Lucius inclined his head, then turned on his heel and strode from the room.
In truth, she hadn’t wanted him to go, not in these dreadful conditions. And what lady wouldn’t want a handsome gentleman tending to her ablutions? His hands had been as cold as her feet, though she liked the tender, almost sensual way he’d washed her toes.
Indeed, she thought of every soft stroke as she removed her dirty stocking and finished the task. His image filled her head as she slipped out of the wet cloak. Beneath, her dress was damp. She might have gone upstairs to change had Tomas not appeared carrying a tray laden with hot fruit punch, a bowl of lamb stew and a crust of bread.
“A storm always gets the hunger pangs growling, ma’am,” Tomas said. Large eye bags and a gaunt face gave the impression he’d not slept in weeks. “And Mr Daventry said you’d need something to chase away the cold.”
“Thank you, Tomas.” She might have said that a passionate kiss from the master would heat her blood sufficiently.
“Mr Daventry won’t mind if you eat here, ma’am.” Tomas placed the crude wooden tray on the walnut table. “No one’s lit the fire in the dining room, and it’s warmer here than in the bedchamber.”
The mere mention of the bedchamber brought to mind Mr Daventry’s nightmares. Perhaps his anxiety stemmed from a fear of falling asleep tonight.
“Then I shall settle by the fire and eat supper while I wait for Mr Daventry.” She wondered if Tomas knew why Lucius had brought her to Bronygarth. But how did one broach the subject? “Did you know my father?”
The man’s droopy lids twitched. “I did, ma’am, and a more charitable man I never did meet. If it wasn’t for him and Mr Daventry, I’d have met with the hangman’s noose.”
Pride filled Sybil’s chest, not just for her father’s considerate actions. “I trust they found evidence to absolve you of a crime.”
“They proved Moses Maroney is a devil of a liar if that’s your meaning, ma’am. Said I stole three silver spoons when it was him who sold them to pay for his visits to that harlot at—” He stopped abruptly. “Begging your pardon, ma’am. I’m not used to minding my tongue.”
Sybil smiled. “Fear not. Mr Daventry can be equally blunt in his delivery. And you needn’t worry. I can’t imagine I shall remain here long. Mr Daventry is trying to save me from a frightening fate, too.”
“Then you’re in good hands, ma’am.”
“The best,” she agreed, having experienced the power and skill in Lucius Daventry’s deft fingers. “Thank you, Tomas.”
The man bowed and promised to let her know when Lucius returned. And so she sat on the rug near the hearth, ate her meal and dried her clothes. The heat relaxed her cold, tired limbs. The hot punch contained more than a nip of brandy, and it wasn’t long before she curled up with a cushion and fell asleep.
The tapping on her shoulder dragged her out of a peaceful slumber. She blinked and rubbed her eyes only to find Tomas looming, wringing his hands and giving a mumbled apology.
“Oh, I thought you were abed, ma’am.” Brandy fumes wafted over her as Tomas leaned closer. “What with tending to the horses and making sure Samuel downed his hot toddy, I forgot to come and stoke the fire.”
The temperature in the room had plummeted. Sybil glanced at the dying embers, at the candle stubs spluttering in the lamps. She shot up. “Has Mr Daventry returned?”
Tomas grimaced and scratched his head. “About an hour ago, ma’am. He went to wash and change his clothes. I looked in to tell you, but didn’t see you lying down there. Mr Daventry thinks you’ve gone to bed.”
“Gone to bed? Oh.” Her shoulders sagged in disappointment. “Not to worry. I can speak to him in the morning. The safety of the men and the horses is what’s important.”
The man chuckled. “Samuel downed his toddy faster than you can say Jack Robinson, though it will do him a power of good, even if he is spouting nonsense.”
Sybil gathered her cloak and left Tomas to check the lamps and poke the embers. A mild pang of fear made her pause at the bottom of the dark staircase. Frightful thoughts of hauntings and ghosts raised the hairs on her nape. It didn’t help that the leaded windows creaked and rattled like a spectre shaking its chains. But despite the oppressive atmosphere, she felt strangely at home at Bronygarth.
After mounting the stairs, curiosity made her stop outside Mr Daventry’s door. She considered knocking, but it was late, and he must be exhausted after spending hours battling in the wind and rain.
No one had lit the fire in her chamber. No one had turned down the bed or placed a warming pan beneath the ice-cold sheets. As the frigid temperature penetrated her bones, she scoured the drawers and the armoire, looking for more blankets.
Of course, she had another purpose for stamping around and making a racket. But after hurrying to listen at the adjoining door, she heard nothing to convince her Lucius was awake.
Knowing she had no hope of sleeping, Sybil lingered at the door before pushing doubts aside and turning the key in the lock.
The hinges groaned as she eased the door from the jamb.
A frisson of excitement sent her heart skipping as she stepped into his bedchamber. She peered through the gloom, hindered by the lack of firelight, the lack of any lit candles.
“Lucius,” she whispered, but he was not sitting in the chair near the stone fireplace. The glass on the side table was empty, the decanter full. “Lucius.” She stepped closer to the bed, and with trembling fingers pulled back the green hangings.
The bed was empty.