“Thomas—my brother-in-law, Lord Molenor—believes he remembers Mr. Reginald Heyden, your uncle, as a venerable elder when he was just a young sprig about town, Miss Heyden,” the dowager duchess said. “He will no doubt have questions for you when he meets you. And about your aunt too, though Mr. Heyden was still a widower after his first marriage at the time.”
“He married my aunt twenty years ago,” Wren explained, “and sold his London house and never came back here.”
The conversation flowed pleasantly after that, but the ladies stayed for only twenty minutes more. But now she had met five members of the family, including Mrs. Westcott and Elizabeth. She could meet the rest too. It was not going to be easy, but she could do it. She would do it. It was her newest project, and she would not fail any more than she failed at any of her business endeavors.
And then—oh, then, she would settle into the marriage of her dreams and never meet anyone else ever again.
She almost believed herself.
Twelve
Wren was looking forward to an afternoon drive to Kew Gardens with her betrothed. There were three days still to go to her wedding, and it seemed to her that some invisible force must have slowed time to a fraction of its usual speed. Yet there was pleasure too in going shopping with her future mother-and sister-in-law and simply being at home, getting to know them better and learning to relax in their company.
Her future family had gone visiting on this particular afternoon, however, and Wren stayed behind in her room in her favorite place by the window, reading one of the books she had borrowed from Hookham’s Library. The earl was not due to arrive for another hour yet. He had assured her she would find Kew Gardens lovely. She particularly wanted to see the famous pagoda.
When she heard the distant sounds of closing doors and male voices, she glanced at the clock on the mantel. He must have mistaken the time—or she had. He was an hour early. It did not matter, however. She was ready and eager to go. She got to her feet, took up her bonnet and gloves and shawl and parasol and hurried light-footed down to the drawing room.
The door was open. Wren could see that Mr. Lifford, the butler, was bent over another man, who was seated in a chair close to the door. Her first thought was that her betrothed must be unwell. Too late she realized that the man was a stranger—she was already inside the room and had been noticed. Both men looked up at her, the butler in some consternation, the other man with a frown and a blank look in his eyes.
“Who are you?” he asked, jumping to his feet.
He was a very young man, tall and thin, almost to the point of emaciation. He might once have been very good-looking, but his complexion now was pasty apart from two spots of hectic color high on his cheeks. His fair hair was untidy and matted in places. He was wearing a green military coat, which looked both dusty and shabby, breeches and linen that must once have been white but were no longer so, and scuffed dusty boots. Even from a slight distance away, Wren could detect an unpleasant odor. She knew even before the butler spoke who he must be.
“Lieutenant Westcott has come home, miss,” Mr. Lifford said. “Miss Heyden is staying here as a guest, sir.”
“Captain Westcott,” the young man said almost absently, still frowning, and Wren could see now that his eyes were bright and feverish and rather wild. “Dash it all, Mama is not here, is she? Or Cam. Or Abby. They left. It slipped my mind. I remembered yesterday. At least, I think it was yesterday. Who is here, Lifford? Anastasia? But she married Avery. Devil take it, I ought not to have come to this house, ought I? I knew that. Forgot.” He was noticeably swaying on his feet.
Wren set her things down on a table beside the door and hurried forward. “You are Harry Westcott,” she said, taking his arm. “Have you just come from the Peninsula? Do please sit down again. Mrs. Althea Westcott is staying here for the Season with Lady Overfield, but they are out this afternoon. The Earl of Riverdale will be here soon. Mr. Lifford, perhaps you would bring the captain a glass of water?” She could tell as soon as she touched him that he was burning up with fever.
The butler hurried away and the young man sank back down onto his seat. “Riverdale.” He rested one elbow on the arm of the chair and set three fingertips against his forehead. He laughed weakly. “That used to be me, by Jove, and my father before me. No longer, though. All the time I was on the ship and then in the carriage I remembered. How could I have forgotten as soon as I saw London? If I could only get here and through the door, I thought, I would be home. I even argued with the driver of the hired coach when he told me this was not the address I had given him. I called him a fool.” He grinned and then looked stricken.
“You are home,” Wren told him, setting the backs of her fingers lightly to his cheek to confirm that indeed he was very hot. “You are with your family.”
“Home.” He closed his eyes. “The very place where that damned Alex is living. It was not his fault, though, was it?”
“It was not,” she said.
“I expected that they would all be here,” he said. “Mama and the girls. They are not, though, are they? How the devil could I have forgotten? I remembered when we were at sea before I forgot again. Cam married a dashed schoolteacher because she thought she could do no better. Mama is afraid to show her face anywhere she may be recognized. She is not here, is she?”
The butler had returned and Wren took the glass of water from his tray and held it to the young man’s lips as he sipped from it. His hand closed about hers and he drank more greedily. She doubted he had had a chance either to wash or to change his linen since he left the Peninsula, even though he was an officer and one would have expected him to have received preferential treatment among all the other military wounded with whom she supposed he had been shipped home.
“Who are you? I have forgotten,” he said, taking his hand from the glass. “What did you do to your face? A musket ball glanced past, did it? It looks as if you had a narrow escape.”
“I am Wren Heyden,” she said. “It is a birthmark.”
“Of course,” he said. “There are no musket balls whistling around here, are there? I am in England, aren’t I?”
“You are,” Wren said as he sat back in his chair, and she saw that his eyes were suddenly swimming with tears.
“It is one devil of a lark being out there, you know,” he said, grinning at her. “Mama and the girls are out, are they? I should have sent notice from Dover that I was on my way. But I had a spot of fever again.”
Wren exchanged glances with the butler. “Mr. Lifford,” she said, “is Captain Westcott’s old room unoccupied?”
“It is, miss,” he said.
“Then will you lead the way there?” she said. “After we get him settled, perhaps you could have a bowl of cold water with some cloths sent up? And will you perhaps send for the family physician? Come, Captain Westcott. Take my arm and we will go up to your room. You may lie down there and be comfortable while I bathe your face and see if I can relieve your fever.”
“Oh, Mama will do that,” he said. “You need not concern yourself.” But he got to his feet and allowed Wren to take his arm and steer him out of the room and up the stairs. The housekeeper had appeared and come around to the young man’s other side to steady him.
“Mr. Harry,” she said in a voice thick with emotion, “you have come home. All in one piece, your mama will be happy to know.”