“You haven’t mentioned a word about dinner, m’lady,” Anna complained as she ran a brush through her mistress’s hair. “Pray, was the company pleasant enough? Did they have many guests? I can’t imagine these country folk entertain quite the way we do at Baronsford.”

Jo smiled. After a lifetime in service, the maid’s benign snobbery was due to her pride in the Pennington family. In Anna’s world, the places she traveled with Jo were not necessarily deficient in hospitality or comfort, it was simply that nowhere could conceivably compare in her mind with Baronsford.

“The food was delicious and well-prepared, Anna,” she told her. “And the company was quite pleasant. We were twelve in number, and although most were strangers to me, the conversations were lively and very interesting. Everyone was kind to me.”

“Well, I should think they would be, m’lady,” the maid huffed. “A wee place like this in the middle of nowhere? I should think they’re thanking their stars to be having such fine company as you.”

Jo laughed. “The Abbey is hardly a ‘wee place.’ It may not be as grand as Baronsford, but I think it’s lovely. Don’t you?”

Anna nodded grudgingly and continued her brushing. “Well, all things considered, I suppose it’s good enough, m’lady.”

At dinner, she sat between Dr. McKendry and the vicar of the village kirk, the younger brother of the Squire.

The two men and the Squire engaged in witty banter all through the meal, ridiculing each other’s ability to hit a golf ball or deliver a sermon or fix a hangnail. Even as she listened to the men and to Mrs. McKendry’s efforts to shush them, Jo often felt the weight of Captain Melfort’s gaze upon her. At the far end of the table, he was speaking with Mr. Cameron, the Abbey’s bookkeeper. Wynne’s son, Cuffe, was not present at dinner, but from the snatches of conversation that she could hear, much of the talk between the two men pertained to the boy.

“You came back early,” Anna remarked. “No social doings after dinner?”

“Mrs. McKendry and I were the only females present. As soon as we left the dining room, I made my excuses and retired,” Jo explained. “We had a long day on the road, and I’d like to be up early tomorrow. The doctor told me Mr. Barton is generally at his most alert and active first thing in the morning.”

She’d spent more than two hours this afternoon in the ward at the older man’s bedside. She’d spoken to him. Held his hand. But there was no other communication with the exception of an occasional glance in her direction. It was as if he knew she was there and was comforted by it, but couldn’t sort out whatever it was in his muddled mind.

The mystery of their connection perplexed her. Now that she’d met him and seen his initial reaction to her, she had no doubt the answers to her mother’s past would be found here with this man and his family.

She intended to accept the McKendrys’ hospitality for only one night, but she already knew it would be terribly difficult for her to walk away now. Even before going down to dinner, she’d been considering the possibility of taking a room at the village inn for a few more nights. She could easily come up to the Abbey each day and visit with the patient. She’d simply send a letter off to Gregory and Freya, explaining that she’d be delayed in arriving. With her family knowing her whereabouts and that she was safe, she could stay the extra time.

Wynne edged into her thoughts. Sailing men were supposed to grow wrinkled and old from the ocean’s winds and the sun, but not him. His face was etched with the lines of responsibility, but his eyes were still bright and alert. Though he didn’t smile easily, when he did, the room brightened. Dressed for dinner in his navy-blue coat and cream-colored silk waistcoat, he appeared taller, broader across the shoulders than she remembered. And he had a manner of holding himself, a confidence in the way he spoke, that reflected years of command.

She pushed his image from her mind, focusing instead on the sounds of birds drifting in from the darkness outside her open window. Two sedge warblers were calling and answering, but grew suddenly silent at the hoot of a distant owl.

Jo wasn’t about to tell her maid, but Wynne was another reason she needed to escape after dinner. To sit around the same table was one thing, but to socialize in a drawing room and carry on casual conversation was quite another. And she never imagined her reaction to him would be so strong. Staying at the Abbey, even for one night, was difficult enough. The apartment where Jo was situated was on the floor above the patients’ ward and adjacent to the rooms Wynne and his son occupied. He was too close.

Jo’s brother Hugh assumed she was ignorant of what the family had been doing for years, but she was well aware that he and the rest of them had cast a protective circle around her. All Melforts were kept out, excluded from interaction with the Penningtons, even when Wynne’s older brother and his wife acquired an estate near Baronsford.

Her gaze lingered on the bedroom wall separating her apartment from his. A soft breeze wafted in, carrying with it the scent of cigar smoke and gorse and pine. The warblers started up again, and a nightingale joined them. She would make no mention of Captain Melfort in any letters to her family.

“I’ll say this for them. They have a household staff here that is nearly that of Baronsford’s,” Anna continued on. “Though not the tradition of family we have, of course. I’d wager there’s not a second generation of servant folk here. And don’t you know that many of the menfolk are sailors, m’lady?”

“I didn’t know that,” Jo replied.

“They’re always looking for more help too, I’m told. I’ll need to make mention of it to my Aberdeen cousins the next time I wri—”

A sharp crash and a furious roar from the ward below silenced the maid.

