“I’ve been beaten before and have mended well enough on my own without staying bedridden. Besides that, this room unnerves me.”
The bed creaked behind, as if Lord Gillingham had taken a seat on its edge. “Your parents have been made aware of the situation. I asked the doctor to stop by on his way to the village with news of your regained consciousness.”
Too bad he could not have stayed that way a bit longer. How much easier it would have been to endure this dashed pain.
“Also, a servant walked the path this morning. He found your coat.”
As if the coat were of any importance.
Silence. Then the bed squeaked again as the viscount stood. “All right, Northwood. Let us have it.”
“Have what?”
“Do not play daft with me, son. I want to know who did this to you and why.”
“I told you before. ’Twas just another fight.”
“Then you must have attacked a man with a whip, because you’ve seventeen lashes on your back. Must have made you grievously angry indeed. What did he say that was so dreadful about your father?”
Felton picked at the tight bandage around his hand. Already, a tiny line of blood was seeping through across his knuckles—and the same must have happened on his back, because the bed linens were stained where he’d lain. Every muscle hurt. Every breath seared pain along his bruised ribs.
And in three days, it would get worse.
“Well?”
Felton eased around and faced him. “I only recognized one. A man called the Swabian. They jumped on me about half a mile down the path.”
“Why?”
“They want to know about Captain Ellis. Where they can find him.”
“Eliza’s captain?”
“Hers indeed.”
“What do they want with him?”
“I do not know.” He eased toward the bed. “But no good, whatever it is—and ’twould be no great surprise if they wanted to end him.”
“Here.” Lord Gillingham helped him with a pillow. Then, deeper, “Did you tell them?”
“No.”
“And if they attempt to persuade you again?”
“No one can make me talk.”
“I see.” Lord Gillingham’s face tightened. He shook his head. “I understand none of this.”
“Neither do I—except one thing.”
“What?”
“All this time, we assumed it was Eliza alone who was being hidden in those woods.” Felton hesitated. “But mayhap her Captain was hiding himself.”
Eliza stared at the chair in the library, the one he’d moved long enough to teach her the first steps of a dance. That had been strange of him. Like something a gentle lover, with billowing cape and gallant black steed, might have done. Not a villain. A kidnapper. Or was it not always so simple as that? Were there more than the good and the bad, and instead, a bit of both in all?
She didn’t know. Maybe she never would. Only that, despite everything, it had been nice when he’d touched her, talked with her, and danced with her. There’d been mischief, fun in the eyes that had no longer looked at her like a useful object.
