Had she come to him in his dreams?
At least he wore trousers and shirt for decency. He disliked the vulnerability of nakedness when he didn’t know if he’d be routed from his bed. He hadn’t allowed an unguarded moment in years. His nightmares had awakened entire hostelries.
But no one had ever caressed him back to sleep—not since childhood.
Sarah Jane had soothed him even then—during that bout with the measles. She’d been the only who’d had measles before, and she’d insisted on being his nurse. She’d only been what, six or seven?
An odd warmth spread through his chest at that memory, as if he’d opened a window and sunshine poured in. Feeling better, he sat up.
Remembering the cold, unwelcoming country seat awaiting his return, he almost lay back down again. He needed to find his solicitor and tell him what he’d failed to tell his father—he didn’t want to be a farmer. In fact, he hated the isolated farm. He needed this house with its warm memories of his mother and friends.
Embers of coal still burned in the grate. He managed to rise without staggering, throw on more fuel, and stir the flames. He found his water pitcher full and swung the hot water kettle to heat.
“We gots to tell ’im,” the mouse insisted.
“But then he’ll leave,” the bossy one argued. “And the lady will leave, too, and there’ll be no more pies.”
“But I ’eard the lady talk! This is s’posed to be our house, just like ma’am said. He don’ belong here!”
Ouch. Even the mice didn’t want him?
Mice didn’t talk. His head was less foggy this morning. He was quite certain that when he’d left England, mice didn’t talk.
He was also fairly certain he didn’t want to know what they were talking about. So he made his tea and examined the nightmarish canvas. Ridiculous symbolism, he concluded. It needed contrast. Adding French mice was absurd, but he didn’t feel inclined to paint this one out. Perhaps he’d use it as his signature.
He waited for some sound that the household was stirring. Had Sarah actually spent the night here? Surely her parents . . . ah, he remembered now. She’d lost her parents over a year ago, to that influenza epidemic. He should have been here to comfort her then, instead of waltzing in Vienna, but he’d thought she had a husband to help her. The damned dowager had told him Sarah was betrothed—and had conveniently forgotten to tell him she’d failed at another match.
The scent of bacon wafted up, and the light patter of feminine feet on the stairs distracted him.
He knew it was Sarah even before she opened the door, and his spirits lifted. His head was ready for verbal jousting this morning, and his childhood companion could be counted on to give as good as she got.
There had been a time in his youth when she’d punctured his pretensions all too frequently, and in his adolescent arrogance, he’d been irritated. Experience had taught him how rare it was to find a woman who knew his mind as well as she did.
Her smile was tentative. “How is your head this morning?”
“I no longer feel as if I need to remove it to air it out,” he said carelessly, although the pain still lurked.
He studied her, noticing that her cheeks were extra rosy this morning, less like a porcelain angel and more like an enticing woman.
“I doubt that’s a condition of the injury,” she taunted, turning her face away from his scrutiny to set a tray on the table. “I recommend regular church attendance to air out dirty minds.”
Ivo chortled. “Surely it’s not Sunday? I didn’t hear church bells.”
“This is Friday, and Sunday is Christmas, but you are in no state to attend. I’m waiting for Dr. Jones to stop by to tell us if he’s reached the Merriweathers. He seems to think you’re not to be trusted alone.”
That wiped the grin from his face. Ivo tried to approach her, but she hurried to stir the coals. He had a craving to hold her again . . . as he had last night? Was that why she was avoiding his gaze?
“Did you really come to me last night?” he inquired. “I remember waking . . . and then sleeping more soundly than I have in years.”
“You used to have bad dreams when you were little, I recall. Your mother said yours was a sensitive nature.” Avoiding the subject, she smiled and flitted around him, toward the door.
“Sensitive, by Jove! I have the hide of a rhino. Sit down and talk with me, Sarah. What is it you aren’t telling me?” He blocked the door with his greater size, proving how insensitive he could be.
