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“Yes. I believe he ordered the attack on me after an encounter at Brook’s. I’m too low to be challenged to a duel, his usual response to those he views as miscreants.”

“What do you propose?”

“He has already taken my father’s cuff links.” My voice rose into a squeak. “But they will not cover the debt. He is supposed to come here and take some horses and dogs as well.

“I doubt even your entire stable will cover the amount you owe. Why do you continue this destructive behavior, Ralph? How did you come to be in Brook’s? You surely are not a member.”

“No, my friend Conrad invited me.”

“Conrad. I knew I didn’t trust the fellow. Glad he’s leaving soon.”

“He saved me.” My protest fell on deaf ears. “I had not gone about much lately…”

“Evading your creditors?”

True enough, but I would not admit it. “He thought a night out playing for low stakes would be a pleasant diversion.”

“At least he didn’t take you whoring.”

Heat flashed everywhere in my body. “You know I am not in the habit of frequenting whorehouses.”

“True, that is not one of your vices.”

“No.” My energy waned and I could barely keep my eyes open.

The chair scraped backward as he rose. “I shall give the matter some thought as we await his arrival. I am certain we can come to an understanding. However, I warn you to alter this destructive course or suffer the consequences. Mull that over while you rest.”

He left, the door making an ominous click, and I soon fell into a restless doze that ended with devils in my brain shouting contradictory imprecations.

A light tap at my door broke this melancholy reverie. “Who is it?”

Another scrape of knuckles against the wood galvanized me. Pushing myself up against the headboard, I reached for the glass next to the bedside and took a sip of water. After clearing my throat, I called out. “Stop scratching at the door and walk in, damn you.”

Pants from the other side of the door brought the realization that the visitor was a dog. I struggled without success to rise farther, taking in as much air as possible. My goal was a loud bellow that would bring a human, who could then let in the hound or lure it away.

Before I could emit a sound, the door swung open.

Two black-and-white cats paraded in, followed by a cream-colored Pomeranian.

The cats jumped onto the bed, one landing on my damaged ribs.

Rising from my gut and coming out of my mouth was a long howl.

“A-a-ar-gh.” The dog responded with yips, and the cats wailed, jumping on my chest with claws extended into my bruised muscles.

“Miscreants,” came from a high soprano voice. “Get away, you brutes.” Slippers pattered on the oak boards. Hands flapped to shoo away the intruders. “Oh, my dear Mr. Hodgson. I am so sorry. What you must think of me, invading your sickroom with these ridiculous animals.”

Miss Margaret Dashwood, robed in white with a small volume clasped in one hand, materialized like an ethereal angel.

She rounded up the cats and drove them out of the room, then scooped up the Pom and backed up to push the door closed.

She glided forward and sank into the armchair recently vacated by Spencer, smoothed her skirt, and settled the dog on her lap.

The volume pressed into the side of the chair, Miss Dashwood lifted the dog’s leg and waved its paw. “This is Buff,” she said, and smiled.

Margaret

I regarded Mr. Hodgson with a quizzical look as, with several loud groans, he slid back to a prone position. Gaze lowered to Buff’s silky head, I tried to close my ears to the sounds.

The noise changed to one much like that of a bullfrog. Then another. And a third. Finally, a few intelligible words fell from his lips before resolving into coherence. “Miss Dashwood? I am so sorry.”

“You are surprised, Mr. Hodgson? Did you not know that I accompanied the Countess from Rochester? And why are you apologizing to me? I should beg your pardon for intruding.”

“No,” I heard him say through clenched teeth.

My chest squeezed with the impropriety of being alone with the man in his bedroom with the door closed. Of course that was because of the cats, but still… It smacked of an intimacy that flouted custom.

Willpower, I told myself. Pull yourself together, Margaret, and explain why you are here.

An impatient shake of the head, a straightening in the chair, and I said, “I thought you might like to have me read to you … Ralph.” We had progressed to first names in our correspondence, but not in person.

His mouth curved into a small smile. I soldiered on.

“If not, please say so, and Buff and I will take ourselves off.”

Another inaudible mumble. Perhaps he wished to know the book I proposed to read to him.

