A Lady of Notoriety

Finally he appeared, two children tucked under his arms and a frantic mother following behind.

Daphne took a step forwards, eager to speak to him, to thank him. To her shock, he ran towards the door again. One of the other men seized his arm, apparently trying to stop him, but the man shrugged him off and rushed back inside.

Daphne’s hand flew over her mouth. Please, God, let him come out again.

An older gentleman approached her. ‘Lady Faville?’

She wanted to watch for her rescuer, not engage in conversation.

‘Do you remember me?’ he asked.

She presumed he was someone she’d met in London. ‘I am sorry. I do not—’

He looked disappointed. ‘I am Lord Sanvers. We met several times at the Masquerade Club.’

The Masquerade Club?

It was a place she wanted to forget, the London gambling house where players could gamble in masks to protect their identity. It was also the place she almost destroyed.

By fire.

‘It is two years since I attended there,’ she answered him. ‘There were so many gentlemen I met.’

It was inadequate as an apology. Surely he—and everyone—knew that she’d been obsessed by only one man, a man who would never love her. She’d fled to the Continent and eventually to Switzerland and Fahr Abbey. The abbey had become her retreat and her salvation, chosen by whim because its name was similar to her husband’s title name and the name of the village where she’d once felt secure. At Fahr Abbey, though, she’d come face-to-face with her failings.

But could she change?

Could she be as selfless as her brave rescuer?

Minutes seemed like hours, but he finally emerged again, leading two more people to safety. The fire intensified, roaring now like a wild beast. Were there more people inside? Would he risk his life again?

He ran back to the fire and was silhouetted inside the doorway when a huge rush of glowing embers fell from the ceiling. The building groaned, as if in the throes of death. Timbers fell from the roof and the man’s arms rose in front of his face. Daphne watched in horror as one large flaming timber knocked him to the floor.

‘No!’ Without thinking, she ran towards him.

Other men reached him first, pulling him by his clothing until he was in the yard. The building collapsed entirely.

Daphne knelt down next to him as they brushed away glowing cinders from his coat and patted out smoking cloth.

‘Is he alive?’ she cried.

They rolled him on his back, and one man put a finger to the pulse in his neck. ‘He’s alive for now.’

Daphne gasped. ‘I know him!’

Though his face was dark with soot and pink with burns, she recognised him. He was Hugh Westleigh, younger brother of the new Earl of Westleigh. He was also the brother of the lady she’d so terribly wronged at the Masquerade Club.

Had he arrived on the packet from Calais, as she had? Or was he bound there? Either way, she suspected he would not have liked seeing her after all the trouble she’d caused.

He was not conscious, and that alarmed her.

‘We’d better carry him to the surgeon,’ one of the men said.

They lifted him. Daphne followed them.

Her maid and footman caught up to her. Monette’s eyes were wide. ‘My lady?’

‘I know this man,’ she explained. ‘I must see he receives care. Wait for me here.’

They carried him to what looked like a nearby shopfront. Inside several people sat on benches while one man, the surgeon apparently, bandaged burns.

‘We have a bad one here, Mr Trask.’

The surgeon waved a man off the chair where he’d been tending to him and gestured for the men to sit Westleigh in it. He was still limp.

Daphne wrung her hands. ‘Will he live?’

‘I do not know, ma’am,’ the surgeon said.

‘He was hit on the head,’ she said. ‘I saw it.’

The man checked Westleigh’s head. ‘Appears to be so.’

Westleigh groaned and Daphne released a pent-up breath.

The surgeon lifted his head. ‘Wake up, sir.’ He turned to Daphne. ‘What is his name?’

‘Mr Westleigh,’ she said. ‘He is the younger brother of the Earl of Westleigh.’

‘Is he?’ One of the men who had carried him in raised his brows. ‘Who would have expected it of the Quality? The man has pluck.’

‘Westleigh!’ The surgeon raised his voice. ‘Wake up.’

He groaned again.

‘Open your eyes.’

Westleigh tried to comply, straining. He winced and tried to rub his eyes. ‘I cannot...’

Thank God he could speak.

The surgeon pulled his hands away. ‘Do not do that. Let me look.’ He examined Westleigh’s eyes and turned to Daphne. ‘His eyes are cloudy. Damaged from the fire.’ He tilted Westleigh’s head back and rinsed his eyes with clear water from a nearby pitcher. ‘His eyes must stay bandaged for two weeks or he will lose his sight.’ He shrugged. ‘He may lose his sight no matter what, but sometimes the eyes heal remarkably well. I’m more concerned about his head. He is certainly concussed. He needs to be cared for.’

‘In what way?’ Daphne asked.

‘He needs rest and quiet. No excitement at all. For at least a week.’ He looked into Westleigh’s mouth and in his nose. ‘No bleeding. That is good.’

‘Head hurts,’ Westleigh mumbled.