She met his glare with defiance. “Would you care to tell me everything you’ve learned these past five years since I saw you last?” At his silence, she nodded knowingly. “Of course not. And neither do I.”
“You’re not meant to be a termagant,” Ivo countered, stepping aside. “And I do not mean to torment you. Please, when you can, come talk with me. It is lonely up here listening to the mice.”
She looked startled and cast a glance at the wall. “As soon as we have a little more help, I mean to investigate those mice.”
So, she’d heard them, too. “I’ll feed them toast and bacon until then,” he said more cheerfully as she swept past him and out the door.
The mice were right. His Sarah Jane was keeping something from him.
“He seems a bit better, doesn’t he, Dr. Jones?” Sarah asked as the physician descended the stairs later that day.
She was trying very hard not to remember how she’d let Ivo hold her in his arms last night. That had been embarrassingly improper—but it had seemed so necessary at the time. He’d relaxed—and smelled and felt so good.... She rubbed her cold hand over her hot cheek.
He’d slept. That was what was important.
“Yes, our patient’s pupils have returned to normal, and he claims to feel less pain, although the lad has been known to be less than truthful,” the doctor said with a chuckle. “But he’s anxious to be out and about, so that’s a good sign. I’ve changed the bandage, and the swelling is down. Let’s give him another day or two of rest, though.”
Sarah tried not to show her relief too obviously. “And have you heard from the Merriweathers?”
He frowned. “They are eager to see Ivo . . . Lord Harris, but apparently a couple of children from their parish have disappeared, and they’re aiding in the search. The mist is turning to sleet. It’s not a good time for them or children to be out and about.”
“Oh, dear.” Sarah glanced out on the wintry gray day. “I feared the weather was turning. Perhaps the Merriweathers should come here, and I could aid the search in their place.”
“The Merriweathers will know where to look and you won’t,” the physician assured her as he buttoned up his coat. “I’ll be glad to see this house opened up for orphans. It’s difficult these days for the parishes to know what to do with the homeless.”
“I hope they remember that when I request more money,” Sarah said tartly. “We’ve not raised enough funds for more than a few beds.”
He nodded. “I’ll speak with those I know. And surely Lord Harris will contribute once he’s on his feet again.”
Not once Ivo realized this was no longer his home. It had been cruel of his father to deprive his son of the home he loved.
It had been cruel of the son to deprive his father of his presence. She guessed that made them even but not any happier.
“And I heard the story of how he came by that blow to his head,” the doctor said with a chuckle. “His driver claims the baron is a hero, fighting off bandits with valise and sword. The fellow recounts a terrifying experience, but he kept the horse moving when Ivo ordered it. Although it sounds as if the bandits were a trifle green if they couldn’t shoot a moving target.”
Sarah shuddered at the image. “That sounds more foolish than brave.”
“Indeed, standing in a post chaise when it’s racing down a rutted road probably wasn’t the brightest reaction,” the doctor agreed, still smiling. “But the baron is a soldier accustomed to fighting. What he isn’t accustomed
to is stopping. Ivo tumbled head over heels over the side. Terrified the boy even more.”
“And so the driver delivered him to his destination and left him injured on his doorstep?” Sarah asked doubtfully.
“He stopped at an inn. Wasn’t much anyone could do except bandage his head, and the baron insisted on traveling on.”
Which he would have, Sarah acknowledged. Ivo had always considered himself invincible—an exceedingly annoying trait in civilization but probably useful in warfare.
Mary hurried in from the cold shortly after Dr. Jones departed. She carried a basket and a triumphant smile. “I’ve brought your gown! There is still time to sew on the lace.”
Sarah sighed at sight of the old gown that had been a hand-me-down from Ivo’s mother when she’d first worn it five years ago. Back then, it had been the most elegant extravagance she’d ever owned. She’d spent hours adapting the seams to the current fashion. Ivo hadn’t even noticed it—or her. That had been the ball where he’d announced his betrothal.
