"No one told me about this!" Lady Ryevale grew rigid.

"Relax Mother, darling George was eight at the time and only unconscious for a few minutes. No need to tell you, although now I come to think of it, the bang on the head could explain his stubbornness."

It seemed for all his brash swagger, Charles had hit on a way to pacify his mother by regaling her with horror stories from George's childhood. Before long, she was so incensed by past behavior, she forgot to worry about the present.

But as she listened Hope hit on an altogether new concern-what if Captain Huntley had been shot by a smuggler? His shaky opinion of her would be dinted still further. Might he not then be able to stand the sight of her? And Lady Ryevale-her att.i.tude would cool once she realised one of Hope's kind injured her son? A sense of dread made her light-headed. She wanted with all her heart for George to live, but what if nothing was the same again?

Two men rode in the carriage; the taller figure sat crumpled in the corner, biting his fist with every jolt. In the gloom of the interior, Captain Huntley's face was luminous as a moon, as if he'd been drained of every ounce of blood, but still lived. Opposite him, on the other side of the coach was a debonair fellow, with rebellious dark curls and lush brown eyes. Charles pretended to stare out at the pa.s.sing scenery, while covertly keeping an eye on his brother.

It seemed winter had set in early; gales battered trees and rain lashed down with wilting intensity, turning fields into lakes and roads to quagmires. Those people with a choice preferred not to travel, which at least meant the roads were relatively clear, as the Huntley's coach and four slithered and slipped east along the coast.

At a groan from his brother, Charles frowned.

"I suggest we stop and rest at the next staging inn."

"No."

Charles cast George an anxious look. "This is foolish, old man. You shouldn't be traveling at all. What's to be lost by staying a night or two?"

"No, we keep going."

"As you wish," Charles sighed, "but on your own head be it."

"I couldn't rest, even if we did stop. Being so d.a.m.n sore makes me poor company, take no notice. The sooner we get to The Grange the better."

George slumped back against the seat, exhausted by this speech. His eyes closed on the pain and so he missed seeing the concern on Charles' usually unruffled features.

"Too b.l.o.o.d.y stubborn for your own good."

"That's me." George replied, and pa.s.sed out.

In a pain-induced nightmare where he traveled forever and yet got nowhere, George lost track of time. He lapsed in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he woke in daylight, other times in darkness, but always the coach b.u.mping and grinding onward on the home journey. In his own way, Charles was a comfort, regaling George's more lucid hours with gossip from the ton, tales of who was bedding whom and who had gambled away an inheritance. For the most part George listened through a haze, focusing on his brother's voice and trying not to faint.

From his hair roots to his toenails, every inch of Huntley's body hurt. His colleagues feted him a hero for shielding Adams, but given the location of his injuries, Huntley didn't feel heroic-more like humiliated. Worse still, as if the indignity wasn't enough, with every b.u.mp in the road, the searing pain in his shattered b.u.t.tock and thigh made it difficult to sit.

At long last there was a subtle change in the air, a freshness sweeping in off the sea. Overhead, gulls screeched as they wheeled higher and higher on the currents. The light changed, becoming somehow brighter, almost blue-tinged and more dazzling. Through the haze of discomfort, George roused himself to look out of the window. He saw the sweep of a familiar hill, dotted with sheep. He gripped the ledge, wondering if he might make it home after all, watching with impatience as the hills subsided and became open fields.

"Not far to go now." Charles exuded suave boredom. "Ready to face Mother?"

George grimaced. "I'd rather tackle the d.a.m.ned smugglers."

Charles examined his fingernails. "Well, there are compensations."

"Such as?"

"The delightful Miss Tyler. No wonder you kept quiet about her. She's a gem, and placated Mother wonderfully when news of your condition broke."

George shifted uncomfortably. The mention of Miss Tyler's name sent an unwanted excitement fizzing through his guts. When first injured, in a laudanum induced haze, dreams of her as an angelic vision had haunted him. As he resisted death's pull, it was Hope he wanted by his bedside, to hold her hand and feel her soothing touch on his forehead. In his darkest hour, he had believed one word of comfort from her and he would die at peace.

But he hadn't died, and as the days pa.s.sed, he had plenty of time to consider Miss Tyler's roll in events. From the moment he'd chased her on the beach, fate had been set in motion. If she didn't smuggle, he wouldn't have caught her. If she hadn't wormed her way into his affections, then he wouldn't have been reposted-and he wouldn't have organised that particular patrol, he wouldn't have shot and killed a man-and been shot in return. There was little doubt in his mind that Hope was the author of his downfall.

