Flipping her hand palm up on the table, Selena threaded her fingers with Martin’s as if for strength. “I do not know. She left the house.”
“In the rain?”
She nodded. “And she has not returned. I’m worried.”
Martin squeezed her hand. “Miss Bell is an intelligent woman. She can care for herself.”
“Yes,” Richard grumbled, pushing to his feet, “but she shouldn’t have to.”
“Curses,” Peterson said from across the room. He’d jumped to his feet as well, his arms bent behind his back, his face red.
“My lord, are you unwell?” Selena asked.
“Something’s stung me, I think.” His hands clawed at his back. “Zeus, it itches!”
Richard did not have time for this, but he swung toward the man and spun him around. “No bees. No insects at all. You’re likely allergic to the country air. I suggest you return to London immediately.”
Peterson scowled, still scratching his back, mostly the back of his neck, like mad. There, peeking out from between the hair at his nape and the snowy white folds of his cravat—a bit of greenery.
Richard snagged it, dropped it immediately. “Martin, come here. You’re wearing gloves. Could you pick that up?”
Martin did so, throwing it outside the window. “What is it?”
“A plant that grows on the south side of the lake. Makes your skin itch like the devil. Have you been rolling in the grass, Peterson?”
“No! I’ve been nowhere near the lake today!”
Richard made for the door. No time for hijinks this afternoon. Beatrice knew the truth, and he needed to find her. “I suggest a bath. And no grass rolling. And telling the truth, Peterson. No lady will have you otherwise.” And then he was sweeping down the hall and out the door into the driving rain.
Where in hell had she gone? He checked the dry places—stables, boathouse, his cottage. No Beatrice. He checked the wet ones—forest, lake, and gardens. No Beatrice.
“Bloody hell.”
He was soaked through, and the rain was not letting up. He should return to the house.
But he kept going.
Until he saw a swath of blue like a wound against the green grass at the bottom of a hill, partway between Slopevale and his own home.
“Beatrice!” He ran. When wind and rain swallowed his cry, he screamed her name again, still running, the slash of a blue wound taking shape. When he hit his knees beside her, he didn’t touch her. His hands hovered, uncertain. “Beatrice?”
Her eyes were open, staring into the rain. Then she blinked and turned her head, and her chest rose and fell as if seeing him gave her breath.
Now he could touch her, now that there was a spark of life, a glimmer of recognition, and something else in her sad eyes. Sad?
Good God, no. Not Beatrice. A crime.
He brushed the hair away from her forehead, stroked his knuckles down her temple, inspected her neck and shoulders for wounds, found her hands to check her pulse at her wrist. “Are you hurt?”
“My pride is fatally wounded.” She closed her eyes.
He chuckled. Relief was a sweet thing, a spoonful of sugar to ease his worry. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but he sat beside her, the wet grass soaking through his trousers and smalls immediately. “Why am I constantly saving you from drowning, Beatrice Bell?”
“That’s only happened once.”
“It is about to happen again.”
“You cannot drown in the rain.” But each word was garbled by the torrent pouring straight into her mouth.