“A few more lace ruffles won’t transform it into fashion,” Sarah said, taking the basket. “But I suppose I could hope that most people won’t remember it.”
Mary pursed her lips. The baroness’s taste had been that of a married woman in extravagant London. Mary had never approved of the lavishly embellished sleeves or the daring garnet bodice, but Sarah loved the tawny-gold velvet skirt. She could wish the bodice were a more appropriate color, but in her heart of hearts, she adored the holiday hues.
She had only agreed to attend the ball if she didn’t have to purchase a new gown, so Mary did not dare comment on the impropriety. And Sarah rather thought her advanced age and new independence deserved a bit of boldness.
“The salon has the best light for fine work,” Sarah said. “I’ll take the sewing up there and keep his lordship company for a little while. Did you also bring over more supplies from our kitchen? I’m uncertain how much longer we must keep up our pretense of this being a proper home.”
“I’ve brought over more potatoes and can cook up some mutton, but we cannot fool him much longer. A man like that expects rich sauces and a selection of meats and fish.”
“He’s been at war. He should know how to live simply. And he understands that there is no one to cook for him. It’s the why that is difficult to work around. I was hoping the doctor would say he was better.”
“If you stay much longer, your reputation will be compromised, and he will have to marry you,” Mary insisted. “You’d better think about that. He doesn’t need a nurse.”
“I rather fear he does,” Sarah said with a frown, remembering the prior night when his shouts had awakened her. “But it will be good when Mrs. Merriweather takes over.”
She couldn’t admit—even to herself—that her heart raced with anticipation as she hurried up the stairs. She knew she must refrain from hope, just as she knew she shouldn’t attend the ball. But she had not yet learned to entirely stop dreaming.
After all, the orphanage was a dream come true. Almost.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cleaning the black paint from his brush, planning the day he’d like to share with Sarah, Ivo realized with a jolt that he’d not planned anything other than war in years. Even traipsing across Europe after he’d recuperated, he’d more or less gone where events carried him, with no thought beyond the next meal or museum.
He’d been surviving, day by day. After last night, he realized that survival was no longer enough. He missed the camaraderie of friends and family and the larks they used to share. He was even looking forward to Lady Holly’s ball, if his trunks arrived in time. Living inside his head was a lonely—and probably unhealthy—business.
His years as a soldier should have proved that his artistic leanings didn’t make him less than a man—even if his father was no longer here to express approval. He was his own man now, and it was time to plan the future he wanted. He could fill his mother’s house with laughter again and think about hiring a steward to run the bleak estate. His head hurt less at that decision.
Sarah arrived with a sewing basket and a tea tray, and Ivo’s mood rose another notch. He’d not expected to feel hope again. One of the many reasons he’d postponed his return had been his desperation to remember what optimism felt like.
“I’m happy to see that the physician does not require me to live on broth and gruel,” he said, helping himself to bread and cheese. “Have you heard from the Merriweathers? No matter how much I’m enjoying your company, I cannot think it’s proper for you to be here.”
Cuddling Sarah to cure his nightmares had most certainly not been proper, but it had been the best night of his life. Admiring her flushed cheeks, Ivo finally admitted to himself that believing his childhood friend had married had been the partial reason for his despair and long absence. He’d thought he had no reason to return. He’d been wrong—in so very many ways.
He would try to make that up to her.
“I don’t mind the company while I sew this gown. The Merriweathers are busy, but hope to arrive shortly.” She frowned as she spoke and glanced at the walls.
“The mice have been quiet,” he said, entranced by her fleeting expressions. “Perhaps they are napping.”
“This is a rather large house for mouse hunting,” she agreed obliquely. “There is a servants’ staircase back there, is there not?”
“An all-purpose staircase,” Ivo corrected. “My mother used it often when she wished to complain of the noise I made in the schoolroom.”
