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he followed Phoebe’s suggestion.  Miss Cantrell’s fingers felt warm, slender and soft, attesting that she had never needed to labor for her living.  But he had already appraised her as gently born.  Her speech had distinctly educated tones, though obscured by that strange American accent.
    She sighed and closed her eyes, apparently content with holding his hand.  He felt absurdly disappointed, as though she might have urged him to snuggle up beside her and sleep.  He watched her porcelain face for several minutes more until the even rise and fall of her blanket-covered breasts indicated she had drifted off again.
    Clearing his throat, he said to Phoebe, “You did give her too much laudanum, though I believe the effect is beginning to fade.”
    The marchioness drew closer.  “You don’t think the drug will harm her, do you?”
    He shook his head, eyes still focused on the patient.  “No, I have seen soldiers sleep off far worse laudanum stupors than this.  I believe she will recover by evening, though she’ll likely have a beastly headache for a day or two, especially since she hit her head yesterday.  I trust you tended her injury?”
    “I would have, had I discovered one, but from what I can tell, she escaped her ordeal unharmed.  I believe she received a good scare but nothing more.”
    “You found no blood, no lump on her head?”  He set down Miss Cantrell’s hand and moved to examine her scalp, but the thought of taking such a liberty unnerved him, and he pulled back.  “I suppose she might simply have been in shock.  She undoubtedly appeared so, or . . .”  He trailed off, unwilling to propose she might be mentally unsound.
    “We won’t know the whole story until she is well enough to tell us herself.”  Phoebe smiled gently.  “Your presence has calmed her greatly.  Perhaps you could speed her recovery if you stayed with us for a few days.”
    He threw a startled look at her, but her face revealed no signs of cunning.  Slowly, he shook his head.  “No, Phoebe, you cannot pull the wool over my eyes quite so easily.  I see through your well intentioned but misguided motives.  You will not convince me to stay in my father’s house.”
    “I had thought about the gate house, actually.”
    “Nor on his property.”  He stood and turned away from her.
    “David, I’m not asking this simply for Harold’s sake.  I truly need you to help with Miss Cantrell.  You know I’m tired these days, hardly up to nursing her as I ought to do.  She responds to you, trusts you.  She is obviously quite frightened of something, and for some reason your presence comforts her.”
    He sighed and closed his eyes.  “I know there is more to this than you contend.”
    “But you will stay and help me?  I need you.”
    He glanced down at Miss Cantrell’s peaceful face, then at Phoebe’s childlike eyes.  How could he refuse Phoebe, the one person he considered family?  If his motives ran any deeper than that, he had no inclination to explore them.  “Very well.  Tell Solebury I’ll be staying at the gate house for a few days--against my better judgment.”
    “And we can expect you to dine with us here at the manor house tonight?  I hope Miss Cantrell will be on her feet by then and can be persuaded to join us.”
    He shrugged, his own acquiescence surprising him.  “I suppose I may as well come to dinner.  Better to suffer his lordship’s company for an hour or so than try to find decent fare in the village.”
    She clasped her hands together in front of her chest.  “Excellent.  I will inform Cook and ensure the gate house is made ready for you.  And, by the way, I’m expecting a call from your old army comrade, Lieutenant Harlowe, so you may as well come to tea also.”  She walked from the room, a sly smile playing at her lips.
    “Minx,” he muttered when she left earshot.  He looked back at Miss Cantrell, who stirred in her sleep.  “But perhaps the more bewitching