The Wilder Wedding. Lyn Stone

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СКАЧАТЬ before he continued. “She’ll weaken toward the last, as I said. I really hope Laura won’t guess how serious it is until it’s over and done. Easier on her that way. Perhaps not knowing will prevent her dashing about unnecessarily trying to find a cure. There simply isn’t one to be had. Poor Laura, I dread it for her. You won’t let on to her, either, will you, James?”

      Laura covered her mouth with a fist to stifle a wail of despair. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head in denial.

      “You know I won’t. How long does Doc think before this runs its course?” James asked.

      “A few months at most, maybe less,” Lambdin said sadly. “Damn it, James, I shall miss her, y’know.”

      Laura pushed away from the wall and staggered back toward the stairs. She couldn’t think what to do next. Her first inclination had been to rush in and demand that Lambdin tell her everything Dr. Cadwallader had said about her condition. But she figured she had already heard as much as she could deal with for the moment.

      Maybe the doctor was wrong. He must be mistaken. She’d never been ill in her life. That attack of vapors last night resulted from wearing tight stays, as he had said, and she had imbibed more wine than usual at dinner. Surely, the combination had caused her faint. But the doctor would never lie to Lambdin about such a matter. Why on earth would he?

      When the door knocker sounded, Laura looked down and saw that she was gripping the newel post as though it were a lifeline. Her fingers wouldn’t obey her command to turn loose. Dumbly she watched Lambdin exit the study and answer the front door.

      “Ah, Mr. Wilder! Father wrote to us about you,” her brother said. “Isn’t every day one gets a visit from a Scotland Yarder out this way. I’m Lambdin Middlebrook.”

      “I am no longer with the Yard,” the man corrected quietly.

      “No, no, of course you aren’t. Should have paid more heed. I thought Father said…well, you were to uncover something havey-cavey about the shipping, weren’t you?” Lambdin probed.

      Lord, Laura wished Lambdin would stop nattering, pay the man and send him away. She needed desperately to learn more about Dr. Cadwallader’s predictions for her.

      The visitor shifted his leather case to his left hand. “Yes. My business, Wilder Investigations, is an individual concern. Your father’s aware of that, if you are not.”

      “Ah, yes, that’s it!” Lambdin gushed. “A private enquiry agent! Of course, I remember now. Well, come in, come in!”

      The guest entered and shook Lambdin’s outstretched hand. Even as he did so, the man’s piercing green gaze fell on her. Dimly Laura registered the impression of emeralds set in gold. Golden skin, sun kissed, as though he dwelt in warm, southern climes. Soft, dark and wind tossed waves framed his strong features.

      The stranger projected a gilded warmth that drew her, as though somehow he might banish this frightful coldness if she let him. Then, suddenly, he deliberately did something to shutter all that, and the intensity of his regard made her uncomfortable.

      Laura sucked in a deep breath and tried to muster what composure she could. He made her feel like a bug pinned to a collection board. Pinned by those eyes. Eyes that seemed to ferret out everything. Once again, something flickered briefly in their jeweled depths. Compassion?

      Could he see at a glance that she was doomed? Dying, even as he watched? She couldn’t bear it.

      With a sob she couldn’t contain, Laura took to her heels and clattered up the stairs.

      The upper hallway had never seemed so long. When she finally reached her room, Laura slammed the door behind her, turned the key and threw herself across her bed.

      She was not going to die. She wasn’t! There was some ghastly mistake here. The doctor was old, confused. Or Lamb and Charles were playing some horrible joke on her. They knew she was eavesdropping and were teaching her a lesson. Perhaps she had imagined it all. Or her ears had deceived her.

      Oh God, she couldn’t be dying. She flatly refused to die!

      Sean Wilder looked a question at his host, though he didn’t bother to ask who the scurrying little rabbit might be. He didn’t usually affect women quite that profoundly. And—modesty aside—when he did so they usually ran to him, not away. True, his size intimidated some. That must be the case. She was a wee mite of a thing.

      Pretty, too, he had noticed. Petite and curved in all the right places. He would bet the hefty fee from his last case that her shape was natural, and not the result of fashionable underpinnings. That umber hair of hers gleamed like flawless satin against her well-shaped head. Made a man wonder what it would look like loosened from that untidy chignon and swinging free about her shoulders. He recalled then that those wide gray eyes had already been wet when he first saw her. She hadn’t run from him, then. Perhaps she had just received a dressing-down from Middlebrook for shirking her duties.

      “My sister,” the fellow explained, summarily dashing Sean’s theory about a rebuked servant. “Been off her feed here lately. Sorry if she seemed rude.”

      “She seemed upset,” Sean said bluntly.

      Middlebrook shrugged. “Oh, you know, women suffer these megrims time to time. Had the doctor to her just this morning.”

      “Nothing serious, I hope?” To his surprise, Sean found himself wishing very hard that the man’s answer would alleviate his worry. Why the hell should he care one way or the other? The girl meant nothing to him. God only knows he had seen scores of women in straits far more dire than this pampered pigeon’s worst nightmares. But for some reason, he needed to know what was wrong.

      Middlebrook obviously took Sean’s question as a polite response and ignored it as he led the way into a well-appointed study. The young man introduced his friend who was busy pouring drinks. “This is Mr. Sean Wilder, James. Sir, my neighbor, James Maclin.”

      Sean noted Maclin’s hands tremble on the decanter and glass and the fellow’s dawning expression of awe. So, this one was no stranger to London’s gossip mill. Affecting his most enigmatic smile, Sean slowly inclined his head in greeting. He rather enjoyed Maclin’s discomposure. Fostering his black reputation remained one of the small pleasures Sean allowed himself.

      “Don’t mind James,” Middlebrook said. “He’s only hanging about to see my new foal when it arrives. Interested in breeding, sir?”

      “Not at all,” Sean declared abruptly. He had little use for horses other than their getting him from one place to another. They were fractious beasts at best, and he had never had the slightest desire to own one. Besides, distractions from business at hand always bothered him and he did not intend to encourage this one. The lovely watering pot dashing up the stairs had proved distraction enough already. He could ignore fury, petulance, even outright seduction, but a woman’s tears stopped him in his tracks every time. What in the world could have set her off like that?

      Middlebrook looked miffed at Sean’s disinterest in his stables. “Very well, then. Have a seat if you will. You have the information my father requested before he left? I recall I’m to forward it to him as soon as he sends word where to post it.”

      Sean shook off thoughts of Middlebrook’s sister and drew the documents out of his case. He hadn’t the time or the inclination to get involved in anyone else’s problems.

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