can be, but it’s nothing a bit of rest won’t cure.” Her eyes shone with pride as she adjusted Anne’s position so that she could peel her sleeves from her arms. “He’s a hero, he is. A true hero.”
Anne rubbed her face with her hand. “I can’t remember what happened. A few bits and pieces, but that’s all.”
“His lordship told us you were thrown from the carriage,” the maid said, getting to work on the other sleeve. “Lady Winstead said you likely hit your head.”
“Lady Winstead?” When had she seen Lady Winstead?
“His lordship’s mother,” the maid explained, misinterpreting Anne’s query. “She knows a bit about injuries and healing, she does. She examined you right there on the floor of the front hall.”
“Oh, dear God.” Anne didn’t know why this was so mortifying, but it was.
“Her ladyship said you’ve a lump, right about here.” The maid touched her own head, a couple of inches above her left ear.
Anne’s hand, still rubbing her temple, moved upward through her hair. She found the bump instantly, bulging and tender. “Ow,” she said, pulling her fingers away. She looked at her hand. There was no blood. Or maybe there had been, and the rain had washed it away.
“Lady Winstead said she thought you’d want some privacy,” the maid continued, sliding Anne’s dress from her body. “We’re to get you warmed and washed and then put into bed. She sent for a doctor.”