After bobbing a curtsy, the woman scurried off.
“Give me a few minutes to dress, and I’ll meet you outside.”
Christian sat astride Valiant, staring out into the distance while he waited for Taylor. But it wasn't the disaster at the manor that plagued his thoughts. For the first time in years, he looked forward to going home, to having another private conversation in the study with his governess.
Guilt flared as the image of that sweet, sensual kiss came flooding back. His desire for Rose should have roused a pang of shame. But no matter what position she held in his household, he refused to see her as a servant.
For heaven’s sake, he'd never met a more intelligent woman. And regardless of her situation now, she could hold her head amongst the elite of society. Perhaps he should press her for more information regarding her background. But what if his probing questions pushed her away? He’d grown accustomed to having her around. Couldn’t bear the thought she might leave.
“Forgive me for keeping you waiting, my lord.” Dr Taylor appeared on his mount. “Carter, my groom, grows less efficient as the years pass. Now, where are we headed? I trust someone moved the woman in question to a safer location.”
“Yes, The Talbot Inn.”
“Ah, we’d best get there before Mrs Parsons mixes one of her tinctures. The woman cooks the best lamb stew for miles around but is lacking when it comes to herbal remedies.”
They nudged their horses out onto the lane and set off towards the inn.
Alerted by the clip of their horses’ hooves on the cobblestoned courtyard, Mr Parsons rushed out to greet them. “His lordship said you’d be coming. They’re waiting upstairs.”
So the gentleman was a member of the aristocracy. Damn. Not only did that present a problem when it came to stealing servants, but there were still those in London who liked to gossip about Cassandra. It was yet another reason for remaining in the country.
They dismounted, and a groom took their horses.
“Take me to her at once,” Dr Taylor said, removing the leather satchel draped across his shoulder. “Ensure Mrs Parsons doesn’t give her anything to eat or drink until I’ve made a thorough examination.”
“Aye, sir.”
They hurried inside. Mrs Parsons appeared and beckoned them upstairs. “I’ve put the lady in here.” She rapped on the door, opened it ajar and peered inside. “The doctor is here, my lord.”
“Praise the saints. Show him in.”
Christian tapped Taylor’s arm. “I’ll be downstairs should you need anything.” The doctor liked privacy when he worked, and Christian wanted to avoid making polite conversation.
Despite the late hour, numerous people sat around the crude wooden tables in the taproom, supping their drinks. Christian found a spot in the corner near the fire and ordered a tankard of ale. Mr Parsons approached the table, wiping his hands on the apron tied around his waist.
“Terrible news about the lady,” he said in a hushed voice. “Although I doubt any of us care what happens to the manor.”
“No doubt some of Mr Watson’s old patients will rejoice once they hear the news.” Christian swallowed a mouthful of ale. “As will I once I’m assured the lady is in good health.”
“Oh, we’re all hoping for that, my lord.” Mr Parsons stepped closer. A whiff of stale sweat wafted past Christian’s nose. “His lordship doesn’t seem too bothered about losing the house. I know some who’d be crying over the burnt timbers.”
“I imagine anyone who’s spent a few nights in that place would welcome an excuse to leave.” Christian sat forward. “Did he give his name? It’s been years since I spent time in the city.” Much longer since he’d attended balls and social engagements. “And I must admit, I'm curious as to the identity of the gentleman willing to purchase an old asylum.”
“The Earl of Stanton’s been back and forth from London twice this week, though that’s the first time we’ve seen him since he bought the old house.”
The Earl of Stanton?
Oh, he knew the name but remembered the portly gentleman with white streaks running through his black hair. The fellow upstairs was obviously the son and heir.
“Then I trust the lady is his wife?”
Mr Parsons raised a brow. “If she’s his wife, then my aunt Fanny’s a bishop.”
“I see.”
The news banished all feelings of guilt Christian had over keeping Rose at Everleigh. The earl had purchased the manor for his mistress, hence the reason for two visits in one week. One needed brash servants when dealing with the sort of parties held by the members of the demi-monde. As a maid in such a house, Rose would have fallen foul to the rakes and rogues looking for easy sport.
Once again, the need to question his motives pushed to the fore. He cared about Rose. Bloody hell. The thought caught him off guard. He shook his head. Devil take him, he did care about her. And the kiss they’d shared was precisely that — shared not forced. Pleased to shake off the label of rogue, he drained what remained in the tankard.