The Suspect's Daughter

by Donna Hatch

  “The bad news is; it’s dislocated.”

  Grant winced. He’d seen a man get his dislocated shoulder put back into place. He didn’t envy him.

  “I can’t reset your shoulder in here—it’s too tight. Can you stand?” The doctor’s voice, echoed in the narrow stairwell.

  Bracing himself with his uninjured arm, Grant tried to push himself to a stand but fiery pain burned one knee. The weight of dizziness bore down on him and he crumpled. Indistinct voices echoed and strong arms supported him on both sides. With a groan, he stood and leaned on them as they led him out into the sunlight. He walked unsteadily but managed to keep upright. Shielding his eyes from the glare, he squeezed his eyes closed again. His knees buckled. At least two sets of hands lowered him to a stone floor.

  A hand gently probed his head. Pain shot through his skull and he sucked in his breath. “It’s not cut, but a bump is already forming,” said the doctor. “How do you feel? Dizzy? Nauseous?”

  “Both.”

  “You probably have a concussion. We’ll have to keep an eye on you. Let’s set that shoulder. Lie down flat.”

  Grant swallowed, remembering how the soldier in the medical tent had screamed when his shoulder was reset. Grant took a bracing breath and eased himself down on his back. He almost asked for something to bite on to avoid screaming but clamped his mouth closed, determined to bear it silently. The doctor straightened his arm and gently tugged it away from Grant’s body, keeping the pressure even. The tugging increased. Pain radiated in waves from his shoulder.

  “Try to relax,” the doctor said.

  Grant focused on controlling his breathing and relaxing his body. The ball joint popped and the doctor relaxed his hold on Grant.

  “All done,” the doctor said.

  Hardly daring to hope, Grant opened his eyes. “That’s it?”

  A surprisingly young man with warm brown eyes smiled. “That’s it. I try not to torture my patients when I treat them. I charge extra for that, of course.” His eyes twinkled.

  Grant let out his breath. Then, horrified that he might have revealed his dread, he grunted at the doctor, “My thanks.”

  “You’ll be badly bruised, I’m afraid.” He looked carefully into Grant’s eyes. “And I want you to rest for the next few days to give your head time to recover. That was an impressive fall.”

  It was a stupid fall. Where on earth he’d left his brain when he’d decided to take a leap head-first down a stairwell to save an empty-headed female was beyond him.

  Said empty-headed female sat nearby, watching him with enough gratitude shining in her eyes that he had to avoid her gaze lest he convince himself she was worth saving or risk allowing any of her light to reach his shriveled, neglected heart and give it false hope.

  With the doctor’s help, Grant rose to a seated position. His head spun and his stomach threatened to embarrass him in front of everyone. He pressed his hands over his head and clamped his mouth shut, both to avoid moaning in pain and to tell his stomach who was in control. Wind cooled perspiration on his face and sun shone as if it had no thought for useless mortals below.

  “Papa.” Miss Fairley’s voice slipped over his senses. “I think we ought to take him home where he can rest.”

  With his eyes still closed, Grant made a dismissive wave. At least, he hoped it appeared dismissive. “I’ll be all right. Just give me a moment.” He took several bracing breaths and then pushed himself to a stand.

  Fairley said, “I don’t think you should stand up so soon, son.”

  “I’m fine, no need to fuss.” Grant pried his eyes open and blinked. The pain receded, but his stability remained questionable and he sagged against the wall.

  Jocelyn Fairley stood with her hands over her heart, her gaze darting over him, her mouth twisted into something between disbelief and concern.

  He fisted his hands to keep himself from touching her. “Are you sure you’re unharmed?”

  “I’m well, thanks to you.” Her voice quivered.

  And thanks to him and his accusations, she’d run headlong to escape him. If she hadn’t felt the need to run away, she wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.

  “I’m glad you’re safe.” He rubbed a hand over his head. He was beginning to sound like a lovesick puppy, curse him for a fool. “Clumsy wenches shouldn’t go racing down stairs.”

