“Five pounds by the end of the week, or you’re out. Mr. Renfrew’s letter was adamant.” The chair creaked as Harris leaned back, obviously savoring the moment.
“But that’s tomorrow.”
Harris shrugged.
“Who is this Mr. Renfrew? I need to speak with him.”
“The Honorable Mr. Nash Renfrew is the new owner. He’s Sir Jasper Brownrigg’s nephew and brother to the Earl of Alverleigh,” Harris said with ill-concealed satisfaction. He kept speaking, but his words seemed to fade away.
Renfrew? The Earl of Alverleigh?The little world of the bed in the alcove seemed to spin.Renfrew . . .
Nash Renfrew . . .
He’d seen an avalanche in Switzerland, once. First a tiny, almost invisible fracture, and a small piece of snow had slipped. An odd sort of ripple had followed and snow had started sliding, first in ribbons, then in ragged sheets, until suddenly an entire mountainside was falling, tumbling, the landscape shattering downward at a terrifying speed, taking everything with it.
And afterward a terrible, echoing silence.
His memory came back like that, a tiny fracture that started with his name, Nash Renfrew.
He was Nash Renfrew. And his brother was Marcus, Earl of Alverleigh.
And suddenly his brain was filled with ribbons, sheets of memory: names, faces, moments, smells, all reconnecting, swirling, crashing, falling into place like a mad puzzle that had been tormenting him elliptically for days, and now, finally, began to make sense.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed while it was happening; in some ways it felt like hours, yet it was over in a flash. A bit like the avalanche.
And afterward he was left almost as shattered, as he began to put it together, put himself together.
His name was Nash Renfrew and he was coming home from . . . no, not coming home. He was going to see Uncle Jasper’s estate. Someone had written—Marcus? No, some lawyer, he thought, to say that Uncle Jasper had died. Nash had known for several years that he was the heir. Whitethorn Manor was unentailed, Jasper had never married, and Nash being a younger son, had little property of his own.
So he was riding to Uncle Jasper’s estate . . . no, that wasn’t right. One didn’t get off a ship and ride a horse right across the country. He’d just come back from . . . from Russia, from St. Petersburg. No, that was wrong, too. He’d gone to London first, and then visited Aunt Maude in Bath before he left, left . . . for . . .
The house party! He nearly spoke the words aloud. He’d almost forgotten he wasn’t alone, that discretion was crucial. He was Nash Renfrew and discretion was his middle name.
He peered out between the curtains, but Harris was gone. Maddy was wrapping herself in a cloak, her face set and grim.
“Maddy,” he said, “I must tell you—”
“Later,” she said brusquely. “I have to go out.”
“But I have my mem—”
The door closed behind her.
Nash didn’t mind. He’d tell her when she returned. Power surged through him. He was himself again, in control, no longer a helpless creature with no idea of who he was. His physical injuries were irrelevant now. They would heal. He had himself back and that was what counted.
Bizarre how knowing one’s identity mattered so very much.
Nine
He had his memory back. He was himself again. And to Nash’s frustration, there was nobody here to tell.
He recalled Maddy’s frequent questions about who would be worrying about his non-arrival. The answer was nobody.
From London, he’d called on Aunt Maude in Bath, and after her, his plan was to drop in on Harry and Nell at Firmin Court on his way to Whitethorn Manor. A rapid but thorough inspection of his inheritance, make any arrangements necessary, then back to London for the ball and the grand duchess.
And then . . . possibly . . . a wedding.
In Bath he’d run into an old acquaintance who’d invited him to a house party near Horningsham. But he soon realized the house party was simply an excuse for evening bed games and no place for any potential brides. Nash had no interest in random and indiscriminate coupling, and since Horningsham was only a day’s ride across country from Whitethorn, he decided to ride ahead and arrive early at his new estate. He’d sent his valet on to Harry and Nell’s. So nobody was expecting him anywhere until next week at least.
