Free Rapture Becomes Her by Shirlee Busbee Page A

fawn, cream and amber lay scattered across the gleaming expanse of parquet flooring. He peeked into the dressing room and almost laughed. It was barely smaller than his sitting room in Virginia.
    Wearier than he realized, he sank down into one of a pair of channel-backed chairs of brown mohair, positioned at either end of a small sofa in front of the fire that blazed in the marble fireplace. Looking at Lamb, he said simply, “Big house.”
    Lamb laughed. “Indeed. And this is just one of several properties you own.”
    “No wonder Mathew was put out when I inherited,” Barnaby said, staring moodily at the fire. “I wouldn’t have taken it well either to have something like this place snatched out from beneath me—let alone the fortune that goes with it.”
    Lamb’s eyes traveled over the richly furnished room. “It’s certainly a motive for the attack on you.” When Barnaby continued to stare at the fire, he said softly, “Lest you feel too guilty, I would remind you that all of the Joslyn family is very wealthy—you may have inherited the jewel in the crown, but Mathew and his brothers, Thomas and Simon, are hardly paupers. Gossip has it that Mathew’s home, Monks Abbey, is nearly as large and impressive. And I’ve heard that Thomas, especially, has an impressive fortune of his own.”
    Barnaby leaned his head back, wincing when his wound came in contact with the back of the chair.
    Lamb muttered an oath and crossed quickly to his side. “I want to take a better look at that gash of yours.” When Barnaby objected, he said fiercely, “Enough! I can see that it is bleeding from here. Now let me tend to it.”
    Before they had left Barnaby’s room at The Crown Lamb had heard the story Barnaby and Mrs. Gilbert concocted about Barnaby’s unfortunate “illness” to explain his unexpected arrival at the inn and had gone along with the story. Lamb agreed that there was no need to announce to the countryside that the previous night someone had tried to murder the newest Viscount Joslyn. And the illness would give Barnaby an excuse to remain in his bedchamber should it prove necessary.
    Lamb’s lips thinned as he examined the deep laceration at the back of Barnaby’s head. Probing the bleeding wound, he decided the viscount was going to suffer relapse of his illness and retreat to his bed for a few days.
    Leaving off his examination, Lamb said, “It needs stitching, but for now, I’ll do a quick cleanup and get rid of the obvious blood. After Peckham arrives with the food and drink I ordered, I’ll see to it. For the present you just sit here and don’t move.”
    Barnaby grimaced, but agreed. Lamb disappeared into the dressing room, only to reappear a few moments later with a strip of clean linen. With less-than-tender care, and ignoring Barnaby’s jump, he pressed the linen to the cut and held it there for several minutes. Removing the pad of linen, he took another look at the cut. Blood was still seeping out, but satisfied for the time being, he tossed the blood-soaked linen into the fire.
    “That’ll do until I can sew it up.”
    “Do I thank you or curse you?” Barnaby asked, the cut throbbing from John’s ministrations.
    “You may thank me now and curse me later,” Lamb snapped.
    They both heard the butler’s approach through the sitting room and John hissed at him, “Remember, just sit there. Look bored.”
    Peckham, a small, middle-aged man with thinning blond hair and shrewd blue eyes, entered the room. Carrying a huge tray with a domed silver cover, he set the tray down on the carved mahogany table behind the sofa.
    “Would you like me to serve you now, my lord, or would you prefer to wait?” Peckham asked.
    “Oh, ah, I’ll wait. Thank you, er, Peckham.” Giving him a languid wave, Barnaby added, “You may go.”
    Lamb accompanied Peckham from the bedroom and as they were crossing the sitting room, he murmured, “His lordship is not feeling himself—we think it was something he ate