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than take advantage of people who trusted him. He shrugged. Apparently, he was conditioned to the philosophy that one did what one must. He searched within himself, but all he felt was a certain sense of soiled resignation. He closed his eyes briefly.
    Watching him, Catherine felt a stirring of pity. It must be frightening to lose one’s memory. She allowed her gaze to rest on him for a moment, absorbing that sense of coiled tension she had noticed before. Even beneath the comforter, it was apparent that he was accustomed to athletic pursuits. The forearms exposed beneath a shirt of inexpensive cotton were muscular, ending in strong, well-shaped hands.
    Her gaze drifted back to his face, and she recalled the moment, a few minutes earlier, when she’d inadvertently caught his gaze. What a strange sensation it had been, as though part of her had been locked into his being with an almost audible click.
    She drew in a quick breath. “Mr. Smith, can you think of no one whom we could contact? Your family will be worried when you do not arrive home. Your—your wife will be most concerned.”
    His wife? John Smith stiffened and stared at her in consternation.
     

Chapter Three
     
    His wife! Good God, he hadn’t thought about that. Did he have a woman waiting for him somewhere? Somehow, the idea filled him with a certain panic. A vision loomed over him of a trim little female, busying herself with her embroidery, humming to herself as she breathlessly awaited his arrival.
    It felt all wrong. He could not picture himself as married, although he could not have said why. The whole idea seemed ludicrous. Marriage meant commitment—responsibility—and tedious explanations as to one’s whereabouts and activities.
    He frowned. What was there, he wondered uneasily, about his whereabouts and activities that would not bear explaining. He lifted his eyes once more to Miss Meade.
    “I’m sorry, but I can think of no one. If I am married, I have forgotten that, too.”
    “Of course, Catherine,” grumbled Dr. Beech. “If he truly has amnesia, he can’t remember anything at all about himself or anyone close to him.”
    John did not care for the note of skepticism in the good doctor’s tone. Was he suspected of prevarication? Something told him it would not be for the first time.
    Dr. Beech stepped forward. “And now, I think it would be a good idea to let the patient rest. Perhaps after he has slept, his mind will be in better working order.”
    So saying, he began to shepherd the ladies from the room. Shooting a keen glance at John, he promised to look in on him the next morning.
    Catherine turned to John as she moved toward the door. “I shall send some dinner up to you in a little while, and if there is anything else we can do, please don’t hesitate to ask. Oh, yes.” She halted, and smiled suddenly. He wished she wouldn’t do that; it had the most peculiar effect on him. “We must do something about your clothes. I’m afraid your efforts on my behalf have rather ruined them. I shall try to procure a nightshirt for you from Timkins, our butler, so that we may do something toward refurbishing them. Or no.” She surveyed him briefly. “It would never fit. One of the footmen perhaps.”
    John nodded bemusedly, and the little party passed from the chamber.
    As soon as the door closed again, he tossed aside the bedcovers and cautiously rose from the bed. He still could not put any weight on his foot, but by using the back of a straight chair as a crutch and pushing it across the floor, he was able to move to the window. It overlooked a fairly vast park area, and in the distance, a sheet of ornamental water glittered in the sun. The requisite number of trees and neatly trimmed shrubs dotted the landscape, and some sort of yew alley slanted off to the left.
    Well, well. It looked as though he had fallen into a honey pot. The perfect place to regain his strength and his memory. If only it didn’t take too long. Again, he was