“I see—it’s a bribe.”
“Perish the thought!”
“But if the vicar asks me directly, you expect me to lie.”
“Ofcoursenot,” he said suavely. “I trust you will answer in your own, er, unique manner.” His blue eyes danced.
He meant she lied by omission. She did. She wished she had some moral ground, high or otherwise, to stand on, but she didn’t.
The banknote crackled appealingly between her fingers in a small papery siren song. She couldn’t give it back, she just couldn’t.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “It won’t be long before my memory returns, I’m sure. Already I’ve had a few small flashes—nothing important, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.”
“I will accept it, thank you. But you must ensure you aren’t seen by any of the villagers.” There would be scandal if anyone found out. An unconscious man was one thing: a handsome and obviously virile gentleman was quite another.
But homelessness was worse than any scandal.
Not that it would come to homelessness. She would return to Fyfield Place before she let the children starve or live on the streets. Since Mr. Harris’s visit, the prospect of returning had hung over her like an ax waiting to fall.
With this ten pounds, she was safe, for a time. Just until he got his memory back.
She tucked the money away in the tin, adding it to the seven pence that until ten minutes earlier had been all that stood between her family and complete destitution.
Ten pounds would feed her and the children for months. It would pay for new shoes for children outgrowing theirs at a rate she couldn’t keep up with.
But she could grow food, and the shoes would have to wait. This was rent, this would keep them safe. When Mr. Harris returned tomorrow, she’d be able to pay him.
Thank God.
In the meantime she’d write to the Earl of Alverleigh and put her case before him.
“Thank you,” she said again to Mr. Rider. “The money will make all the difference in the world.”
“What’s worrying you?” Nash asked Maddy. She’d spent the last half hour sitting at the table composing a letter. Now it was sealed and she was pacing up and down, looking frustrated.
“I’ve written a letter to the Earl of Alverleigh, who’s acting for my landlord while he’s out of the country,” she told him, “but now I don’t know where to send it. I know it’s Alverleigh House, but in what county? Near which town or village?”
“I see your point.” Nash frowned, pretending to consider the problem. His first small, ironic hurdle. How to give her his brother’s address without revealing his own identity?
“I told Mr. Harris I would write, and he said to give it to him and he would forward it, but I don’t trust him.”
“No, no, quite right. Would the vicar have a copy of Debrett’s, perhaps?”
“Debrett’s?” She glanced at him in surprise.
“Debrett’sPeerage. It’s a guide to all the best families in the kingdom—”
“Yes, I know what it is, but . . . you remembered it.”
“Oh. So I did.” He examined his fingernails. “Must be stored in the same part of the brain as Hadrian and his wall. I don’t pretend to know how it works.”
“Don’t worry,” she told him with warm sympathy. “I’m sure it will all come back to you soon.”
She looked so beautiful, so concerned for him. Serpents of guilt coiled around Nash’s conscience, squeezing it tight. He beat them off.
“I’m sure the vicar will have Debrett’s. It’s the kind of thing he’s interested in—he’s a bit of a snob. I’ll call in on the way to the village. The children will be finishing their lessons, so it’s perfect timing. I’ll post the letter in the village and deliver Mrs. Richards’s hat at the same time.”
He had to get to that letter before she tucked it in her reticule. A small delay was called for . . . He peered at the window. “Looks like more rain on the way.”
