The Secret of Pembrooke Park(88)

She gently extracted her hand from his. “I think you are quite well enough for me to leave you. In fact, far too well for me to stay.” She rose.

His head snapped toward the door, and his brows furrowed. “Who’s that?”

Startled, she turned toward the door she had left open, but saw nothing. “Where?”

“Who’s there?” he called.

“I don’t see anyone. Probably only a trick of the shadows.” And the laudanum, she added to herself.

He shook his head. “I saw someone—someone in a hooded cloak.”

Abigail walked to the door, her heart beating a little too hard, first from William’s touch and now this scare. If anyone was there, it was likely only Duncan, coming to heed her summons at last. Or perhaps her father. Or even Miles Pembrooke. She hoped not the latter. He would certainly not like finding her in William Chapman’s bedchamber, sickroom or not.

But she saw no one in the hall, even though the moonlight leaking in through the windows left plenty of shadows and dark corners.

She returned to his bedside. “I didn’t see anyone.”

But William had already nodded back to sleep.

Had there been someone there? Abigail wondered. Someone in a hooded cloak? A shiver snaked up her neck at the thought.

Sometime later, Abigail jerked awake to find Mac bent over her, gently shaking her shoulder.

“Hm?” She had fallen asleep in the armchair. Her gaze flew to William. “Is he all right?” Relieved, she saw him sleeping peacefully.

Mac said, “I’m here now. Go to bed, Miss Foster.”

She rose, her neck stiff from sleeping in an awkward position. Massaging it, she murmured, “Find the dog?”

“Eventually. In the last place I looked, of course. Snake Ravine. Still don’t know what he was doing down there.” Mac sighed and unbuttoned his Carrick coat.

Her cue to depart. “Well. Good night,” she whispered, stepping to the door.

“Thanks for sitting with him,” he said. “You didn’t have to, you know.”

“I didn’t mind.”

“I thought you were going to ask Duncan . . . ?”

“I couldn’t find him. He was out, apparently.”

“Out? Out where?”

“I don’t know. But I shall ask him in the morning. It’s late. Get some sleep.”

He ran a weary hand over his face. “I’m halfway there already.”



The following morning, when Polly came in to help her dress, Abigail asked her, “Do you happen to know if Duncan saw my note?”

“Aye, miss. He saw it.”

Something in the maid’s tone of voice told Abigail that Duncan had been none too pleased about it either.

When Abigail went downstairs for breakfast, she first diverted to the morning room. She knocked, assuming William would be fully dressed by then, thanks to Duncan’s begrudging help, if not Mac’s.

She expected Mac to answer the door, but instead she heard a muffled “Come in” from inside and tentatively inched open the door.

William Chapman sat on a stool near the desk-turned-washstand, breathing hard and catching his breath. He was dressed—thankfully—in trousers and shirt, one arm in his coat sleeve, struggling to wriggle his injured arm into the other.

“Where is your father?” she asked.

“He left just after Duncan came in with water. Went home to change—he had an early meeting at Hunts Hall. I suppose he assumed Duncan would help me.”

“So did I. I asked him to do so.”

Mr. Chapman gave up his struggle. “He did bring water and helped me shave, but he has many other duties, so I assured him I could finish dressing on my own.”

She gave him a wry look. “As I see.” Yes, she thought. No doubt Duncan enumerated his many pressing duties with long-suffering martyrdom.

“I don’t blame him,” William said. “To tell you the truth, I was surprised he did that much. He isn’t exactly fond of me, remember.”

“So I’ve noticed. Are you ever going to tell me why?”

“Let’s just say he once admired Leah, but Father and I discouraged his interest.”

“Ah. Then I am surprised your father recommended him for the position here.”

“Oh, Papa isn’t the type to hold a grudge.”

Abigail gave him a pointed look, and William quickly recanted.

“You’re right, he is the type. But in this case, Duncan’s wrongdoing was of the sort men understand. Pursuing a beautiful woman beyond his reach.”

His eyes flashed with pain or longing. She hoped he was not thinking of Andrew Morgan’s sister again.

“I see.” She turned away, toward the small bed, neatly made. “Your poor father. It looks as though he barely slept. Did he tell you he was summoned to go out and find Mr. Morgan’s hound after you fell asleep?”

“No, he didn’t mention it.”

“Yes, I spoke to him before he left.” Abigail explained, “I looked in on you in his absence, since I couldn’t find Duncan anywhere.” She tilted her head to one side in thought. “Perhaps it’s a good thing I did.”

“Did you?” He winced in thought. “I had the strangest dreams last night. . . .”