Page 6 of Sweet Duke of Mine

THE GUEST

W hether it was the result of a miracle, simple good luck, or Daisy’s clumsy attempts at medical care, just before the sun crested the horizon, her patient was still alive.

When he’d thrashed around sometime after midnight, she’d dosed him with some laudanum that was left over from her aunt’s illness. Long after he’d settled down, she had remained at his bedside, cradling a cup of tea, staring at him.

Because there was… something.

With his face hidden by that thick beard, his eyes swollen closed, and bruises coloring nearly every other visible inch of skin, the man was utterly unrecognizable.

And yet, a sense of familiarity pricked the back of her neck.

But no.

True, he was the approximate age Alastair would be by now, and he wore the clothing of a gentleman, but she had been awake all night. Fatigue played tricks on the mind, and she was likely becoming delusional.

Besides, the Alastair she had known would never have ended up in a place like this, half-dead in an alley, left to rot .

Daisy shook herself, forcing her thoughts away from the past.

Whoever he was, what had he done to invite such violence upon his person?

As she’d sat watching her patient, she’d had plenty of time to consider the implications of his current situation. If a lord had ordered his death, then this had never been a simple robbery. Most likely, the attack had to do with honor. Perhaps her guest had ruined some debutante and refused to act honorably.

Daisy frowned, her gaze drifting over him as her mind churned.

A single white band wrapped around the base of his right pinky finger, the only evidence of a missing ring—likely stolen by those so-called officers before they left him to die.

But nothing indicating he’d worn a wedding band.

So who was he?

Had he been a gambler who wagered one too many vowels?

Or had he witnessed something he shouldn’t have—perhaps evidence of political corruption, or even a murder? Her mind darted in all directions, trying to fit this broken man into a story that explained why someone had wanted him dead.

And then?—

“Hrgmph…?” A rough, garbled sound broke the silence.

The stranger turned his head, and his eyes fluttered open for the first time.

Eyes that were the deepest green, framed by thick lashes.

And holding her breath, for a fleeting moment, she could almost believe…

But no.

The exhaustion from her overnight vigil was playing tricks on her, allowing her foolish mind to conjure impossible memories.

She blinked hard and rubbed her eyes, forcing herself to focus.

Before she could say a word, the man stirred, a flicker of awareness sharpening his gaze. Then, with a low grunt of effort, he tried to push himself up.

Pain contorted his features, and his arms buckled beneath his weight as his head fell back onto the mattress. A sharp hiss escaped his lips, his breath ragged.

And in that moment, she saw it—not just pain, but fear.

Daisy instinctively leaned forward, her voice firm but soft. “You’re safe.”

His gaze snapped to hers.

She hesitated, then placed a steadying hand near his shoulder, careful not to startle him. “You are safe,” she said again. “No one knows you are here.”

His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, his fingers twitching as if still expecting a blow.

The older wounds, layered beneath the fresh bruises and gashes, told her enough—he’d been held captive.

Daisy had endured much in her eight and twenty years—loss, hardship, hunger, grief—but still, the depth of cruelty men could unleash upon one another never failed to astonish her.

It was so very senseless.

Pain for pain’s sake. Suffering without reason.

Bile crept up her throat.

What kind of man did this to another? What grievance had earned this stranger such brutal treatment?

Someone had not only wanted him dead, but they’d wanted him broken first.

Daisy determined she would do what she could to undo even a fraction of this harm .

“You can trust me,” she said softly, more for herself than for him.

Because trust was a fragile thing, and this man—whoever he was—had every reason not to give it freely.

“I… don?—”

Daisy pressed a steady hand to his chest, barely needing any strength to keep him down.

“Please. Just rest for now,” she said firmly.

Slowly, she lifted the half-full cup of willow bark tea she’d used throughout the night, giving him a silent invitation.

But he hesitated, wary and guarded.

“I won’t hurt you,” she reassured again.

For a long, tense moment, he didn’t move. Then, at last, his eyes flickered shut and he sipped, swallowing with effort.

Daisy let out a slow breath.

But that look of terror in his eyes lingered in her mind, squeezing her chest, breaking her heart more than a little.

“Is there someone I can send for?” she asked gently. He was awake now, but she couldn’t assume he was out of the woods. His injuries had been left untended for days. Fever would no doubt set in, and then, there would be little she could do but comfort him and hope. “I’m not a physician. Is there someone who might come and help you?”

He opened his eyes again, blinking as though struggling to process the question, and then?—

The door creaked open.

He flinched violently, his fingers clawing weakly at the bedding, as if bracing for a blow.

Daisy’s head snapped up even as she covered his hands with one of hers.

“It’s just my brother,” she said quickly.

Gilbert stood in the doorway, freshly dressed, his face scrubbed clean and his curls neatly combed .

“He didn’t die, then?” His voice broke the quiet like a crack of thunder.

The eagerness in his expression made Daisy blink back to reality, the weight of everything else that needed doing crashing down around her.

Breakfast needed making—Gilbert needed to eat, to be alert, ready for school.

Soaps needed packaging.

Deliveries had to go out.

The garden required tending.

And all of it had to be done on no sleep. She sighed, exhaustion dragging at her limbs.

But even in her weariness, she was grateful. Because life—hard and relentless as it was—still meant survival.

Other families who had been ordered to leave the priory by Lord Calvin hadn’t been so lucky. Some had found work on new estates, scraping by with just enough. But for every one of them, another had been swallowed by the workhouses—or worse, by the streets, by debtors’ prisons, by death.

Her father’s oldest friend had taken his own life.