The two of them sat frozen, listening to more shouts and cries for help. Jo’s head turned to the window as she heard footsteps running toward the house. The second crash of a heavy object brought Jo to her feet and scrambling to pull on and belt her robe. She rushed toward the door.

“You can’t go out there, m’lady.”

“Stay here in the room, Anna. I’ll be right back.”

“But this is an asylum!” the servant cried out. “There could be madmen or killers on the loose!”

“Stay here,” Jo repeated, going into the hall and closing the door firmly behind her.

The hallway was dark. A door slammed. The shouting was now accompanied by wails. More shouts from a distant part of the house, and running footsteps. Quickly, she made her way to the stairwell and started down.

Responding to the occasional crisis was a necessity at the Tower House. Jo wasn’t reckless. She knew whatever was happening in the ward wasn’t her concern. Still, having met Charles Barton, she couldn’t remain in her room and not worry.

When she reached a landing at a turn of the stairs, she startled a small, thin figure hiding by the railing and listening to the confusion below. With a cry, the boy stepped back and Jo reached out, catching his arm before he went backwards down the steps.

“I didn’t mean to!” he burst out in panic. “I . . . I didn’t know he would hurt him.”

Jo recognized Wynne’s son. He’d shed the russet-hued jacket he’d been wearing earlier. He was shaking, and his head turned at the sound of the continuing commotion downstairs.

“What happened, Cuffe?” she asked quietly, releasing him. “Has someone been hurt?”

The boy spun away and rushed past her up the stairs, disappearing into the darkness above.

He’d done something wrong, something that brought on this chaos. And he was sorry for his part in it. She kept to the wall and slowly descended.

Three men were standing by the door into the ward. One was carrying a candle. Even with his back to her, Jo could see it was Wynne. Loud shouts and sounds of objects being thrown about could be heard coming through the thick door.

“Stevenson was secured for the night, Captain, sure as I’m standing here,” one of the men hurriedly explained. “I watched the lads fasten the straps myself, same as always. We all know how difficult that one can be.”

Jo went down another step.

“Aye, Captain,” the other man said. “Two years we’ve had him here, and everyone knows he’s the one needs watching most.”

“I came out here after checking on everyone,” the first man continued, raking a hand through his hair. “That was not an hour ago. They was all sleeping. I sat at my post here like I always do, night after night. Maybe I shut my eye a wink, but I was right here.”

“And Stevenson’s tam,” the other jumped in. “What do ye make of that? How do ye think the other one got it? He never stirs once he’s abed, and we all know to leave it be.”

Wynne was asking no questions as the men went back and forth in their explanations. Jo looked again to the door. The noises coming from the ward were subsiding.

“I’m thinking this was no accident, Captain. Someone was causing mischief in there.”

“Maybe the rogue slipped past me. Or more likely came in through a window.”

“I’m thinking they wanted Stevenson to go after Barton.”

Jo didn’t think she made a noise, but she must have. Wynne’s head snapped around and he peered in her direction.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, holding the candle up and coming toward the stairs.

Knowing it would be foolish to run away, she stayed where she was. She clutched the front of the robe, closing it tightly against her pounding chest.

Please, she prayed silently. Don’t let Mr. Barton be hurt.

Wynne’s face softened with recognition. “You shouldn’t be down here.”

“Is he hurt? Mr. Barton?” she asked, unable to keep the trembling edge out of her tone. She had to know.

“He’ll have some bruises, I expect. The doctor is seeing to his arm right now to make sure he hasn’t broken a bone. But considering everything, he’s doing well.”

“What happened?”

Wynne looked around them and motioned to the stairs. “This is not the best place to be speaking. Do you mind if we go up?”

Jo turned to take a step, but as she did, the hem of her robe tripped her. She felt his hand grasp her elbow, steadying her until she found her footing. Though his action was an innocent reflex, his touch caused her face to catch fire and her pulse jump. With his hand still on her arm, he lighted their way up the stairs. As they ascended, his closeness filled her head with the scent of night air, whiskey, smoke, and the man. This was the second time he’d touched her after a very long time. It was the touch of a friend, she told herself.

At the top of the stairwell, she paused in the hallway and turned to him.

“Pray tell, what happened?”

As his eyes washed over her and took in her face, her lips, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders, she saw a fleeting expression of reminiscence. Then the look was gone.

“We only have one patient at the hospital that we consider potentially dangerous to himself or to others,” he explained. “The man’s name is Stevenson. He’s tended to closely during every waking hour. During the night watch, he’s secured in his bed. And we have attendants who walk the ward regularly throughout the night.”

She began to envision what took place in the ward, but waited for Wynne to expound.

“Stevenson somehow got free of his restraints and attacked another man. The rest of the patients in the ward raised the alarm with their cries.”

“And Charles Barton was the victim of the attack,” she reaffirmed what she’d already heard. “But no one else?”

He nodded. “One or two others tried to intervene, but Stevenson directed his violence at Barton. The victim will be fine. Thankfully, the night attendant entered the melee and others quickly arrived to help. You can visit Barton yourself in the morning, if you like.”

“What was all that about a tam?”

“Stevenson is extremely attached to his hat. Carries it around like a baby. The tam was put on Barton’s bed.”