  She blinked in disbelief. Then, one corner of her mouth lifted as if she saw through his defensive measure. “Boorish oafs shouldn’t go down stairs head-first.” She smiled. Was that fondness in her eyes? Sobering, she placed a hand against his cheek, the heat spreading outward to warm his entire body. “I can’t believe you saved me like that. You could have broken your neck.”

  He must have hit his head harder than he thought; why else would he have that idiotic, almost irresistible desire to turn his head and press a kiss into her hand? He fought it.

  About a dozen people stood on the roof, staring at him as if he’d committed some kind of unforgivable faux pas. Scowling at them, he pushed off from the wall. But before he took more than two steps, dizziness overcame him and the floor tilted so violently that he fell into darkness.

  Chapter 14

  Jocelyn stood next to Dr. Blake in the doorway of Grant Amesbury’s room, uttering another prayer for his safety. Dr. Blake had checked on him several times since the fall but could offer no prognosis beyond the assurance that patients with head injuries such as Grant’s usually made a full recovery. Usually. The idea that this brave, if somewhat grumbly, man might die or suffer long-term side effects because he’d saved her left Jocelyn with the urge to weep. If she thought it would do any good, she would have shed a waterfall’s worth of tears.

  With a sigh, Grant turned his head. His eyes opened a slit, and he went very still. His gaze fastened on her as if he’d never seen her. “You can’t be one of the devil’s minions; you have the face of an angel.”

  Relief left her weak. She smiled, her vision turning suddenly watery. Despite his understandable disorientation, he seemed well enough, if a bit delusional. No one had ever compared her face to an angel’s. But the hope that he might actually think that of her in truly unguarded moments flamed in her heart.

  She offered a smile. “Welcome back.”

  His silvery gaze studied her another moment before surveying the room. He moistened his lips. “Have I been somewhere?”

  She let out a cross between a sob and a laugh. “You went wherever the sandman takes people when they sleep. But don’t worry—you’ve only been in and out, not truly unconscious, and it’s only been a few hours.”

  His brows drew together. “What happened?”

  Doctor Blake leaned over to examine his eyes. “You hit your head. I’m checking on you to be sure you’re not suffering any lingering effects.”

  “Effects?” Mr. Amesbury frowned and pressed a hand to his head.

  Jocelyn cast an anxious glance at the doctor. Was a lack of memory about that fall sign of serious injury? “Effects from your fall.”

  He frowned as if he thought them both mad. “What fall?”

  “Well, actually you threw yourself down the stairs to save me.”

  His scowl deepened, and he turned his head, then hissed in his breath. He reached up and felt the side of his head, his expression turning thoughtful as his fingers no doubt encountered a lump.

  Dr. Blake passed his hand over Grant’s eyes. His pupils were so enlarged that his irises became only a fine silver circle around the black. “Do you remember falling down the stairs?”

  “The stairs....” Grant squeezed his eyes closed.

  “Of the castle ruins?” Jocelyn supplied.

  He opened his eyes and focused on Jocelyn. “I remember. You fell, and I … are you all right?”

  That was thrice he’d asked after her safety. The man clearly had a more tender heart than he let on. Mutely, lest she give in to her urge to bawl like a child, she nodded.

  His features relaxed. For a moment, he appe
ared young and handsome and carefree. He shifted and grumbled, “No need for tears.”

  She squared her shoulders and swallowed her emotions since they made him so clearly uncomfortable. “You are remarkably chivalrous, Grant Amesbury. Whenever I need you, you always come to my rescue.”

  He tried to glare, but it looked forced. “I’ll be sure to restrain myself in the future.”

  She smiled at the adorable way he struggled in discomfort at her gratitude. He wasn’t as rough and grumpy as he appeared—he had a tender heart that he disliked revealing. If she weren’t so indebted, she might have tried harder to express her appreciation just to watch him squirm, but that would be sorry repayment for all he’d done for her. And when he’d been delusional, he’d called her an angel. How lovely.