“You have a habit of running people ragged,” she said, settling down with her sewing. “Try staying in one place for a change.”
He might at that, now that there was some reason for doing so.
Spreading the velvet evening gown over her lap, Sarah checked the hem for fraying stitches.
“I remember that gown,” Ivo exclaimed, glancing up from his painting.
His familiar masculine presence was reassuring, but his looks heated her more thoroughly than the coal fire. She smoothed the fabric, admiring the sheen and avoiding his eyes. “Of course. It was one of your mother’s. We were much of a height, and she was always generous with her wardrobe.”
“No, no, that’s not what I mean. I remember the ball—and you, when you wore it,” he said. “That was my last Christmas here. I had never seen you so grown-up, and I was thunderstruck. Had I not already agreed to my betrothal, I would have been at your feet that night. You were stunning. I was a bit of a shallow bastard, was I not?”
Sarah didn’t know to which of these amazing comments she should respond. He’d thought her stunning? Her? And he had not said a word? Of course not, he’d been betrothed. She thought her head might start aching. “It must have been difficult thinking of home while you were away,” she said, avoiding the more personal comments that had her battered, wary heart racing.
“When war is all there is, it’s very comfortable not thinking.” He didn’t look ashamed as he picked up another oil.
She supposed he’d suffered losses as great as the village’s. Sarah refrained from flinging her scissors at him, but she couldn’t resist a taunt. “Much easier to let others do your thinking for you.”
“Possibly.” He frowned, glancing in her direction again, and then stroking paint across the canvas. “But in the long run, not very practical. I should like to know what it is that has you glaring at me when you think I don’t notice, but it’s obviously something you think will disturb my muddled mind. Is that the gown you’re wearing to the Last Chance ball?”
“Last Chance ball?” She chuckled at the sobriquet. “That’s a shocking name for a lovely holiday lark. The countess enjoys the company.”
“That’s what the bachelors call it—Lady Holly’s ball to give spinsters a last chance to nab them. I thought I’d outwitted her by betrothing myself before that last ball.” He spread a broad stroke of red across the canvas.
Sarah shuddered to think what the red represented in his nightmare vision. br />
“You betrothed yourself to the woman she’d picked out for you the prior year,” Sarah countered. “You always were an idiot, Ivo.”
He grinned unrepentantly. “I was all of twenty and still wet behind the ears. If my trunks arrive in time, would you let me escort you this year?”
Stunned, afraid she’d stammer if she spoke, Sarah tried to swat down all her whirling hopes with pragmatism.
He’d hear about the orphanage if they went to the ball. He would never speak to her again. She had to tell him.
A noise from behind the wall distracted them. A whispered exclamation and a not-quiet admonishment followed.
Ivo set down his brush, held his finger to his lips, and gestured Sarah toward the door.
“Is Mary in the kitchen?” he whispered.
She nodded, understanding his intentions. There were four exits in the passage behind the salon: one led to the attic floor, one opened on the corridor outside the salon, another led down to the kitchen. The fourth was a disguised door to the salon so the servants might slip in and out with trays and coals. Ivo meant to block the “mice” from fleeing upstairs by stepping through the disguised door.
She would catch them if they fled through the corridor exit, and Mary would catch them if they ran down to the kitchen.
Standing guard over the corridor exit, Sarah heard squeals as Ivo entered the passage through the disguised door. She waited in anticipation, but no one emerged on this floor except Ivo.
“I’m chasing them down to the kitchen,” he asserted, before disappearing into the closed stairwell again.
The dratted man was supposed to be resting!
Lifting her skirt, she took to the main staircase and raced through the house and down the backstairs.
The culprits had already emerged into Mary’s startled presence and were heading straight for Sarah when she arrived. Ivo’s large form blocked the hidden staircase. Mary stationed herself with a broom at the outside exit. With Sarah blocking their last escape, the two dirty and bedraggled children ducked beneath the long wooden block of a table.