Just Like Heaven (Smythe-Smith Quartet #1)(31)

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.