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scarcely mattered; he was her obligation, now that his quick, near suicidal action had saved her from being brained by a flying hoof. She could only pray the man didn’t pay the ultimate price for such selflessness. On an unexpected wave of tenderness, she set her hand to his warm, slightly bristled cheek.
    His eyes flew open—eyes the most startling shade of green.
    Kate gasped, jerking her hand away. But the man caught her wrist— hard . She was trapped, her nose but a few inches from his, their gazes locked.
    “E-Edward?” she whispered.
    His eyes searched her face for what felt like an eternity, then he swallowed hard. “Who are you?” he choked, his voice like a rasp.
    “Kate,” she blurted. “Lady d’Allenay. You’ve been injured. Do you remember?”
    His grip tightened. “Where the devil am I?” he whispered, his gaze darting about the room.
    “At my home,” she said, “in Somerset. You took a fall, sir. Please, can you kindly release me?”
    His head swiveled on the pillow, his gaze going to his fingers, still locked around her wrist. He stared as if wondering to whom they belonged, and for an instant, Kate feared he was blind.
    “Edward,” she said more commandingly. “Let go.”
    Slowly, he did. His eyes were moving across her face now, taking her in. Relief rushed through her. “I’m so sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t expect anyone on our road. I took that fence too fast.”
    He blinked once. “ Who are you?”
    “Baroness d’Allenay of Bellecombe,” she said. “And you . . . well, you are Edward, yes? I’m sorry; I don’t know your surname. Is there someone—your wife, perhaps—for whom I might send?”
    “I’m not married,” he blurted.
    “And your name?”
    He blinked again, and shook his head, his lips thinning. “Edward—?” he said.
    But it was not a statement. A cold chill washed over Kate. Impulsively, she returned her hand to his face. “And . . . and your surname? Your home?”
    She watched in horror as something like fear spread across his face. “I . . . I do not know.” For a moment, his throat worked furiously. “Good God!” he rasped. “I do not know!”

CHAPTER 3
    In Which Dr. Fitch
    Attends the Patient
    D r. Fitch shut the flap of his satchel with an efficient snap as he trudged into Kate’s private parlor. Waving off the chair Kate offered, he set his bag and a brown bottle down on the tea table.
    “Well, all in all, Mr. Edward is a healthy man in his prime,” proclaimed the elderly doctor. “I have left him resting comfortably, Lady d’Allenay.”
    Nancy, her contrition fading, had begun firing questions, comments, and opinions upon Kate and Mrs. Peppin as soon as the doctor vanished into the invalid’s room. She now turned her interrogation upon Fitch.
    “Is that laudanum, Doctor?” she asked, pointing at the bottle. “Is that perfectly wise, do you think? And when will his memory return? Has he remembered anything ? The accident, perhaps?”
    “Miss Wentworth, if you please!” Dr. Fitch threw up a hand. “One question at a time.”
    “Perhaps the laudanum is for me,” said Kate grimly, “so that I can sedate myself.”
    Nancy cut her a dark, yet faintly rueful look. “Well, I only meant that, given the poor man has sustained a head injury—”
    “Do ye be still, Miss Nan,” Mrs. Peppin chided. “I hope I know how to dose a man with laudanum! He’s apt to be sore come morning.”
    “Precisely,” said Fitch. “In addition to a severe concussion, he’s badly bruised and has set an ankle wrong. Further, he’s cracked his left collarbone, and there’s little to be done for it. So yes, though it’s not ideal, Mr. Edward may have laudanum should he develop an unbearable headache or severe pain.”
    “We’ll see to it, and never you worry,” Mrs. Peppin reassured him. “Now, what may the poor gentleman eat?”
    “Anything, but begin with the beef tea and porridge,” the doctor advised. “He must rest, and make no