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“Not unless I’ve been granted a new title during my absence.”
“My lord? Is it really you? We heard that—”
“Hello, Humphreys,” Smitty interrupted, following Drake into the house.
“My lord?” Alex echoed slowly.
“How is my father?” Drake demanded, ignoring Alex’s puzzlement.
Humphreys shook his head. “His grace is slipping away, my lord. You came home just in time …” His voice trailed off.
Drake headed for the curved marble stairway, dragging Alex along with him. “Where are Sebastian and Samantha?” he called back.
“Lord Sebastian is in London on business, and Lady Samantha is out riding, my lord. She hasn’t been the same since we received word of your death.”
“Find her. Tell her I’m here … with my wife.”
“Wife, my lord?” For the first time Humphreys focused on the white-faced young woman who was being dragged along in Drake’s wake.
“Yes, Humphreys, wife.” They had reached the second-floor landing. “You will meet Lady Cairnham after I have seen my father. Smitty can tell you whatever you need to know.” He and Alex disappeared from view.
Alex’s feet were moving automatically, her gaze unfocused. Drake paused before a set of closed doors.
Alex stood, paralyzed, and stared up at Drake, her eyes, her voice, those of a stranger.
“My lord?”
Chapter 22
THE ROOM WAS CAST in shadows, the drapes drawn. The only source of light was the fire that burned low in the stone fireplace,
Alex blinked, trying to accustom her eyes to the near-darkness. Her mind was numb, her body moving instinctively as her husband impatiently pulled her along. He stopped abruptly and released her hand. Alex could make out the curtained outline of a heavy wooden bed, but no movement came from within. Alex was beginning to believe the room to be unoccupied when a weak, gravelly voice reached her ears.
“Who is it?”
Alex could feel Drake tense, heard him swallow deeply before he spoke.
/> “Hello, Father.”
There was a quick movement, a harsh intake of breath, and then a pained, “Drake?”
“Yes, Father, it’s Drake.”
“Come to me.” Weak, but a command.
Drake obeyed. He pushed the curtain back and leaned over his father.
For a moment there was silence; then Alex heard Grayson whisper, “Am I dead, then?”
Drake stood up abruptly, strode across the room, and tore open the heavy draperies that kept out the September sun. Blazing light filled the room, illuminating everything with perfect clarity.
“No, Father, you are not dead, and neither am I. Look at me; I am very much alive, and I’m home.”
Another silence. Then a very soft “My son …”
Alex looked at Grayson Barrett and smothered a gasp. The face of the man beneath the layers of bedcovers was chalk white, his skin drawn. He was obviously a big man, but he looked lifeless and frail, his pale blue eyes vague and unfocused.
She glanced over at her husband, who was apparently sharing her horrified reaction to his father’s depleted condition. Drake looked ill.
