Prince of Ravenscar (Sherbrooke Brides 11)

“Tell your mother you will wait no longer than August. Surely you can control yourself until then. After all, you do have two mistresses to ease you through it.”

Devlin was shaking his head. “I must begin this fidelity business right now. She will make a perfect duchess, don’t you think, Julian?”

“Yes, I do. I suggest you live at Holly Hill, Devlin, perhaps only visit Mount Burney, say, at Christmas. But don’t worry, she will deal well enough with your mother. Roxanne is made of stern stuff.”

Devlin raised his snifter, clicked it to Julian’s. “She will enjoy putting her mark on Holly Hill. Do you know Roxanne smells of jasmine with a hint of lemon?”

56

Julian stared down at Orvald Manners, who still lay in endless sleep. What held him unconscious? Julian knew he would die soon if he didn’t wake up, from starvation and thirst.

He felt his pulse, found it slow.

“No movement of any kind?”

Julian looked up to see Sophie standing in the doorway. “No, none. He merely lies there, like a dead man who happens still to be breathing.”

She walked to the bed, stood silently beside him, looking down at Manners. “Do you think Richard hopes Manners will never wake up?”

Julian sighed. “I don’t know, Richard seemed very sincere in his denial.”

“There is no one else, Julian.”

That was true enough. Just as there was no one else but you to kill Lily. He would have to think about this. “It is difficult to believe that even Manners had a mother who must have loved him, at least at one time.”

Orvald Manners suddenly opened his eyes, blinked, and whispered in a scratchy voice, “I’ve a powerful thirst.”

Sophie quickly poured him a glass of water and held it to his lips. He drank and drank until, exhausted, his head fell back against the pillow.

“It is about time you woke up, Mr. Manners,” Julian said. “Are you hungry?”

He was silent for a moment, and finally nodded. “Aye, I could eat a broiled eel. What’d ye call me?”

What was this? Julian said, “Your name is Orvald Manners.”

“Orvald, ye says? I don’t knows as I like no Orvald, sounds furin, like I’m French, or something nasty like that. Where am I? Who’s the purty young missis wot’s starin’ at me as if I ’ad two ’eads?”

Sophie leaned over him. “I’m the purty young missis who is going to pound your head when you are well again, Mr. Manners.”

His eyes lit up. “Oh, aye, ye’re welcome to ’ave a go at me, little one. I likes ’em feisty, leastwises I thinks I do. Are ye come to feed me?”

After Mr. Manners had eaten his fill, not boiled eels but stargazy pie, he fell to sleep. This time, Dr. Crutchfield assured them, shaking his head at the miracle, it was a simple sleep. Whatever had held him from consciousness was gone. “Mayhap it was hearing you speak, Prince. On some level, he heard your voice and it brought him back. I daresay I can’t ask for my fee, since in all honesty, I didn’t do anything for him.”

Julian laughed, paid Dr. Crutchfield a pound note, watching the old man’s veiny hand shake a bit as he accepted it.

Sophie said, “Mr. Manners appears not to remember who he is. Dr. Crutchfield, do you have any experience in this sort of thing?”

“Head wounds—you never know what mischief they will cause inside a man’s skull. Some never remember how they were injured in the first place. Some never remember anything at all. What to expect from this fellow? I don’t know. Good day to you, Prince, Miss Wilkie. I will be interested to hear what happens to the man.”

“So will I,” Julian said, as he turned back to Sophie.

“Devlin told me Beatrice is pregnant.”

“Yes. This will be her first litter.”

“What are we to do now, Julian?”

“I fancy there isn’t a lot we can do. She will grow fat and lazy and—”