A farmer without a farm had little to live for.

Daisy exhaled, pressing her fingers to her temples, forcing the thoughts away. Her aunt had taught her well. To stay alive, and hopefully one day thrive, one needed to keep moving.

“Not dead. Obviously,” she said, stretching as she rose. “But you need to eat before school. We’ll talk about what we’re going to do when you get home.”

“I could stay with you?—”

“And get behind in mathematics? I think not.” She shooed him along. “Wash your hands, and I’ll be right out.”

“I’m almost ten, not five,” Gilbert answered from the kitchen.

“And you still forget to wash your hands.”

Reluctant to leave her patient alone, but needing to start her day, Daisy stared down at the man’s face—at his thick lashes, his forehead, his lips. She’d washed away a good amount of dirt, but even with the lower half hidden behind his beard, something scratched at the back of her mind.

He was resting, his eyes closed once more, laying perfectly still.

Too still?

Please live .

It was the same thought that had echoed over and over in her head for most of the night—that had kept her spooning liquid into his mouth. It had prevented her from leaving him alone for more than a few minutes.

He was a person who, for reasons unknown, had been brought to her by angels, the universe, or… fate?

He was wholly dependent on her—a perfect stranger.

Please live.

He made no sound. No movement.

Nothing.

Daisy held her breath, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest.

Only when she was certain his breaths weren’t labored did she stretch her shoulders, exhaling slowly. She needed to get Gilbert off to school and package the batch of soap she’d mixed the day before.

With a careful glance at the unconscious man, she reached over him, grabbing a loaf of linen-wrapped bread and the jar of butter before making her way into the kitchen.

Gilbert sat at the table, a book spread open before him, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“We didn’t have a proper supper last night, Gil.” Daisy cut into the bread. “I imagine you’re near starving this morning.”

He glanced up, but instead of answering, he asked, “Why would the police beat that man up? ”

Daisy stilled, her fingers tightening around the knife. It was the same question that had plagued her for half the night.

Gilbert, at the tender age of nine, had seen too much—lost too much. As a result, he was not ignorant as to the cruelties life could serve up.

“Do you think he’s a criminal?” he pressed. Then his eyes widened with realization. “He could be a murderer!”

Daisy sighed. “We don’t know anything for certain, Gil.”

Last night, she had explained the little she knew—what she’d seen, what she’d overheard, and why they couldn’t leave the man to die. Because although she was his older sister and guardian, she and Gilbert were a team, and he understood the importance of keeping their garden a secret.

Living in the city had taught her quickly—any protected space was vulnerable. To vandals. Vagrants. Or worse.

Her growing space was too important to risk.

But above all else, Daisy would have Gilbert understand one thing.

Life had value.

All life.

“He doesn’t look like a murderer,” she said, though the words felt strange even as she spoke them. Because what did a murderer look like?

And yet, she would trust her gut. She knew she was right.

Gilbert frowned, chewing his lip. “Then why wouldn’t they just put him in jail?”

“I don’t think that man in there is a criminal.” Daisy set the bread on the worktable. “Which means those bobbies are the worst kind—corrupt.”

She rolled her lips together, thoughtful. “Hopefully, he’ll wake up soon and tell us what happened.”

If he lives.

Gilbert crossed his arms, his brows drawing together in a deep furrow. “That’s dumb,” he said with all the blunt certainty of a nine-year-old. “For a member of the police to be corrupt.”

“Agreed.” Out of the mouths of babes.

She let out a slow breath. “They aren’t all like that.”

Not sure she believed her own words, she steered the conversation back to their unconscious guest.

“He must have people.” She added a dollop of berry preserves to the butter. “Judging by his clothing, I’d imagine he’s the sort with family who might be looking for him.”

Nobs. Privileged men with homes and titles.

And yet… it had been a lord who wanted him dead.

Gilbert considered her words. Then, after a beat, he asked, “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay home with you today? In case he wakes up,” he rushed to add, looking concerned. “Or worse, in case those men come back. I’m not sure I should leave you alone.”

Before he had even finished the suggestion, Daisy was already shaking her head.

Warmth filled her chest at his protectiveness, but she wouldn’t allow it. She was the one protecting him.

And part of that meant making sure he made the most of the education she worked so hard to pay for.

Because he deserved better in this life. Because he could be someone.

“I’ll be fine.” She moved around the table, ruffling his hair before pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head.

It seemed, these days, that he grew overnight. Just a few more years, and he’d be a man.

But for now, he was still her little brother.

“You mustn’t worry about me.” She softened her voice, then placed her hands on her hips, straightening her spine in an attempt to look stern—confident. In control. “Just focus on your studies and getting high marks.” She lifted her chin, adding with mock gravity, “I will deal with our guest. ”

For a moment, Daisy thought her brother was going to ignore her orders.

But then, with a slow, knowing grin, he quipped, “I suppose you can just plant him a facer if he makes any trouble.”

Daisy huffed a laugh, ruffling his curls again. “Precisely.”

She gave him a gentle shove toward the door, but as he moved to leave, she caught his arm.

“Not a word about…” She gestured toward the pantry.

Gilbert’s smile faded. He didn’t need the reminder. His eyes met hers and he nodded. “I know.”

And he did.

Not just in the way a boy follows orders, but in the way someone who understands the gravity of a thing truly does.

Daisy nodded once. Then, without another word, Gilbert slung his satchel over his shoulder and headed for the door, his usual playful air back in place again.

And then Daisy was alone.

With a stranger.

Who was, quite possibly, dying in her pantry.