Cuffe’s words came back to her. She recalled the distraught and fearful expression in the dim light of the stairwell.

At the Tower House, Jo had seen and spoken to many troubled children. Many were entirely capable of inflicting harm on themselves and others. But there was real remorse in Cuffe’s tone. And his obvious shock at the way the events had unfolded indicated that there was a great deal more to this than simply a youth intent on doing mischief.

“Those attendants downstairs are responsible men,” Wynne told her. “We’ve never had an incident like this at the Abbey. My guess is that none of it was accidental. It may have been intentional. Someone slipped into the ward, freed Stevenson, and moved the hat to give him a target for his rage. Why someone would do such a thing is hard to fathom.”

Jo remained silent, unwilling to offer anything. She already knew the identity of the culprit.

Wynne’s gaze moved past her shoulder down the hallway. She imagined Cuffe could be hiding in the shadows there.

“When you came out of your room earlier, did you see anyone?”

She knew he had a right as the father to know, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Cuffe was already feeling the grave significance of his actions. Still, she imagined there was something more behind the child’s actions.

She opened her mouth to convey to him what she knew. She had every intention of at least telling Wynne she’d encountered Cuffe in the stairwell. But different words spilled out.

“No, I didn’t see anyone.”

* * *

Wynne saw a movement by the door to the rooms he and Cuffe shared. After the afternoon lessons with Cameron, the lad had been directed back to his room, where a supper tray was waiting. He was not to stir until tomorrow morning, when he would return to the tutor.

A thought crossed fleetingly through Wynne’s mind whether Cuffe could have had anything to do with what happened downstairs. He immediately dismissed it. In the two months since he’d arrived here, the ten-year-old had shown no interest in the hospital or the patients, despite Dermot’s repeated invitations. And getting tricked into letting the pigs into the garden had been the extent of any damage he’d caused. Wynne was fairly certain his son would never do anything to injure an innocent person.

Jo turned and followed the direction of his gaze. “I was hoping to meet your son while I’m here.”

Her gentle words startled him and drew his attention back to her. Jo’s face was calm, pensive, concerned. She was an exceptional woman. Wynne had ended their engagement less than a fortnight before their wedding. He’d never been able to find the opportunity to apologize, other than in a brief note. He’d left her alone to deal with the aftermath. He’d married another woman and had a child. But in spite of it all, here she was expressing an interest in meeting Cuffe. She’d always been patient and kind, but Jo Pennington carried within her a dignity he’d been too young to truly appreciate all those years ago.

“Is there a chance we might be introduced tomorrow before I leave the Abbey?”

“I’ll be sure to make the arrangements,” he declared. “I’d like him to meet you.”

Before I leave. The notion of Jo leaving so soon did not sit well with him. Even though the question of the drawings and the reaction of the Bartons had not been resolved, a door had been opened. She could pursue it on her own.

He admired Jo’s face in the flickering light of the candle. He watched the gentle pulse along the pale column of her throat.

She’d be better off going, he told himself. They’d all be better off. His conversation with Dermot earlier had left him strangely unsettled, and he didn’t like the feeling. He didn’t like the way he needed to monitor them as the young scoundrel tried to entertain Jo over dinner. Wynne wanted his deuced life back to normal.

And yet, memories of the past continued to flood back to him.

He remembered sitting with her on a warm night in a wooded lane by the Cascade in Vauxhall Gardens. The taste of the soft skin beneath her earlobe mingled with the scent of summer flowers. His own wonder at her innocent, wide-eyed response as she tried to make sense of the desire charging the air between them.

She pushed a stray ringlet behind an ear and he struggled not to touch the waves of gleaming dark hair falling nearly to her waist. He’d lost count of how many times as a young man he’d imagined seeing Jo’s silky hair spread across his pillow.

A handful of kisses. Only once, in the shadow of a rose trellis during a ball, had those kisses led to a passionate whirlwind of caresses. That was the extent of the liberties he’d taken. He wouldn’t make love to her, though he knew she would have given herself to him. But the malicious whispers had already begun, and in those moments of youthful gallantry, he wouldn’t risk adding further damage to her reputation. At least this is what he kept telling himself. But in the end, he’d wounded her more deeply than any malevolent backbiter.

“Must you leave so soon?” he heard himself asking. “After everything we saw today, it’s clear Charles Barton’s progress could be dramatically improved if you were to extend your stay.”

And it wasn’t only for Barton’s sake that he was asking.

“I’ve been thinking the same thing.” Her dark gaze met his. “Dr. McKendry mentioned the name of an inn at Rayneford Village this afternoon. I’ll send my manservant down there tomorrow and make arrangements to stay for a few more days.”

“There’s no need to leave the Abbey,” he said. “You’re welcome to stay right here. If the rooms you’re occupying now suit you, you can remain where you are.”

Where he’d be able to chaperon that scurvy sawbones, Wynne thought.

“But I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

“You could be nothing of the kind,” he insisted, already feeling better about the new arrangement. “Everyone at the Abbey will benefit and take pleasure in your company.”

And that included himself.