Page 7 of The Dreaming Beauty
The motion comforted him, reassuring him she would live, but it still did not quell his questions. “If you won’t answer me that,” he said, “at least tell me what you’re dreaming about.”
Posing such a question was nearly as ridiculous as speaking to someone incapable of answering. Was he so desperate? Someone, somewhere, had the answers he sought, but he had exhausted every channel of information he could think of. Still, he felt an urgency to hasten his research. He might be mad, but if being mad had conjured up a woman such as this, perhaps insanity was more desirable than he had once thought.
Chapter 5
After a few hours ofsleep on the library sofa, Marcus dressed and sat down for breakfast. He cut into a slice of ham and lifted his fork to his mouth the same time he heard a faint knock. The door to the dining room was open and the house otherwise quiet, so he knew without a doubt the knock had come from the front door. Was the doctor back so soon?
He shoved a few bites into his mouth and wiped his lips with his napkin before hurrying toward the entry hall. Little sleep and food did not make the ideal combination, but caring for his guest was his first priority. He only hoped that if the doctor had returned early, it did not necessarily mean their patient was in any danger.
Mr. Hobson met him in the corridor, his back hunched with age. “Excuse me, Mr. Taylor. Three women have arrived asking if we have seen their niece, a Miss White.”
“Miss White?” So that was the name of his dreaming beauty.
“Yes, sir. They fear she lost her way after taking an early-morning walk.” His thick gray brow rose. “I did not say anything, sir, in case you wanted to interview them first.”
Marcus gave a quick nod. “Very good. Are they in the drawing room?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will greet them. Send Mrs. Kirk to us.”
Mr. Hobson agreed, and Marcus strode to the drawing room. He did not receive many guests at Ashbury Court with the duke out of the country, but a sudden nighttime visit by a strange young woman followed by her caretakers suggested one thing: if this was a setup to trap his brother into a marriage arrangement, it would be Marcus’s responsibility to disappoint them.
He entered the drawing room and his guests stood, the bottoms of their skirts drenched and muddy. He dipped into a bow.
“Because of the unique circumstances, we will bypass formalities and I shall introduce myself. I am Mr. Taylor.” Should he add that he was the brother of the Duke of Westmorland by marriage? Or explain that he was a poor professor of experimental philosophy who attended every lecture on the obscure topic of metaphysics? “I’m the steward here,” he finally said, going with the simplest of explanations. Though, even that was a stretch since the position leaned more toward temporary lord of the manor. “I am afraid the master of the house is currently out of the country. I do not believe I have had the honor of meeting any of you before. Are you passing through Whitfield?”
The oldest, with russet- and gray-streaked hair loose in a soft sort of pillow on her head, stepped forward as the spokesman of the group. “We are living at Rose Cottage. I am Mrs. Aster Wood.”
Rose Cottage? Mrs. Kirk hadn’t been too far off when she surmised their guest was a ghost. Rose Cottage was the closest home to Ashbury Court and hadn’t been occupied since before Simon had inherited the dukedom seven years ago—not unless one believed in the legendary ghost who inhabited it.
Mrs. Wood continued before he could think any more about the strange coincidence. “And these are my sisters Mrs. Iris Palmer”—she motioned to the right of her to a woman with black wiry hair, a thin face, and a stern expression—“and Miss Daisy White.” Miss White had brown hair that wasn’t as tidy as that of her older sisters, and she was considerably younger, with a reflection of innocence in her eyes.
“Please, have a seat,” Marcus said, motioning to the sofas. The three women sat almost in unison. “And Mr. Wood and Mr. Palmer, are they at home?”
“They are dead,” Mrs. Palmer said, her tone low and grave.
“My condolences.” Was this why they had attempted a desperate effort to ensnare the duke? Marcus shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “My butler tells me you are searching for your niece.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Wood answered. “My sisters and I woke this morning and discovered her missing. Her name is Tansy White—a pretty thing with blonde hair. Might you ask the staff if anyone has seen her?”
Tansy? Weren’t tansies wildflowers? An unusual name, to be sure, but most fitting for his dreaming beauty. He tuned in to the rest of the description.
“She is slight of frame too. We believe she was wearing a...” Mrs. Wood hesitated, her mouth open but no sound coming out.
Marcus waited, his mouth twitching over what he knew was coming next. “You believe she was wearing what?”
“A... nightdress,” she finished quickly.
There was no question that the woman in his room was the Miss White they spoke of, but why did he feel the slightest bit of disappointment to have her found so soon? “You are in luck. I believe your Miss White is our mystery guest.”
Mrs. Palmer sighed deeply and hunched forward in her seat, her scowl nearly disappearing. “Bless the stars.”
She was either a very good actress or quite sincere in her relief. Marcus was inclined to believe the latter, which surprised him.
“What do you mean by ‘mystery guest’?” Mrs. Wood asked. “Has something happened?”
Marcus nodded. “She came here in the middle of the night, but she was sick with fever and I did not get the chance to speak with her.” He hated to alarm them, but it seemed it was too late for that.
