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head groom in their bedchamber. But ever since his financial situation crumbled, William had been forced to dismiss the majority of his house staff. His most trusted servant, Lewis, not only filled the role of groom but also that of footman, valet, coachman, and even, on one very desperate situation, maid.
    William’s body ached and his head throbbed. “Go away.”
    “I will not go away. Or have you forgotten?” William could hear boots stomp around the bed and move to the window. “Mr. Bley will be here within the hour to assess the horses.”
    “Blast!” William sank deeper against his pillow.
    “Judging by the looks of you, you have had other things on your mind.” Lewis opened the curtains, and the light may as well have been fashioned from daggers, so sharp was the glow. “You’d best be about things.” Lewis retrieved William’s discarded boots and waistcoat from the floor. “Remember, Mr. Bley said he must be back in Darbury to meet the noon coach. You’ll not have much time.”
    William drew a deep breath, the simple action sending a blade through his side. Of course Lewis was right. Lewis was always right.
    William slowly opened his good eye. “Had a rough night.”
    “ Humph . Looks like.”
    “No, not that sort of rough night,” William sputtered, annoyed at the inference. “It was Rafertee’s men.”
    “Ah.” Lewis’s expression sobered, and he settled in a chair opposite the bed. He just looked at William, waiting for the story.
    William preferred a reprimand to silence. But this was Lewis’s way. And Lewis had borne witness to many, if not most, of his mistakes. Always patient, Lewis remained silent.
    William frowned. Anything but silence.
    Although Lewis was but a hired man at Eastmore Hall, William’s relationship with him had been longstanding, so much so that the boundaries that would normally separate servant and master had blurred. Both men came of age on Eastmore’s moors, William, the master’s son, and Lewis, the head groom’s son. Despite William’s father’s annoyance, the boys spent much time together, bound by their passion for horses. The friendship, such as it was, survived the deaths of both their fathers and had even lasted through William’s wild and turbulent years. With his money nearly gone—along with his comrades—Lewis was one of the few who had remained loyal. Which made verbalizing the details of the ambush that much more difficult.
    “So what happened?”
    With great effort—and pain—William rolled over and sat up, grimacing and protectively supporting his ribs, and relayed the story of his late-night visit to the inn and his ride across the moors. “When I came to, I could barely see, so I decided to wait out the snowstorm in the Rosemere stable. I apparently lost consciousness and woke up in a bed inside Rosemere.”
    Lewis raised his eyebrows. “The girls’ school?”
    “Yes.”
    Lewis chuckled and scratched the back of his head. “Well, I’ll be.”
    William brushed his disheveled hair from his forehead. “Were you aware that Mr. Creighton died and Rawdon Creighton is in London?’
    “Yes.”
    “And that Creighton’s daughter is running the school?
    “Uh-huh.”
    William stopped short of asking for more details about Miss Patience Creighton, although of all the aforementioned, the memory of her burned most vividly in his mind. But the details of the visit were so hazy, he almost doubted his recollection. Had he simply imagined her? Perhaps she was nothing more than a lovely illusion, a vaporous angel, brought into being by several blows to the head.
    Lewis pushed himself up from the padded chair. “Best get yourself cleaned up. Can’t meet Bley looking like that.” The tone of his voice held the familiar lilt. “He might get the wrong impression.” On his way out the door, he called back over his shoulder, “I’ll send Martha up with water and coffee. Strong coffee. Oh, and I almost forgot.” He pulled a letter from inside his