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idea was untenable; he would not subject a person, a woman, to such a fate.
     
    The doctor backed up a pace. “I beg pardon, Your Grace? I do not understand. The woman is quite obvio—”
     
    “No,” Roxleigh repeated, his voice strong and unwavering as he straightened to his full height. “I appreciate your help in this matter, and if you have completed your attentions, your services this evening are no longer required.”
     
    “Yes. Yes, Your Grace.” The doctor appeared stunned. “I should mention that she seems to have damaged her voice. She should not be speaking. Since you choose to tend to her, I will prepare a list of instructions. But if you should need—”
     
    Roxleigh dismissed him with a gesture. “I will send for you, of course.”
     
    Dr. Walcott whirled and left the study.
     
    Roxleigh walked back to the sideboard, leaning over the whiskey decanter, his mind racing. What have I done? If she is that far gone, there is no way for me to help her. I know nothing of this girl; I have no relation to her. Why must I feel obligated to protect her?
     
    But he knew why. After what seemed hours instead of minutes, he straightened once more and rang for Mrs. Weston.
     
    “Your Grace?” she asked warily as she entered the study.
     
    “Mrs. Weston,” he said without turning from the sideboard. “It seems our guest will remain with us for a time. She has the physical mien of a lady, and shall be treated as such. She should be made as comfortable as possible and given every freedom in the manor, save one. She must never be left alone. She is your charge. Make the necessary arrangements.”
     
    “Gid… I… Your Grace?” Mrs. Weston sputtered. “Are you quite sure ‘tis safe?”
     
    He turned on her, seeing her unnerved expression. But it was not her right to question him; while he’d known Mrs. Weston for the entirety of his life, he was at this point her master and expected certain formalities. He cast her a firm sideways glance to remind her of her place. “I will not send her to Bedlam,” he said quietly.
     
    She drew a sharp breath, understanding blossoming across her features. Righting herself quickly, she replied, “Of course, Your Grace, I will see to everything. She will be well cared for here.” Mrs. Weston gave a hasty curtsey and retreated from the room.
     
    Bracing himself, he let out a deep, guttural moan, closing his eyes tightly against their sting. He turned, straightening his waistcoat once again and smoothing his unruly hair. There was no more time he could give to the matter. Yet though he had much work to accomplish, now he was entirely too agitated. He needed to ride.
     

     

 
    Francine stirred as a ray of sunlight warmed her face through the window. What day is it? No alarm—must be Sunday . Keeping her eyes closed, she smiled and giggled at the ridiculous dream her unconscious had unleashed on her the night before. She stretched, curving her back like a cat, and reached up to rub the sleep from her eyes, wincing as her fingers grazed the bandage on her forehead. Hesitantly, she looked through her lashes. Seeing the rich brown velvet comforter that covered the bed, she froze.
     
    “No,” she whispered. There was a swift movement from across the room and she sat up suddenly. The pain lanced through her forehead and branched out in delicate webs throughout her body. She clasped her head, pressing the heels of her hands to her temples as she fell sideways into the mound of pillows.
     

     
    She heard someone approach, but kept her eyes shut tight against the light.
     
    “Miss,” the gentle voice said. “Miss? Is there something I can do?”
     
    Francine groaned into the pillows as she waved one of her hands above her head.
     
    “Is it the light, miss?” the voice asked.
     
    “Mmmuuuh,” was all that she could say, nodding her achy head as she tried to swallow. The maid quickly released the tent from the bedposts and drew the curtains closed around