C onstantia had a headache. Not a garden-variety headache either; not the sort caused by concentrating too long on one detail of a sketch or forgetting to open a window when mixing paints. Not even a megrim. This pain was bone-deep. No, deeper. As if her very brain was bruised.

And not just her brain either. Every bit of her hurt, from her hair to her toes...She wiggled them experimentally. The movement made her wince and also wonder:

When had she taken off her shoes?

She remembered lacing up her ankle boots, knowing she had a long walk ahead of her, though she hadn’t the faintest notion, now, where she’d been headed.

Or where she’d ended up.

The tips of her toes brushed against the covers, and she dared to crack one eye. Yes, definitely a bed. Not her bed, however.

Which made the prospect of a dark-haired man approaching her as she lay in that bed all the more alarming.

Especially when that man was the Earl of Ryland.

Of all the rotten, no-good luck .. .

They had met face-to-face only once, but she had observed him at other times, trying but never succeeding to make sense of a fundamental inconsistency in his character. Ryland kept close company with Viscount Deveraux, the most notorious rake in all of Christendom. Yet he dressed and behaved and spoke as stodgily as a clergyman who considered style a sin.

In public, he abstained from vice, or even much in the way of comfort, but obviously, given his choice of friends, he must indulge in private, or at least smile on those who did. Since he was a titled nobleman and not unattractive, the most likely explanation for the disparity was that he shared his friend’s rakish proclivities but did not want the world to know.

Perhaps it was hypocritical of her to be bothered by another person pretending to be someone he wasn’t. But a duplicitous man could do untold damage to others, while she only lied about her identity to keep herself safe.

Of all the people Constantia did not trust, she did not trust two-faced men the most.

Flight, though instinctive, was out of the question. Her painful limbs recoiled at the prospect, and she had to settle for shrinking back into the pillow and squeezing shut her eyes, praying that he did not notice that slight movement.

Her luck, it seemed, had not improved.

She listened to his footfalls against the carpet, counting the steps until he reached the bed, then willed herself to limpness when he picked up her hand where it lay against the coverlet and patted it vigorously. “No, Miss C. Don’t go back to sleep.” She longed for the strength to jerk her fingers away, to resist even that gentle command. “I know it’s tempting, but you’ve had quite a blow to the head, and I think it would be better for you to stay awake.”

A blow to the head? Well, that would explain the dreadful ache. But...“How?”

Even to her own ears, which were ringing, the question sounded muffled. Almost indecipherable.

Decipher it he did, however. “How did you hit your head? An accident. Onlookers said you darted into the roadway from an alley and met with a passing carriage. A wonder you weren’t struck by a wheel. Or trampled beneath the horses’ hooves. But it must have been a glancing blow—knocked you down, onto the cobblestones. Physician says you haven’t broken any bones, at least, though your wrist may be sprained.”

She remembered none of it. Even in her current state, she was appalled by her own carelessness. Darting into the roadway? Without looking? “Why?” she managed, though her jaw ached, too—she must have clamped her teeth together when she fell.

“Why? That’s a question I can’t answer, I’m afraid. It seems as if you were in a hurry and weren’t looking where you were going. Or do you mean, why did you fall? Because that would be a question for Sir Isaac Newton.” He had the nerve to chuckle. “You know, gravity ...” He sat down beside her, still clutching her hand, and she winced again at the dipping of the mattress. “I’m sorry. This is no time for jokes.”

No, it bloody well isn’t.

Though one corner of her mouth wanted to quirk all the same. The feebleness of his attempt at humor somehow made it even more amusing.

Evidence he could wield rakish charm when he chose?

Refusing to reward him with even the wryest of smiles, she countered the involuntary twitch of her lips by screwing her eyes more tightly shut, as if that could block out the sound of his voice. She had the vaguest memory of running...running away...but from what?

Pain was a wall between the present and the recent past, and she hadn’t the strength to scale it.