  Jocelyn took a step back. “I’ll leave you to examine him, doctor. Please send word if there’s anything you require.”

  The doctor thanked her and turned his attention to Grant Amesbury, her dark, grumpy knight. She smiled. Surely a man so diligent about putting others’ safety ahead of his own would be fair in his investigation.

  Upon receiving word that her rescuer appeared to be resting comfortably, she spent the remainder of the evening with their guests having dinner and playing several rounds of charades. As the hour grew late, the guests dispersed to seek their beds. Jocelyn reviewed the next day’s menu with the cook. That task completed, she headed across the great hall toward the stairs.

  Hushed voices caught her attention. The furtive quality of the voices raised the hairs on her arms.

  Stepping lightly on her soft-soled slippers and hoping the rustle of her skirts wouldn’t give her away, she crept toward the conversation occurring on the far side of the curving grand stairway.

  “…Lord Liverpool.”

  A bolt shot through her and she held her breath.

  “I understand that sacrifices must be made but I can’t like the rest of your plan. Even if it works, the king might appoint someone else. And you’re talking about destroying innocent men…”

  “As you said, sacrifices must be made. Then he will be the only suitable candidate for the king to consider once our plan plays out in its entirety.”

  As Jocelyn drew nearer, the floor under her shoe squeaked. The conversation halted. The blood rushed out of her head. They must know she was there. Her first impulse was to find a light, discover the speakers’ identity, and demand answers. But if they were plotting murder, they were capable of anything. Thinking fast, she started humming and walking up the stairs as if she had been walking a steady pace with no knowledge anyone stood in the shadows. Gliding up the steps with her head high, she continued to hum, keeping her focus fixed on the portrait at the head of the staircase. The back of her head throbbed as if someone had a gun pointed at her. Perspiration trickled between her shoulder blades.

  Sacrifices…destroying an innocent man…Good heavens! Could this be a conversation over ruining someone’s reputation? Or did someone in this very house plot to assassinate the prime minister as Bow Street and Grant Amesbury suspected?

  But who were the men she’d overheard? The words “our man” suggested they spoke of someone not present during that discussion. She refused to think Papa would be party to such evil. Possibly it meant some of his supporters were acting without his knowledge. But which of her father’s supporters were zealous enough—and ruthless enough—to want him in that position badly enough to commit murder?

  Upon reaching the top of the stairs, she turned immediately toward her room. At the last second, she stepped into the shadows, glancing downward toward the conversation she’d overheard. It was too dark to make out anything of the forms below. She waited, but no one approached. No sound broke the silence. She let out her breath, releasing pent-up fear quivering in her stomach.

  She resumed her path toward her room but checked her steps. Surely she ought to check on Grant Amesbury. As a guest in their home, he deserved her attentiveness. As her rescuer who’d injured himself in the course of his brave and selfless act, he deserved her undying gratitude and an extra measure of care.

  In the guest wing, she stopped in front of his door and tapped softly.

  “Come.”

  At least he sounded stronger. She entered and found him sitting on the floor next to the bed, hunched over with his head in his hands, wearing only trousers and a shirt.

  “Mr. Amesbury?”

  He lifted his head.

  At the sight of his pallor, she rushed toward him. “Did you fall?”

  He scowled. “I tried to get up….”

  She kneeled in front of him. “Didn’t the doctor tell you to stay abed for at least a day?”

  “Can’t. Have work to do.”

  “Your work will have to wait. You won’t get anything accomplished if you injure yourself again.” She pressed the back of her fingers to his forehead, checking for signs of fever.

  He went very still under her touch, his eyes wary. Her fingers tingled. A shiver of awareness ran the length of her whole being. Remembering she was supposed to be checking for fever, she cleared her throat. His skin remained cool. The utter stillness about him and that sharp intensity in his gaze left her breathless. His unbuttoned shirt only opened to a slight V at his throat, but as an unmarried miss, she certainly should not view his state of dress. Heat flushed her cheeks.

