THE FOREST LORD By Susan Krinard

Eden folded the letter. “No other messages have been sent for me?”

“No, my dear. Are you expecting one?”

“Yes. A messenger may arrive at any time.”

“I shall instruct Hoskins to watch for it.”

“Are Dalziel and Nancy well?”

“Your coachman is lodged with our servants. The abigail—” She pursed her lips. “She remained long enough to see to your comfort and then disappeared.”

Nancy, gone. And the doctor believed Eden had taken—or been given—laudanum. If Eden’s illness vanished with Nancy’s absence, she would know the source of her malaise. But Nancy would not have done such a thing on her own. Or willingly.

It all came back to Claudia.

“You are quite pale, Lady Eden,” Lady Saville remarked. “I shall send up some nice tea and leave you to your rest. I do hope you find yourself quite well very soon; tomorrow is Rushborough’s birthday fete, and he would so enjoy it if you could attend.”

Attend a ton party? Nothing interested Eden less. But she smiled and pressed Lady Saville’s plump fingers. “I shall do my best. Thank you, Lady Saville, for taking such care of me.”

“Tut, tut. Rest now. We shall talk later.”

She swept out of the room, and Eden discarded the mask she had worn for her hostess’s sake. She buried her hands in the sheets and twisted the muslin into tortured knots.

Hartley. If only I could trust you. If only you were here with me now.

But even a Faerie lord’s magic was not enough to bring about such a miracle.

Chapter 20

The guest list for Lord Rushborough’s birthday celebration was most select. Only the most influential, most respectable members of the ton who remained in London had been invited to Lady Saville’s stately mansion on All Hallows’ Eve. However inconvenient it might be that her brother had been born when London was thinnest of company, Flavia Saville intended to make the best of it.

Lady Saville had tried to convince Eden to be the evening’s second guest of honor. The only thing that spared Eden that trial was the excuse of her illness. In spite of her rapid improvement, lingering weakness had confined her to taking brief turns about her bedchamber. She had been able to eat a little and receive a few visitors, including Lord Rushborough. His possessive inquiries about her health did nothing to ease the state of her mind.

Even amid the relative peace of Grosvenor Square, the noise and bustle and excitement of the city, which she had once adored, grated unbearably on her frayed nerves. The constant racket overwhelmed ears grown used to the quiet of the country; the droning hum of the guests as they arrived and mingled downstairs was like the relentless buzzing of flies. Even the smells within and without the house made her stomach chum with nausea.

And her thoughts circled incessantly among Claudia, Lord Bradwell, Donal, and Hartley. Her imagination tormented her with dreadful possibilities: Claudia seeking to drug her niece so that she, not Hartley, could steal Eden’s son for her own incomprehensible reasons. Hartley attempting to follow, and succeeding—or suffering the dangerous effects of leaving Hartsmere. Her father fairing in his promise to find Donal. Donal crying for his mother…

It was those helpless worries that drove Eden to rise from her bed and dress on the night of the birthday fete. She had been counting the hours since dawn, listening and hoping for word that Lord Bradwell had brought Donal safe to London. She intended to be ready when the message came.

Let it come soon.

With her borrowed maid’s help, she donned a simple long-sleeved carriage dress of Madras muslin and sent the maid downstairs to inquire once more. After an hour of pacing her room, she thought that she might well go mad if she remained there another minute. But if Lady Saville saw her on her feet, her refusal to join the party in Lord Rushborough’s honor would be most awkward, especially in light of the assumptions his sister and the ton were already beginning to make.

By now, everyone guessed that Lord Rushborough had proposed to the widowed Lady Eden Winstowe, so eager a suitor that he had not waited for the end of her year’s mourning. After all, had not she and the marquess been in each others’ pockets before Winstowe passed away?

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