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R ichard carried her the three streets to where Sir Hunter’s carriage sat along the wooden walkway leading to Madame Ahrens’s house.

“My lord!” Mr. Sprig scrambled down from the box. “Does Sir Hunter also require assistance?”

The driver opened the carriage door for Richard. “Climb in, so I might hand the lady over,” Richard instructed, glad to be free of Lady Emma’s weight, but not from her closeness.

The coachman did as Richard instructed, and Richard paused only long enough to shake out the cramp in his arms before following Mr. Sprig inside. “I will take her again,” he ordered. “I need you to take me to Lord Duncan’s home.”

Sprig asked, “Is my master well?”

“Sir Hunter is likely sleeping off all the whisky he consumed this evening. Take me to Duncan’s London home, and then you may return to rouse out the baronet.

Remind Sir Hunter he must attend tomorrow’s tea with Miss David and cannot present the slightest hint of what he has executed tonight.

This lady requires care, and I cannot take her to my house without ruining her reputation. ”

“Aye, sir.” Sprig jumped down, closed the door and locked it, and climbed up on the box. Richard had no idea what time it was, but he knew Duncan’s staff were trained to respond to any uproar.

“Where?” she murmured against his chin.

“My adopted father’s house. You require someone to address your injuries.

Lord Duncan has a nurse attending him. Mrs. Braylon can oversee your care while I fetch a surgeon to tend your wounds.

Moreover, Duncan’s daughter is in residence.

I could not take you to my home, and, pardon, if I say so, until I know otherwise, you are not safe at your family home. ”

“You are... in charge,” she murmured. “Cold,” she said and moved closer still.

Richard grabbed the lap rug and wrapped it along her back, holding it in place.

“I keep . . . wanting to . . . close my eyes,” she admitted.

“It would be best if you could stay awake,” he cautioned. “We do not know if you struck your head. Or whether you fell down. Or if you were struck with something heavy. Would you mind if I check for a cut or lump on the top of your head?” he asked.

“Must I move?” she murmured.

“No, my lady. I will see to it.” As gently as possible, he ran his fingers through her hair until he felt the knotted lump.

He lifted his fingers to note a few drops of blood.

If it were not for the entangled string of pearls and the fact she was injured, he could have thoroughly enjoyed running his fingers through the mass of curls perched upon the back of her head.

The word “intimacies” popped into his head, but he shook off the idea.

“You earned yourself a good headache. What might you remember of what you did earlier this evening?” he asked cautiously. Richard held no doubt he would be spending more than a few hours attempting to learn who had executed harm against this particular woman.

“My head hurts terribly,” she murmured. “Do you know what happened to me? Do you know who I am?”

“I do,” he responded. “The nemesis of all the men who wish to enjoy a gentlemen’s club in the capital,” he said with a smile.

None of the men at White’s would believe this conversation, not that he would speak a word of this incident to any of them.

“Might you tell me anything about this evening? Did you eat at home or at another person’s house? ”

“Another’s house, I think,” she said, but she did not appear confident.

“With a friend?” he asked, silently praying she had not dined with a significant man in her life, though the reason for that thought was not one Richard wished to consider. He knew she was not made for the type of life he led, but that did not prevent his desire for her.

“I cannot recall,” she said in apparent agitation. She grabbed his cravat, wrinkling it in the tight clutch of her fingers. “Why can I not remember? Who am I?”

“I told you that you are Lady Emma Donoghue. Something unspeakable happened to you this evening, but I promise to do my very best not only to assist you in remembering what occurred, but also the name of the person who acted against you, and bring him to justice.”

Emma looked about the beautifully appointed room, but she was still frightened.

The man who called himself “Lord Orson” had not lied, which somehow made her smile.

When they arrived at the very austere house, though it was the night’s middle, it had taken only two knocks at the door for someone to answer.

“Lord Orson,” the man had said with a bow of respect. “You appear to require assistance.”

“Yes, Mr. Fields. I will place the lady in my previous quarters. If someone could be sent for a surgeon, I would be appreciative, and please ask Mrs. Chester or Lord Duncan’s nurse to assist in attending the lady. Perhaps Lady Theodora has something the lady might wear.”