“Fortunately,” he went on, his tone and his touch gentle, “the accident happened in a place where you have friends.”

Friends.

So he had recognized her.

Worse and worse.

She recalled Lord Ryland’s stubborn insistence, last spring, in seeing her home, when she had been perfectly content to hail a cab—and when her “home” was the last place she’d wanted him to see.

After that day—and the cartoons she’d drawn of him—how could he possibly imagine they were.. .

“ Friends? ” she echoed, intending to convey her skepticism at such a description.

But when pushed from between clenched teeth and parched lips, the word came out sounding...uncertain. Confused.

“Don’t you remember me?” A laugh, dry as dust. With it, he somehow managed to convey both incredulity and self-deprecation. “That is, I—I felt certain you would...” Now a pleading note edged his words, and in her astonishment, she could not resist another glance at him. “I’d swear that a moment ago, I saw a flash of recognition in your eyes.”

His own eyes were dark, searching, and more than a little desperate. She had to dip her chin to avoid the intensity of his gaze.

The gesture seemed to persuade him he’d been wrong. He paused, evidently gathering his wits, before continuing in a calmer voice. “I suppose it’s not to be wondered at, after that blow to the head.” The bed shifted again as he rose, though he did not release her hand. “Ryland, at your service.”

Then she felt his breath on her knuckles and realized he was bowing over her hand. The sort of utterly ridiculous, mock chivalrous nonsense one might expect of a rogue.

So she supposed it was no great surprise she found herself, in her present weakened state, ever so slightly charmed.

She shut her eyes again, though an outline of the image remained etched on her eyelids for a moment. The fire behind him had limned his figure in gold.

He had a better profile than she remembered from that awkward ride across Town. One might be almost tempted to describe it as handsome.

Doubtless, that impulse was merely an effect of the flattering firelight and her own addled vision.

“And you,” he went on, releasing her hand. “. . .Well, perhaps it would be easier to show you.”

He was gone before she could explain or protest.

In his absence, she took stock of matters as best she could:

1. No matter how badly her head hurt...or her wrist...or any other part of her body...if what Lord Ryland had said was true, she was lucky to be alive.

2. But she was alive in a bed in the home of the one man in London with whom she had the misfortune of a prior acquaintance.

3. That prior acquaintance seemed to have behaved with propriety so far, but she was certain he hid a devilish nature. She counted herself lucky to be still dressed, though the missing shoes might pose an obstacle to her escape.

4. And speaking of escape...the accident had befallen her because she had been hurrying, he’d said. To something? Or away from something? It must have been something big and important enough to make her careless. But what?

He returned before she had a prayer of answering that question. In one hand, he clutched a sheaf of papers, and in the other, a valise. Her valise. Whatever her destination, she’d packed a bag.. .

“When the, uh, the accident happened, you must have been carrying this.” He lifted the battered satchel and deposited it at the foot of the bed. “And you had an artist’s traveling case too. It didn’t fare well against the cobblestones, I’m afraid. These sketches are all that survived,” he explained, rather sheepishly, as he started to hand them to her, then paused. “Unless you require your spectacles for this?”

“My—spectacles?” She reached up as if expecting to find them still on her nose. If she had thought of them at all, she would have assumed— hoped might be the better word—they had been lost during the accident. Otherwise, the plain glasses lenses might have aroused his suspicions. “No. I, um, I see close up well enough without them.”

“Good,” he said, handing over the pictures, though still with a hint of reluctance. “Because they’re broken too.”

Relieved, she began to shuffle through what he’d given her and soon lighted on a sketch of him in a less than flattering pose.

The sort of pose in which she’d always drawn him, since that day she’d first seen him and chosen him for her model of a typical nobleman, roguish to the core but trying to trick Society by donning the air of a staid and stuffy gentleman of virtue.

Suddenly, she understood what had motivated the question about her spectacles. He must wonder whether the keen eye behind these sketches had seen through his straitlaced front.