A glance through the window revealed the tree-lined driveway on the approach to The Grange. The carriage slowed and shuddered to a halt outside the porticoed main entrance.

"No avoiding her now, old boy, we've arrived."

Disorientated, George wondered if Charles referred to his mother or Hope.

"I'll go first, old chap. Prepare the ground with the matriarch."

George threw his brother a grateful glance. "Thanks."

He stared at The Grange. In truth, there were times recently when he hadn't expected to see it again-the ten months he'd been away felt like a lifetime. So much had changed, and yet the ivy-clad exterior was a familiar sight, like an old friend.

George sighed. Reminiscence was all very well, but there was his mother. This return reminded him of the time he'd been suspended from school, waiting outside his father's study to be reprimanded. He shook his head. Anger he could stomach, it was pity he dreaded.

"Let me help you down." Charles held out a hand.

George growled. "Over my dead body."

"Very well then, be pig-headed and see how far you get."

Charles stood back and rolled his eyes at his brother's mutterings. Despite his a.s.sertions, it rapidly became apparent George couldn't stand unaided. With a subtle flick of the wrist Charles summoned two burly footmen to a.s.sist. Eventually, with an arm draped over each of their shoulders, George got out of the carriage to drag his near-useless leg up the portico steps. His thigh and b.u.t.tock felt like the devil was tattooing them with hot coals, and it was all he could do to bite his tongue on a string of curses. In truth, despite putting on a brave face, George longed for nothing more than to lie face down on a soft bed and drift into the bliss of laudanum-induced sleep.

"Stop, stop. Let me catch my breath."

They halted in the hall while George waited for the threat of a faint to pa.s.s. Head low, panting heavily, he composed himself to continue.

The patter of light feet, the swish of skirts and a soft feminine gasp made him freeze. Gooseb.u.mps p.r.i.c.kled his skin as he sensed Hope's presence. Slowly, his eyes skimmed over the marble floor to see a pair of periwinkle blue slippers peeking out from beneath the hem of a matching gown. His eyes travelled higher, up the dimity skirts, over the low-cut bodice to the pale throat, and onward to start stare into the depths of Miss Tyler's opaline eyes. A lump formed in his throat, as the carefully nurtured hatred of the past few days evaporated in a heartbeat. How could he dislike her, when she was on the point of tears, her upper lip trembling? He smiled wanly.

"So Miss Tyler, as you see, I am more or less in one piece."

She stifled a cry and dropped a curtsy.

"Lady Ryevale is dressing. She didn't know when to expect your arrival and as it happens, was resting."

"Mother is well?"

"Yes, thank you."

There was so much else he wanted to say to Miss Tyler, but leaning on two footman's shoulders, now was not the place. Besides, he was beginning to feel light-headed again, the hall walls swaying as if made from gelatine, something they never used to do.

"How are you, Captain?" The tip of her nose went red.

In that moment, George glimpsed the anguish his injuries had caused to those who cared about him. He swallowed hard. Hope cared. The thought almost knocked him off his feet. To cover this startling revelation, he joked.

"Didn't Charles tell you? I'm indestructible. It takes more than lead shot to finish me off."

"Well, he did say something of the sort."

"You look well. Filled out."

Hope coloured. Indeed, in the months since he'd last seen her, Miss Tyler had blossomed into a young woman and the transformation stole his breath away. The elegant creature before him was still recognisable as the scrawny chit who had pa.s.sed for a lad, but the bony angles and gaunt features were replaced by a new, lush ripeness with curves in all the right places. Huntley couldn't help but notice her bosom, which now filled the fashionable low-cut bodice in a most enchanting manner. And the face which had once been pretty was now beautiful; the snub nose and pointed chin made delectable by apple-plump cheeks which dimpled when she smiled. And what in the name of merciful heaven had she done to her hair? The luxurious abundance of thick chestnut hair magically piled about her head, framing those lucid green eyes.

Huntley decided these strange emotions which made his breath lock, were down to pain. Indeed, not only were the walls, but the floor was swaying. For the first and last time in his life, George used his injuries as an excuse and barked at the footmen.

"Well, don't just stand there, let's keep going. I need to lie down. And someone summon Jenkins..."

