Page 23 of Memories Made At Midnight (Chronicles of the Westbrook Brides #9)

A luxurious bedchamber

Hefferwickshire House

MID-MORNING THE NEXT DAY

L ying on surely what must be a cloud and not a mattress, with lavender and lilac scented sheets pulled up to her neck, Beatrice slowly and reluctantly left Morpheus’s arms. A half-smile of contentment bending her mouth, she stirred and stretched.

Searing pain ripped through her left thigh, and a little yelp escaped her.

Sweet Jesus on Sunday .

Her eyelids flew open, and she stared at the unfamiliar pleats of a sage-green canopy.

Where was she?

Why did her leg hurt so confounded awful, and why was she so weak?

Her memory came flooding back in a rush.

Men chasing Cassius and me.

A gunshot.

Molten agony impaling my leg.

Cassius’s family arriving and scaring the thugs away.

Blood. So much blood.

Cassius whispering my name.

And then…nothing.

Teddy stirred and crawled from the foot of the bed to rest his ebony head on her shoulder. He sighed, his good brown eye round with worry.

“Hello, my little friend.” Beatrice stroked his back. “Where’s your sister?”

A large snout nuzzled her elbow, and if Beatrice hadn’t been in so much pain, she might’ve laughed. She scratched under Nala’s chin.

“I love you too, Nala.”

“Ah, you are awake. I thought I heard you.” A tall, stunning auburn-haired woman fairly glided into the bedchamber. Everything about her, from her coral and emerald gown to the small emerald earrings dangling from her earlobes, screeched nobility. “I’m Margaret Westbrook, the Duchess of Latham. Are you thirsty, my dear?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Beatrice’s voice came out a rough croak, but thankfully, she did not stutter despite her nerves. She cleared her throat and gratefully accepted the water the duchess poured for her.

After drinking every drop, she passed the glass back.

To her surprise, the duchess refilled it and extended it once more. “Fletcher says it’s important to drink lots of water after blood loss.”

“Fletcher?” Beatrice dutifully lifted the glass to her lips and drained the contents once more.

He was the one who had studied medicine, wasn’t he?

“Yes. He cleaned your wound and stitched the gash. Though the laceration is quite deep, the lead ball grazed the soft tissue, which, my son tells me, is the best type of bullet injury to have.” The duchess carefully lowered herself onto the embroidered sage and ivory counterpane. “Even so, you’ll be confined to bed for a couple of weeks. Doctor Hartney shall be along shortly to check on you.”

Why not Fletcher ?

Flicking a long, elegant finger toward a small brown bottle on the nightstand, Her Grace said, “Fletcher left a bottle of laudanum for pain. Do you need a dose?”

Beatrice considered her discomfort for a moment.

As long as she lay still, the pain was bearable.

Afraid to jar her leg, she gave the teensiest shake of her head. “Not right now, thank you. Perhaps later if the pain worsens.”

Her grace laid a perfumed hand against Beatrice’s forehead. She smelled as lovely as she appeared. Cassius hadn’t exaggerated either. His mother was the epitome of kindness.

“Excellent. No fever.” The Duchess of Latham smiled broadly, revealing perfect white teeth. “I am so relieved. Cassius fretted something awful because he said you had been quite ill, and fever after a bullet injury is worrisome.”

“Thanks to Cassius and Layton’s care, I was already on the mend.”

Before being shot, that is.

Emotion flickered across the duchess’s face, but she swiftly schooled her features into a pleasant mien. For a woman just past her sixth decade, she had remarkably few lines. Just a few fine creases around the outer edges of her eyes and bracketing her mouth when she smiled. Still slender, despite having birthed eight children, she possessed a figure many younger women would envy.

Beatrice smoothed her hands across the sheet, neatly folded over the lush counterpane, noticing for the first time the lace-edged sleeves of the light blue silk nightgown she wore.

The duchess’s or perhaps Cassius’s sister’s garment?

No, Althelia had married and lived with her husband now.

This nightgown must belong to her grace.

Beatrice slid a curious glance around the room, taking in the décor.

The chamber they’d given her was breathtakingly beautiful.

Elegant wallpaper adorned with a lovely design of flowers, leaves, and vines upon an ivory background covered three walls. The matching rosewood four-poster bed, armoire, dressing table, writing desk, and floral upholstered chairs bespoke understated wealth and luxury. Several plants, including ferns and a rubber plant placed around the room, gave the chamber an almost tropical atmosphere.

A petite, raven-haired woman popped her head into the room. Her blue eyes fairly sparked with energy as she came to stand at the foot of the bed.

“So you decided to rejoin the living,” she said in a lovely Irish burr. “I’m Siobhan Westbrook, Fletcher’s wife.”

This was the woman who had pretended to be a boy at Fletcher Westbrook’s social club so she could earn a living to care for her younger brother and sister.

Cassius had told Beatrice all about his siblings and their spouses.

What a fascinating family.