When she tilted her chin upward, as if comparing him to his likeness, he cleared his throat and snatched up two or three of the pieces she’d laid aside.

“You—you’re an artist, as you can see,” he said, nervously placing them on top of the sketch she was holding uppermost, the picture of him. “Of no small ability. You illustrate a periodical called Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misses , under the name ‘Miss C.’ We met, once, because of it.” He gave a grudging nod toward the papers, acknowledging the picture of him. “But I’m afraid I can’t offer much more in the way of enlightenment.”

“Enlightenment?” she echoed.

“I can’t tell you more about yourself, who you are, not even what the C stands for, because...well, you didn’t say.”

Oh . Oh, dear.

He didn’t just imagine that Constantia had forgot him when she’d hit her head.

He imagined she’d forgot herself —even her own name!

He left the bedside and returned to the fireplace, as if what came next made it advisable to put a bit more distance between them. “We do have a mutual acquaintance. The Countess of Stalbridge. She is, uh, connected in some way to Mrs. Goode. I took the liberty of writing to her about your...situation.”

Little flickers of memory began to penetrate the fog that had settled over her mind. There had been a meeting of the magazine staff...She recalled a room. A table. Alarm coursed through her, though its root cause was still shrouded in mystery.

“And what did this Lady Stalbridge say?” she prompted, momentarily grateful for the discomfort that let her disguise the anxious clench of her teeth as pain.

“Very little. That she did not know your real name either. And that...”

“Yes?”

His next words required effort. “That she believed you to be in danger.”

The final word crashed around inside her like her artist’s case against the street, until it was dashed to pieces and nothing but jagged edges remained. All at once, she remembered. There’d been a letter. A pile of letters. Hand addressed with their names and directions. Someone knew. Someone was after her—after all of them. She had left the meeting and run.. .

The realization sent papers flying as she tossed aside the coverlet and scrambled to sit upright and thrust her legs out of bed. “I have to—”

“Certainly not.” He stepped toward her.

The whole room spun, and kept right on spinning, even after she closed her eyes. “No,” she mumbled, part resistance, but mostly reluctant agreement. A whole battalion was taking target practice in her head.

Then his hands were on her shoulders, bearing her back to the welcome softness of the pillow. His cologne, a woodsy scent that no doubt made all the young ladies swoon when they got close, filled her nostrils.

She wanted, quite irrationally, to draw a deeper breath.

“If you’re in danger—”

She was. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been. And at present, with a man pinning her to a bed, her danger seemed only to be increasing.

Then, to her shock, he shot upright and withdrew his hands.

“—then you must consider yourself under my protection.”

The protection of the Earl of Ryland? She wanted to laugh.

But his voice was serious and warm, comforting in spite of her instinct never to trust.

“At least,” he went on, “until you get your memory back.”

Her memory. A chill settled over her, restoring her to herself. He’d taken pity on her, in spite of her drawings of him. But whenever she revealed that she knew who she was...well, then she would be out on the street.

Given that she presently couldn’t even stand up on her own, she obviously needed time to recuperate, and also time to formulate a plan for getting away and covering her tracks. Again.

Any way she looked it, she was at his mercy. And she didn’t dare tell him the truth.

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” she gritted out. “To let me stay here, until I recover.”

An expression flitted across his face—a gracious smile, or at least an attempt at one, undermined by an awkward tension. He backed away from the bed and retreated to his post at the hearth, where he busied himself once more with prodding unnecessarily at the fire. When he spoke, he did not turn to face her. “That, um, that brings us to a small difficulty. The, uh, the fact of the matter is...” A thrust of the poker sent up a shower of sparks. “This house has been leased to someone else. My sisters are already gone into Devonshire and the household staff has dispersed. Every chamber but this one has been emptied of its furnishings, in preparation for some renovations.”

