Page 5

Once again, Emma felt the fear of the unknown.

Who had caused the scrapes on her arms and elbows and the bruises on her knees and back?

Had she made an attempt to fight off the person?

Had the person taken her by surprise or had she known the fear of what was to come?

Surely, she should remember a face. Had he worn a mask?

This incident was not a one-strike attack.

She did not think it was someone simply wishing to steal her reticule, for she had heard of street thieves simply cutting the strings of a woman’s purse and being gone within a matter of seconds.

She was glad for that memory, but she felt a bit of panic when she had no idea where her slippers or her own reticule could be.

The person or persons had evidently despised her enough to mean her real harm.

Who in her life would wish such anger rained down upon her head?

More importantly, why could she not recall a name, a face, or anything of significance?

“ Only Lord Richard Orson ,” she told herself.

“My lady,” Lord Orson said as he led another man into the room, “this is Mr. Rheem, one of the finest surgeons I have ever encountered.”

“Do you require a surgeon often, my lord?” she asked as part of setting aside the examination.

Mr. Rheem chuckled, “Often enough that I now own a new horse and gig.”

“Must be excellent care, if Lord Orson recommends you,” she said, and attempted to smile, but belatedly realized her lip was split.

“I have a salve that will ease the pain of your lip and the obvious cuts and scratches that I can readily see. Shall we begin, my lady? Mrs. Chester will remain to assist me. Just stay where you are, and we may be about it.”

“I will be waiting nearby, my lady,” Lord Orson told her. “Outside the door.”

Though Mr. Rheem had touched each of her wounds, some quite roughly, Emma was able to tolerate the man’s examination.

He studied her arms and legs and took notes on the bruises about her shoulders and back, but it was when he leaned across her and began to examine the cut on her head that fear officially arrived.

“Stop! Stop!” she screamed as tears flooded her eyes.

She grabbed the man’s wrist to push his hands away.

Immediately, Lord Orson was beside her. He caught her hands and held them in place. “All is well,” he coaxed. “Mr. Rheem simply means to study the cut on your head and examine the size of the swelling. Remember, I warned you that I had found a wound there.”

“The red,” she rasped. “The red of his vest. It frightened me.”

Orson looked at Rheem. “You remember something about the color red. Did your attacker wear red? What is the significance of the color red?”

Emma knew the tears rolled down her cheeks, but she could not stop them. “I cannot say,” she whispered.

“I will sit beside you and hold your hand while Mr. Rheem finishes his examination. Talk to me. Concentrate on me. I will not permit anyone to harm you again.”

He interlaced their fingers, and the racing of her heart slowed. Gray eyes. The color of a stormy sky met hers. Yet, Emma felt safe, nevertheless. It was the touch of confidence in his tone.

They sat as such for several minutes as Mr. Rheem probed her head.

“The blood has formed a scab, which is a good sign. With Mrs. Chester’s assistance, you may wash your hair tomorrow.

No heavy rubbing around the wound or using the towel too briskly, that sort of movement.

Simply sponge the water from your hair.”

“Why would someone wish to harm me?” she asked.

“My darling girl, earlier today I would have been quite satisfied to remove you from your position before my gentlemen’s club.

You were something of a nuisance. I would never harm you thus, but one cannot predict what might occur if a man has too much to drink and the opportunity to right a perceived wrong arrives. ”

Emma could not explain why this particular man, with the compelling gray eyes and a body that wrapped about her and made her feel cherished, had such a calming effect on her.

Why had she been standing before a gentlemen’s club?

Who had accompanied her? She could not put a name to any of her former associates.

More importantly, what was preventing her from remembering all the important facts in her life or any details of her attack?

Surely, she was not immune to Lord Orson’s silent confidence, but should she trust anyone?

With a heavy sigh, Emma accepted the fact she was totally exhausted. “Might I claim some rest?”

“I fear I cannot provide you laudanum or something more powerful for your wounds. Such would only complicate your head injury. I have several powders in my bag which will make you more comfortable. I will write a script that Lord Orson may fill for you in the morning. In addition, I will call again tomorrow afternoon, that is, if Lady Donoghue holds no objections to my care and plans to remain at Duncan Place.”

“I do not think Lady Donoghue should return home,” Lord Orson said with a frown. “Unless I am mistaken, the lady has lived alone since her parents sent her home in the company of a governess from war-torn Europe some ten years prior.”

They all looked at her, but Emma had no idea whether the gentleman was correct or not, but, if so, her life sounded as equally as barren as was her memory.

She wondered what kind of life she had led before this evening, for she could recall little beyond what Lord Orson had shared, and she feared his opinion was a bit skewed by his disapproval of her actions.

“If it would not be a great imposition, I would be pleased to remain under Lord Duncan’s roof for the time being. If Lord Orson’s report is correct, and I hold no doubt of its truth, I will receive better care here.”

“Then it is settled,” Mr. Rheem declared.

“I will call upon you tomorrow.” To Lord Orson, the surgeon said, “Send for me immediately if the lady’s symptoms worsen.

” The man knelt before her. “If other details of your life return, but not the memories of your attack, count yourself fortunate. I cannot imagine anyone would wish to live through such a frightening experience twice. If you think it important for someone to learn the truth, I imagine Lord Orson would volunteer. His lordship is built for such stratagems.”

When Rheem departed, Mrs. Chester set about turning down the bed.

Emma looked to her savior. “Though I am appreciative of your coming to my rescue...”

He interrupted to say, “I am aware you are not of the nature to permit curiosity to have a day of leisure. You are afraid if you do not discover the truth, the man will return to finish what he began.”

“Your reassurances and holding my hand were much more comforting than your truthfulness.”

Lord Orson’s eyes darkened, as if a bank of storm clouds were on the horizon.

A fist squeezed Emma’s chest tighter, and it was difficult for her to breathe, for she suddenly feared losing Lord Orson’s attention more than she feared again encountering her attacker.

She could face the second situation, but only if Orson was nearby.

The idea that she had become so quickly dependent on him had her worried for when she would no longer be his concern.

He was obviously a gentleman and would act accordingly, but such did not mean she could depend upon him forever.

Not knowing what to expect when she returned to her own home was equally as frightening as coming face-to-face with her attacker again.

She thought to shake her head to clear it, but quickly recalled her situation.

“The bed is prepared, my lord,” Mrs. Chester’s voice broke through Emma’s thoughts.

“Do you wish to attempt to walk to the bed on your own?” he asked.

Though she had little memory of her life, Emma assumed from the little that was said about her that she was not accustomed to relying on others to see to her care.

She was not built to permit those about her to make decisions for her nor put her trust in another; yet—she had placed her trust in Lord Orson this evening.

Though she could remember nothing of her afternoon and evening, she could remember the safety she had discovered in Lord Orson’s embrace.