“Our patient is awake at last, non ?” Another beauty entered the chamber. From her French accent, Beatrice assumed she was Aurelie Westbrook, the Marchioness of Edenhaven and future Duchess of Latham. She gingerly perched on the other side of the bed. “ Zut , you gave us quite a scare, Miss Fairfax.”

“I’m so sorry to be such an inconvenience.” Arriving in a frazzled, dirty state was one thing. Being hauled in bleeding and unconscious was another entirely.

“None of that flimflam.” The duchess waved an elegant hand. “I know I speak for all of us when I say how very glad we are that the men chased those scoundrels off.”

The three women gazed at Beatrice, expectation in their eyes, but they were too polite to ask the obvious question.

“My uncle, the Earl of Highbury, sent those men.” Beatrice glanced toward the door.

Where was Cassius?

Had he checked on her at all?

In her fevered state at the cabin, she’d overheard him tell Layton that as soon as they arrived at Hefferwickshire House, he meant to wash his hands of her.

Had he already done so?

A lump formed in her throat, and she swallowed hard to dislodge it.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Eyes twinkling, the duchess patted Beatrice’s hand.

“Ah, I hear my mother-in-law, Elizabeth. Everyone calls her Libby,” she told Beatrice with a confidential smile before raising her voice and calling, “We’re in Beatrice’s chamber, Mother Westbrook.”

Tinkling accompanied the uneven gait as the thumping grew louder.

A petite, plump woman wearing spectacles appeared in the doorway, leaning heavily on a cane.

Beatrice counted no fewer than six pendants hanging from her neck, nine bracelets on her wrists, and five feathers, each a different color, in her silver hair. Long, ornate earrings, more befitting a gypsy dancer, dangled from her earlobes.

The dowager duchess toddled a few steps farther into the chamber before pointing her ivory-handled cane at Beatrice. “You’re the niece of that sniveling whelp, Highbury?”

Disdain for Uncle Cedric radiated from her fragile form.

How did she know Uncle Cedric well enough to know what a rotter he was?

“I am, ma’am.”

“ Hmph . I knew your grandmother well.” She gave a sage nod, causing the feathers in her hair to bob in unison. “Your mother too. Sweet gel, though a bit flighty.”

Well, that answered that question.

She peered at Beatrice for several long seconds. “I must say, you are not at all what I expected.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint, Your Grace.” How else could Beatrice respond?

The dowager broke into raspy laughter which sounded like old paper crinkling, and the sisters-in-laws exchanged amused, tolerant glances.

“Don’t be a dunderhead, girl. That was meant as a compliment.” Still chuckling, the elderly dame shuffled closer. “I feared Highbury had ruined you, but I see you have your grandmother’s spunk. Good thing. Had you been sweet and compliant like your mother, Highbury would’ve squashed you.”

Thank you, didn’t seem an appropriate reply, so Beatrice fashioned a polite smile.

“I found Highbury’s irrational jealousy toward your mother worrisome, even when they were children.” The dowager curled her lip when she mentioned Uncle Cedric. “Your grandmother tried to protect your mother, but he was a sly lad. Grew into an even craftier adult.”

So Uncle Cedric had been jealous of Mama.

“When Euphemia didn’t disinherit Seraphina, but instead, provided for her and you, the earl nearly had an apoplexy.” The dowager was a veritable fountain of information. “Highbury thought for certain the scandal surrounding your birth would ensure he inherited all his mother’s money too, greedy sod.”

Her unexpected revelation explained why Uncle Cedric couldn’t bear any mention of Mama. His jealousy had driven him to madness, it seemed.

“Mother Westbrook,” the Duchess of Latham gently chastised. “Are you certain now is the right time for this?”

“The girl deserves to know the truth. Besides, she’s no wilting wallflower, are you, dear?”

Beatrice shook her head, liking the unconventional woman immensely.

“ Hmph . I thought not. You have pluck and gumption. I can tell.” The dowager placed both hands atop her cane handle before continuing her sordid tale. “When Euphemia found out Highbury had bribed that Italian miscreant to ruin your mother…”

Beatrice sat up straighter, wincing as her leg protested the sudden movement.

He did what ?

Uncle Cedric was behind Mama’s ruination?

The cad. Blackguard, Scoundrel. Villain.

Fury tunneled through Beatrice.

The man was truly irredeemable—rotten to the core. What was more, he’d turned his hatred of Mama onto Beatrice. If anyone deserved to burn in hell, it was Cedric Fairfax, Seventh Earl of Highbury. If she never saw the wretch again, it would be too soon.

Firming her mouth into a thin ribbon, the elderly dame shook her silvery head again, once more sending her feathers into fisticuffs with each other. “I tell you, Euphemia was a shrewd and intelligent woman. She made certain Highbury would never see a farthing of her money.”

The dowager duchess chuckled again, but a fit of coughing interrupted her laughter.

“Perhaps a cup of tea with honey is in order, Grandmama, non ?” Aurelie suggested.

Beatrice angled another surreptitious glance toward the door.

Not furtive enough, however.

“Cassius and the others aren’t here, my dear.”