Every chamber but this one ...She glanced toward the window, at draperies she had, a moment ago, taken for rose pink. She’d assumed she’d been deposited in one of his sisters’ rooms.

But if the fabric was merely faded...if those draperies had once been a deeper shade, scarlet or wine...then this might, she supposed, be a man’s bedchamber.

His bedchamber, in other words.

And if that was the case, then...well...she was lying in his bed.

Somehow, that made matters even worse.

She dragged in a steadying breath. With it came the scent of him, lingering on the sheets. Something sparked along her spine, something she chose to call apprehension.

Gradually, the rest of his speech sifted through her aching head. No sisters. No servants. “Do you...do you mean to say we’re here...alone?”

Her voice was as weak as the rest of her, the last word barely a whisper. Yet it rang in the room’s stillness like the call of the night watch.

“I’m afraid so, yes. I do beg your pardon. And worse yet, first thing in the morning, my solicitor expects to retrieve the key for my tenants and workmen will begin to arrive.”

She plucked uncertainly at the coverlet. “You’re leaving. Tomorrow.”

He didn’t answer; it wasn’t really a question. If the house had been leased, then of course he must vacate it.

And so, perforce, must she.

Though she would not have thought it possible a moment ago, her head began to throb harder. How would she manage on her own until she recovered? She had to wet her lips to get the next words past them.

“Wherever you’re going, will you take me with you?”

The question astonished even her. Because, for almost as long as she could remember, she had relied on no one but herself.

She closed her eyes and waited for him to make another joke, to mock her predicament, to reject her desperate request.

“To Devonshire? That—that hardly seems wise.”

She couldn’t disagree.

“It’s a long journey for someone in your condition. And besides, there must be someone here who will miss you. There must be somewhere better for you to go,” he insisted, though his voice was gentle. “Lady Stalbridge, perhaps—”

Sharply, she shook her head and instantly regretted the movement. The fresh stab of pain made her stomach roil. Given the imminent exposure of everyone associated with the magazine, Lady Stalbridge had trouble enough to be getting on with, without Constantia visiting more upon her doorstep.

Sensing her discomfort, he did not complete the thought. The fire crackled, filling the silence.

“Supposing even that I were willing to take you so far, how would we explain to everyone...?” He didn’t finish the thought, but she knew what he meant nonetheless.

How would they explain—to his family, the servants, anyone they met along the way—who she was, where she’d come from, and what she was doing in the company of the Earl of Ryland?

Excellent questions—perhaps her supposed inability to answer them, even for herself, would prove useful. In any case, she took comfort from them, and from the note of uncertainty in his voice. They meant he was considering the matter. She had to get away from London, and he might yet prove persuadable.

“You...you mentioned sisters? Younger sisters?” she asked, though she knew the answer.

“The youngest is not sixteen.”

“Still a teachable age, then.”

He made a noise that might have been a snort of laughter.

She gathered up the sketches now scattered across the bed, the movement made more difficult by her bandaged wrist. “Could you—would you employ me as you sister’s drawing master?”

The suggestion made a muscle twitch along his jaw, as if he had gritted his teeth. Nevertheless, he appeared to consider the matter for a moment, then shook himself brusquely as if to drive the idea further off. “Even if it were possible, there is still the matter of traveling nearly two hundred miles together.”

Unchaperoned.

He did not speak the word aloud.

He did not have to.

“Surely two persons situated such as we find ourselves need not be concerned overmuch with propriety. Without a name, what reputation have I to lose?” She carefully did not raise the issue of any potential loss of virtue, not wishing to give him ideas. “And surely you cannot think I would do anything to damage yours?”

One dark brow shot up, and he looked pointedly at the papers in her lap, the unflattering sketch she’d made of him unfortunately uppermost. “Is that so, Miss C.?” he asked, a wry edge to the words.

Warmth prickled her cheeks. “You’ve really no idea what the C stands for?” It was a bald attempt to deflect his attention from the picture, to manage his displeasure.