  She lowered her hand. “You don’t feel feverish, thank goodness, but you belong in bed.”

  He growled. “I don’t have time for lying about.”

  Clearly the man felt none of the same physical reaction to their closeness that currently zinged across her skin. She moistened her lips. “I’ll call a footman to help you up.”

  “No. I can manage.” But his pallor and the tightening around his mouth betrayed his pain.

  She huffed an exasperated laugh. “I don’t think you can, not today. I’ll help you.” She lifted his arm to put it around her shoulder but he hissed in his breath, his face twisting in pain. The she remembered. “Oh! I’m so sorry. That’s your sore shoulder.”

  She moved to his other side, ducked under his other arm and placed it around her shoulders. With her arms wrapped around his waist, and after tucking her feet under her body and bracing her back against the bed, she said, “Up you go, then.”

  She stood, groaning under his weight. It was like trying to lift a horse. Her muscles strained and shook. Leaning on her, and using his other hand to steady himself, Grant pushed himself up enough to get back up into bed. As he lowered himself onto the mattress, she placed a hand behind his head and guided him back onto the pillow. She pulled up the counterpane on the bed and covered him with it.

  He pushed it back. “Leave it off. It’s too warm.”

  To assure herself no fever had developed, she touched his face again and relaxed when she encountered cool skin. She gave into the urge to brush a strand of hair away from his face. Dark as midnight and as soft as a child’s, his hair obediently moved under her fingers. Pale gray eyes with enormous pupils watched her steadily.

  Heat rushed to her cheeks at the familiarity she took with him. She cleared her throat. “I’ll leave you, then. Good night.” If he had any sense, he’d stay abed tonight. Her skirts swished as she stepped toward the door.

  “What troubles you?” His voice halted her.

  She stopped, meeting his gaze. “What do you mean?”

  He rolled over onto his side and folded his elbow underneath his head. “You’ve learned something. About your father?”

  She caught her breath. Grant Amesbury was too perceptive. “No.”

  Under his probing stare, she studied the ground and wrapped her arms around herself. In an attempt to appear nonchalant, she shrugged. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Very quietly, he said, “You can tell me.”

  “No, I can’t. You’ll twist it around to make sure it fits what you’ve already decided is the truth.”

  His stare remained fixed upon her. Was it her imagin
ation or were his pupils still too large even for the dim lighting? “I admit when I first started investigating your father, I had something of a bias.”

  She sighed and nodded.

  “But I give you my word, I will carefully examine every clue and be fair. I am not on a witch hunt; I seek justice.”

  She huffed and sank into the nearest chair. “Who believes this of my father?”

  “Bow Street.”

  “And you believe my father capable of something this heinous?”

  “His name is linked to the plot.”

  She waited but he didn’t elaborate. “So, someone said my father is guilty and your task to prove it.” She cocked her head to the side. “What if you find that he’s innocent? Or what, even, if you cannot find any evidence of his guilt?”

  “Then I will report back such and work to discover the real conspirators.” But his words lacked conviction and something of a struggle revealed itself in his expression. His gaze refocused on her face. “What have you learned?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t remember their exact words.”

  “Whose words?”

  She’d heard nothing condemning for her father; only a confirmation that a plot existed. Still, she hedged. “I didn’t see them.”

  He said nothing, only focused those pale eyes with their too-large pupils on her, stripping away her defenses. Was he so formidable in matters of love, as well?

  Heat returned to her face at the unbidden thoughts and her words tumbled out. “They were in the dark and speaking barely above a whisper. But I heard something about Lord Liverpool, and sacrifices, and destroying innocent men.”

  She stopped. She wanted to confide in him about such a serious matter but feared how he’d react. Still, she had to tell someone; an innocent life was threatened.

  She drew a breath and revealed it all. “And they appeared to be having some kind of disagreement. One of them mentioned ‘our man’ being the only suitable candidate once they made their move.”

  His eyes took on an even deeper intensity as he mulled over her words. “‘Our man’ meaning whom?”