Page 20 of The Marquess of Secrets

Lydia turned her head slightly and fixed her gaze on the person sitting beside her. An older woman, wearing a simple wool dress and pinafore, sat by the bed, mending a shirt.

Spreading her fingers, the realization that she lay in an actual bed surprised her. A bed with quality linens and blankets.

“Where…wh-wh-,” Blast it, her voice was as rough as sandpaper.

“Where are you? Why, in the London home of the Marquess of Tennington. You’ve been sick with a fever these two days. Touch and go it was and no mistake. His lordship brought you in during the dead of night. Roused me, I’m the housekeeper, by the way, Mrs. Wickes, and roused Youngston the under-butler. You were shivering something fierce.”

Lord, this Mrs. Wickes was a talker. Lydia could barely keep up with the conversation her mind was that muddled.

“M-m-my bundle—”

“Never fear. The contents are safe in a drawer. There, in that tall dresser. The bundle itself had to be burned along with your clothes. Fleas and the like.”

She’d picked up crawlers at last. The alley she had hidden in was utterly disgusting.

The woman stood and poured a glass of water. “His lordship instructed me if you were to wake, to make sure you drank two glasses of water before anything else.”

Carefully lifting Lydia’s head, she held the glass to her lips. “Drink now, miss. Slowly. It’s important for your recovery, or so says his lordship.”

Too weak to resist, Lydia swallowed down the cool water. It tasted like ambrosia. Mrs. Wickes poured another and patiently waited until Lydia drank it dry.

Placing her head gently on the pillow, she exhaled, and before she could draw her next breath, a vicious coughing fit overtook her.

The housekeeper wiped away the mucus from her lips. “Still sick. His lordship did say it would be many days before you would feel better and weeks before the cough left you.”

Fussing about the room, Mrs. Wickes nodded. “I must return to the kitchen for a bit. You rest. Sleep. His lordship is at Parliament this afternoon, at an important meeting, he says. But he did want me to relay to you that he’ll speak to you when he returns. If you’re awake. And thanks be to God, you are. I will fix you some beef broth and return shortly.”

The woman left the room, and Lydia tried to gather her thoughts. What was the last thing she remembered? Not much, considering the slipping in and out of consciousness. Before she lost all awareness, there was the sound of a man relieving himself. Lydia had groaned, and the man called out. After that, all had grown dark until she awoke moments ago.

Well, she did have strange dreams, probably fueled by the fever. A man tended her, wiping her forehead, speaking gently. Someone had bathed her.

Could it be the marquees, or had she imagined it? Or perhaps she’d dreamed of Doctor Damian. The man’s features remained fuzzy throughout her dreams.

Why on earth would an aristocrat personally see to her care? Bring her to his home? It made no sense.

Lydia never managed to leave London; in fact, she remained hidden in the same alley she’d escaped to. Illness would not allow her to venture farther. She admonished herself for running from the underground sanctuary, but what choice did she have?

Well, she could have laid her trust in the nun and the mysterious doctor. But her illness and recent past caused common sense to flee long ago.

A lone tear escaped her eye.

Blast it, Lydia despised being a victim.

Helpless. Dependent on strangers.

Her father raised and trained her to be self-sufficient, and before she’d got herself tangled up with John Huntsford, she’d been managing quite nicely.

Weak. Of both mind and constitution.

Because she was lonely and believed she had fallen in love, she gave John money whenever he asked for it. The wretched man always had a ready and plausible excuse, and she blindly accepted his lies.

Before she knew it, he’d coaxed her to sell most of her possessions and move into his grubby rooms. Her savings were quickly devoured. Lydia suspected in addition to the drugs, he gambled as well.

Yet, she had stayed.

Hoping that things would turn around. But Huntsford’s true character started to come to light. He had made mistakes at work which he readily blamed on others. And got away with it. Then he came up with the scheme to rob the pharmacy at St. Thomas—

“Good day, miss.”