“Right away, my lord,” the servant had responded and darted away to do Lord Orson’s bidding.

His lordship had easily climbed the stairs and had carried her down a long hall, though his arms must have been exhausted from holding her so long.

Yet, Emma was thankful for his care and concern.

He had juggled her weight for a few seconds as he released the latch and shoved the door open with his shoulder.

Agilely, he crossed the room in the dark to sit in a chair that seemed to wrap around him. “We will have you out of these filthy clothes and attend to you properly,” he had promised. “If you recall anything from this evening, send for me. I shan’t be far.”

It was not long before an elderly woman had rushed into the room.

From the corner of her eye, Emma could tell the woman wore a mob cap and a simple gown.

She darted about the room lighting candles, and Emma felt secure in knowing Lord Orson evidently owned a kind heart and was a man who kept his promises.

“No stray dog or an injured rabbit? Heh, Lord Richard?” the woman asked.

“No, ma’am,” her savior had responded respectfully, “but this poor soul equally requires your tender care.”

A maid rushed in with a pitcher of water, washing cloths, and soap, evidently set on cleaning Emma’s wounds, while another maid brought in a clean nightgown and robe. It amazed Emma how easily this particular man commanded what was supposedly another man’s household.

“If you will set the young lady on her feet, we shall take care of her, sir,” the older woman instructed.

“That is just it, Mrs. Chester, the lady is not so secure,” he warned. “I fear she may not be able to stand alone for long. In addition to the obvious visible chaos, she possesses a large knot on the top of her head, which is seeping blood.”

“I see,” the woman said thoughtfully. “Then I wish you to stand with the lady in your arms, turn, and set her in the chair. Marjory, place two of the large towels down across the cushion. We would not wish to ruin Lord Orson’s favorite chair.

His lordship has already had it reupholstered twice,” the woman said with a chuckle.

Within less than a half hour, Emma had been washed properly, or as properly as one might be while being balanced by one woman and washed by another, but Emma knew gratitude with their care.

Though she could not speak to the reason for it, she had the feeling such would not have occurred at her own home.

“Once the surgeon sees you, Marjory and I will wash your hair for you, unless you would prefer waiting until morning.”

Emma thoroughly approved of their efforts, but she wondered where Lord Orson had gone. For an odd reason, she found herself hoping for his quick return.

At length, she had been dressed in a gown and robe and had a blanket draped across her lap.

“Might be best, miss, if you could continue to sit up,” the older woman told Emma as the younger one gathered the towels and the wash basin.

“The surgeon will be here posthaste. I fear if you fall asleep, he cannot attend to you properly. He’ll likely have several questions. ”

“I will keep her company,” said a voice she had easily come to recognize. She turned her head slowly so as to keep the darkness at bay.

“New coat?” she asked.

“Borrowed one from Lord Marksman’s quarters,” he said with a slight smile. “He and I are comparable in build.”

“Oh,” she said as she suddenly realized the need for Lord Orson’s different coat and cravat was her. “I did not mean to ruin your clothes.”

“No great catastrophe,” he admitted. “I am glad to have been of service to you,” he told her with a lift of his chin in apparent seriousness.

“Did you speak to Lord Duncan?” the housekeeper asked.

“Yes, ma’am. His lordship says he is happy to open his door to Lady Emma.”

It was all so odd: this take-charge man and his obedient stance when speaking of a man who was obviously his mentor or guardian or something similar.

Even so, Emma knew regret, for she could name no one to whom she was held accountable.

She thought she had dined with someone this evening; yet, she could not recall the person or the place or even if she had eaten.

Nor whether it was on this day instead of another.

What was worse, she had no memory of someone exacting violence on her or the reason for the attack.

“There is the bell,” Mrs. Chester said. “You should go down, my lord. Mr. Rheem will wish to speak to you before examining Lady Emma.”

“I shan’t be far,” he assured her, and with a nod in her direction, he left his place by the still-open door.