Holding the volume in my hand, I said, “Would you like me to read The Mysteries of Udolpho to you? ”

In the ensuing silence, I ventured another comment. “Or do you not like Gothic romance? I assure you it is very popular.“

When he made no comment, I plunged into the tale.

Before the light faded, we managed several chapters. At that point, the Earl arrived with my dear Juliana to fetch me for tea, while a footman and Conrad attended to the patient.

Ralph’s comrade left two days later, much to the Earl’s relief.

For the next weeks, our days passed in a pleasant sameness as his pain lessened—reading, some conversation, intermittent visits from the surgeon, and ventures out into the garden.

In the evenings, if the skies were clear, Lord Altheney treated Juliana and me to forays at the observatory in the garden.

The astronomy lessons were instructive and entertaining.

The stars and planets amazingly close through the lenses of the telescopes.

Juliana and I took turns playing and singing in the evening.

I had locked up the cats so the door to Mr. Hodgson’s chamber could remain open to enjoy our concerts of Scotch and Irish airs, Haydn, Pleyel, Dibdin, and Arne.

Juliana sang arias from Gluck’s Orfeo . And we essayed sonatas by Mozart and Beethoven and airs by Bach.

After a week, he was able to join us in the drawing room, Robert pushing his bath chair close to the piano.

Over that time, I became more and more drawn to the patient. His face was less swollen and the purple bruises faded to green and yellow splotches. Laudanum lessened the pain and bit by bit the doses became smaller, while Ralph grew restless and less willing to submit to confinement.

We spent hours talking about books, theater, London, dogs, horses, and the news of the day. With a small table between us, we played cribbage and draughts.

After breakfast one morning, I came into his room. He was sitting in the bath chair near the bed, reading The Times newspaper, which he shook at me when I entered. We both had a keen interest in the politics of the day.

A tray perched on a mahogany table near his right hand contained a coffeepot, cup and saucer, and a plate with remnants of egg, the stripped bone of a chop, and crumbs of bread, butter clinging to it with more smeared against the crockery.

“Have you read the reports of the massacre in Manchester? Peterloo, they are calling it. A disgrace. Cavalry cutting down members of an unarmed and peaceful gathering.”

“It is all the talk in the dining room,” I said.

“Here is what The Times has to say,” he replied, evidently much exercised by the injustice.

Was anything done at this meeting before the cavalry rode in upon it, either contrary to law or in breach of the peace? No such circumstance is recorded in any of the statements which have yet reached our hands.

“Well, that is condemnation indeed,” I said.

“By the way,” he said, steering the conversation away from the political, “have you ever read any John Keats?”

“The poet? Isn’t his poetry widely criticized?”

My companion’s face reddened. “Philistines!” he shouted. “Damned critics who don’t recognize genius.” His dear face creased pain and he massaged his chest gingerly. “Damned stupid,” he groaned.

Mr. Bishop, the butler, hurried into the room. “Is anything the matter, sir?”

The flaming color in Ralph’s face drained away. “No, sorry, just overexcitement. I hope I have not upset the household.”

Mr. Bishop’s drooping jowls quivered. “The Earl and Lady Juliana are walking in the gardens. The surgeon has not yet come. I will reassure any startled servants, sir.”

When Bishop departed with the tray, he left the door ajar.

Buff and the cats were in the kitchen. I moved closer to Ralph, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Growing braver, I rested my head against his shin and he tangled long fingers in my hair, which hung down to my shoulders with a bandeau wrapped around.

Neither of us heeded the impropriety. We were all alone, in itself something society would regard as reprehensible.

“You have made the last weeks bearable, my dear Margaret. Let me read you a little of Keats, so that you may appreciate the beauty of his poetry.” His voice displayed the richness of drinking chocolate combined with the mellowness of brandy and the smoothness of cream.

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art —

He continued the first stanza, then paused. The heat of his gaze burned into me like a brand.

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

After a moment of stunned silence, I shifted slightly to look up into his face. “How beautiful,” I breathed.

“My love,” he whispered, as if adding a lost line to the verse.

Did he mean to court me? My heart called out in answer, but I could not speak.

“Ever since I first saw you on the bridge over the Medway last autumn, I have aspired to be worthy of your love. But I am not. I am a wastrel, gaming and paying no heed to my heart. And now I may have to flee England unless I can prevail upon my cousin to once more settle my debts.”