Page 11 of The Marquess of Secrets

Rinsing off, she quickly dressed, grabbed her bundle, and unsteadily made her way to her pallet. Sure enough, the nun stood by holding an enamel mug.

“Let us sit here on this makeshift bench. Here, it’s tea with willow bark. I’ll bring your meal after our discussion. Doctor Damian believes you have some education along with a middle-class background, is that correct?”

Lydia’s eyes welled with tears thinking of her late father, a gentle, scholarly man who provided a loving home.

“Yes. My father was a schoolmaster. He died, and I have no one else. What little money was left to me has run out.” So far, she’d told the truth—more or less. “I haven’t been able to find suitable work, and, before I knew it, I was on the street.”

“And the marks on your arm?”

Lydia frowned as she sipped the tea. “I will not discuss it. A lapse in judgment.”

“Is that where your money disappeared—into your arm?” The nun’s voice was gentle, coaxing, even empathetic considering the evidence.

It was not strictly the truth, but Lydia nodded, drinking more tea, savoring the warmth moving through her.

“I’ll bring you food, and after, we’ll do a quick check for crawlers. Then you must put your feet up, Miss Best. You’re still flushed, and the rattle in your chest is audible with each breath you take. Doctor Damian will examine you tonight, and he may have more questions for you. Drink your tea.”

The nurse stood and headed to the stoves, leaving Lydia to exhale in relief.

She managed to slip past the first hurdle.

Though a part of her dreaded further questioning from the angel doctor, another part leaped in anticipation at being near him again. Close enough to watch his attractive eyes study her intently as if trying to make her out. Imagine what features he hid behind his all-white garments. What color was his hair? It was hard to tell as his eyebrows were hidden under the white cap as well.

No matter.

She had no business imagining anything about Doctor Damian. Not after her wretched relationship with Surgeon Huntsford.

Lydia would do well to remember it.

* * *

The restorative powers of a good night’s rest never ceased to amaze Harrison, and waking refreshed also did wonders for his appetite. He consumed two full plates of breakfast as he read his collection of newspapers, including The Daily Telegraph and The Times.

He stayed in his townhouse on Marylebone Road, a few streets away from his father’s townhouse in Mayfair. Still an affluent area, Marylebone afforded him a degree of privacy, and its central London location made any part of the city accessible.

Compared to the Duke of Gransford’s residence, which had been in the family since the early 1700s, Harrison’s was modest.

Harrison kept the household staff to the bare minimum with two maids-of-all-work, cook, housekeeper, under-butler, footman, and Gillis, his personal valet.

He never cared for ostentatiousness, though with his family’s revered standing, it could hardly be avoided.

For five years, he made this townhouse his permanent home. Rarely going to the family estate, Gransford Manor, in Hastings, or his small seaside estate in Eastbourne.

The double doors opened, and Youngston, the under-butler, entered. One day he will replace the aging butler of the duke. He’d joined the Gransford estate as an orphaned boy, became a gardener’s assistant, and worked his way into the household staff and up the ranks. At thirty-eight, the tall, elegant Youngston made for an impressive presence, and Harrison could not remember a time he’d not been around.

He’d chosen his staff carefully, people in his father’s employ for decades that he personally trusted. Harrison was not aware if his servants knew of his secrets, but one thing he did know? They would never gossip about him outside these walls.

“Doctor Kenward to see you, my lord. Shall I have him wait in your study?”

Harrison set his teacup on the saucer. “No, have him join me here. I’m sure he’s famished.” He turned slightly toward the young footman. “Harris, you may leave us.”

“Will you be attending Parliament this afternoon, my lord?” Youngston asked.

“Yes, then I have appointments this evening. Do not wait up for me. Inform Gillis, will you?”

“Very well, my lord.”

Bowing, Youngston and Harris departed as Sam Kenward strode into the dining room, rubbing his hands together as he spotted the chafing dishes on the sideboard.