Leaning heavily on the footmen, to preserve his sanity he decided to distance himself from the distracting Miss Foster.

"Can I help?" She met his gaze.

His voice deepened to a growl. "I don't need your help-go and find a sick person to pity."

"Tis not pity." She stood her ground.

"What then?"

Color shot to her cheeks as she hesitated, plaiting her fingers and narrowing her eyes.

"Nothing. You wouldn't understand."

With her pointed chin held regally high she flounced away, leaving the Captain with the strange sensation it wasn't only his leg which needed healing, but his heart.

Several days later Hope was reading in the parlor, when the sound of carriage wheels on gravel made her look up.

"Hope, dear, do go and see." Lady Ryevale said. "Is that the physician from London?"

Hope laid aside the book and peered through the window.

The Huntley's barouche pulled up. An arrogant looking man peered out of the carriage window to squint up at the house, appraising the facade as if calculating its worth. Evidently he seemed satisfied, as he nodded officiously to the footman to open the door. Hope shrank behind the curtain. Even at this distance this man unsettled her.

Lady Ryevale spoke. "Doctor Lansbury's reputation is second to none, I do hope he can help George. Tell me, what does he look like?"

"He's tall and distinguished, with grey hair poking out beneath his hat." Hope pulled a face as the doctor cuffed the footman with his stick. "He has a certain air of... authority about him."

"That's good." Lady Ryevale brightened, "George needs a firm hand. He's inclined not to listen, you know."

"I had noticed."

Jenkins showed in a tall, well-fed man, his belly wrapped in a waistcoat embroidered with gold thread.

"Doctor Lansbury, Your Ladyship."

"Thank you, Jenkins. If you would be so good as to have tea sent up."

Doctor Lansbury focused his unctuous attention on Her Ladyship and ignored Hope.

"Lady Ryevale, how delightful. An honor to receive your request."

"I'm so grateful you accepted. You can't imagine how much this means to me."

"My pleasure. Is the patient to join us?"

"Oh, no. I thought I made it plain in my letter. My son is bedridden."

"Poor soul. A Navy man, isn't he?" The doctor reached across and helped himself to a bon-bon from a silver dish. "May I?"

"Yes of course." Lady Ryevale watched mesmerised as he slipped another bon-bon into his mouth. "Captain Huntley is a man of action. For him, riding and sailing are everything-and if he is unable to walk, I fear for his wellbeing."

"I see. What of his treatment to date?"

Lady Ryevale spoke in a small voice. "The surgeon wanted to amputate, but my son refused." Hope crossed the room to her mistress, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Hmm, I see. So this young man needs either to walk again, or come to terms with his new situation."

"Well, with your reputation as a medical man, I was hoping for the best."

Doctor Lansbury smiled indulgently. "Believe me Your Ladyship, if the limb can be salvaged I am your man. But likewise, I shall not shrink from giving an honest appraisal of the patient's condition." His eyes wandered back to the silver bowl. "I must say, these bon-bons are absolutely delicious. You must let me have the name of your supplier."

"My pleasure." Lady Ryevale said, weakly. "Perhaps you would like to meet George?"

"In due course."

Hope frowned. It was not her place but she'd had enough of the doctor's offhand manner. She fixed the doctor with as steely stare. "There's no time like the present."

Lansbury glared at her. "Of course. But perhaps a little refreshment first?"

A considerable quant.i.ty of tea and biscuits later and at last Dr. Lansbury was ready. Lady Ryevale escorted him personally to George's chamber and then returned to the parlor. The two women exchanged glances. Hope picked up her book but the words were a meaningless jumble and she closed it again. Her Ladyship sat on the edge of her seat, staring into the distance, lost in thought.

The mantle clock struck the quarter-hour as Hope glanced at it for the umpteenth time. She looked up sharply just as Dr. Lansbury spilled through the door, his expression grim. Lady Ryevale rose to greet him.

"Well?"

Dr. Lansbury narrowed his piggy eyes. "Madam, your son is an impossible patient."

"In what way, sir?" Her voice trembled.

"I completed my examination, but when I told him the truth, he threw a chamberpot at me!"

Hope suppressed a grin. "Not a full one?"

The doctor fingered his gold b.u.t.tons and pretended he hadn't heard.

"The truth, doctor? And what is that?" Lady Ryevale gripped the sofa arm.