It was also a genuine question. He hadn’t asked her name last spring, that much she recalled—or at least, he hadn’t asked her . But with very little difficulty, he could have uncovered the name by which she was known at the magazine.

“None, I’m afraid.”

She believed him, which meant that he hadn’t asked anyone else, either—not Lady Stalbridge nor Miss Burke, now Lady Deveraux and the wife of his good friend.

Constantia had drawn Lord Ryland half a dozen times since that day, at least, but she seemed to have inspired very little curiosity in him.

“It’s not merely the fact of our traveling together,” he explained after a moment, returning to the previous subject against her will. “Though that would be unfortunate enough. It is the means by which we would undertake such a journey. I sent my sisters ahead in my traveling coach with my housekeeper, you see, while I—well, I intended to take a public conveyance. The, uh, the mail coach, in fact. But I can’t ask it of you—certainly not in your condition.”

She did not nod, but inwardly she agreed, not merely because of the discomfort involved, but mostly because to travel in such fashion would expose her dreadfully and leave her at the whims of those who wished her ill.

Then he drew a deep, fortifying breath before the next words rushed out. “And regretfully I must confess that I gave my sisters what little ready money I had, to ensure their comfort, and I do not have the funds at hand to secure another means of transportation.”

She could have sworn he blushed at that, but his dismay could not have been greater than her own shock. No funds? A lack of money was, she supposed, what had prompted him to lease his house.

But why should an earl be poor? Had he gambled his fortune away? Did he keep six mistresses, one for every day but Sunday?

It was really no business of hers what Lord Ryland did with his money, of course. But at present, it had become her concern. What use was his offer of help if he hadn’t a penny to his name?

Agitated, she shifted her feet beneath the coverlet, and something heavy slid from the bed and landed on the floor with a thunk .

Lord Ryland had resumed staring into the fire, but the sound roused him, and he turned to retrieve what had fallen.

“My reticule,” she gasped when she saw it in his hands. Now she knew she’d truly been knocked senseless, for she hadn’t once wondered about its whereabouts since she’d awakened.

Wordlessly he laid it beside the pictures on her lap. Relief surged through her. She picked it up and weighed it thoughtfully on her palm before unpicking the knot with the assistance of the fingertips of her bandaged hand and spilling some of its contents onto the bed.

Gold and silver coins gleamed in the firelight.

“Is it enough?”

“For what?” he asked hoarsely, his eyes fixed on the money like a starving man before a bakery window.

“To secure a private post chaise.”

He nodded slowly, and then started, as if the movement of his own head had caught him off guard. “No, Miss C. That is to say, it would be more than sufficient, but I cannot accept—” He paused, cleared his throat. “I could, however, reserve a suite of rooms for you at the finest London hotel.”

“I don’t want to stay in London,” she insisted. “Not alone.” Until she was stronger, more sure of herself, better able to evade the dangers that surrounded her, she dared not risk her customary solitude, dared not rely on her well-honed independence. “And you wouldn’t be accepting anything. You would merely be securing a mode of travel more suited to the comfort of an invalid.”

Still, he hesitated, and she reached for the last tool at her disposal, the bluntest instrument of all, uncertain of its effect. How determined was Lord Ryland to play the gentleman?

“You did promise me your protection.”

“I did.” She heard hesitation, a questioning note in those words, as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d made any such promise. Then he nodded once more, sharper this time, a sign of reluctant agreement. “I did. Until your memory returns.” The caveat felt like a warning. “Rest now, and I’ll see what arrangements can be made.”

With a bow, he left her to the heavy silence of his bedchamber

Dear God, what had she been thinking to ask Lord Ryland of all people to take her away? She had put herself entirely into his hands.

His gentle, surprisingly strong hands.

She closed her eyes against the memory of his touch as worry and pain and a strange sense of relief tumbled over her in waves.