They were nice hands.
Lord Cunningham’s were pale, his fingers too long and smooth. His palms a little damp, sometimes, though it was likely from the gloves—and she certainly could not fault him for that.
Meg yawned. She should not think such things. None of this mattered. Nothing mattered except remembering what she’d forgotten, knowing who she was … and extracting herself from the web of whomever wanted her dead.
When the horse finally trotted into Sunderlin Downs, she had to fight to keep her eyes open.
Tom pulled the reins in front of Dr. Bagot’s office—a tall, square-bricked building down Plumgate Row. Across the street, a barrow-woman shouted, “Lemons—ripe, ripe lemons!” while a gang of children chased a scraggly dog into an alley.
“Ye awake?”
She nodded and bit back a pinch of protest when he dismounted.
He pulled her down next to him. “I’ll walk ye in.”
“You need not bother.” Lord Cunningham, she imagined, would already be dismayed at Meg’s choice of company. ’Twould be in bad form to frustrate him more.
“Stay away from the windows. See that ye keep yer doors locked.”
“I will.”
“Dinnae leave this office until yer lord has sent for servants.”
“Already done, I am certain.”
“I’ll speak with the constable and see to it the driver’s body is—”
“You need not trouble yourself.” She raised her chin in false assurance. “Lord Cunningham is most capable, and I’ve no doubt at all he has already seen to the details. This was our tragedy after all, Mr. McGwen. You must be anxious to return to your sister.”
As if he had not heard anything she said, he continued, “And then I’ll find yer shoes.” The smallest grin worked at his lips, the pull of it somehow disarming. He gave a hard little nod. “Now go lie down somewhere and sleep.”
She huffed and spun for the door, rankled that he thought it his right to order her about. Or rankled, perhaps more so, that her lips smiled back.
“A little higher, my dear.” Lord Cunningham sucked air through his teeth as Meg stacked another feather-stuffed pillow beneath his ankle. “Yes, yes. That shall suffice. Elevation seems to alleviate my pain, if nothing else.”
“The nurse assured us your ankle is not broken.”
“It might well have been for all this agony I am suffering.” Lord Cunningham sighed and reached for the glass the nurse had left by his bedside. Meg suspected laudanum, judging by the glassiness of his eyes. “And you, my dear? You appear very drawn. How long have you been sitting here next to me?”
“Less than an hour. The nurse sent an errand boy to fetch a new carriage and servants from Penrose.” She tucked the bed linens higher up his neck. “They shall arrive soon.”
“I should not have been so heedless to fall asleep.”
“You were weary.”
“As are you.” He glanced about the wide upstairs room—complete with a singular bed, a cluttered desk in the corner, an examining table, and a hanging skeleton body in the corner. “Here. As we are quite alone and propriety has already been breached, you may sit next to me. I daresay that chair must be most disagreeable after such an ordeal.”
She stood. “I am not tired, my lord.” The lie bolstered her with a new wave of energy. She moved to the window, knees jittering as she peeled back the curtain.
Below, the street bustled with wagons and dog carts and basket-laden hawkers. The cadence of their noises drifted to Meg like a raspy whisper that everything was still well. She was still alive. Was he down there? Had he—orthey—already discovered where she hid?
“Margaret, please sit next to me.”
She did not wish to look at him, let alone settle next to his side. Nevertheless, she returned to her chair. The air lodged in her throat.
“I assured myself, for your sake, I would remain silent and cumber you not with any unpleasantness. Remorsefully, I seem to possess no such powers of restraint.”
“Go on.”
