LITMIR.BIZ

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was doing for his victims, reminding him he was not directly responsible for the accident. But he knew he was. If he’d not been so involved in other projects, he might have kept a closer eye on everything. Because of his negligence, two people had died.

      Died. No amount of money would bring them back to life. And he had money. Tons of it. From patents and factories and investments, not counting his inheritance. Everything Jack Ryder had touched turned to gold, causing him to rest a little on his laurels. He’d wanted to prove that he was not just a baron, but a businessman, and he had.

      The gods laughed. Hubris. A word with which he was now totally familiar.

      True, the casting defect wasn’t his fault. Even if he’d been on the foundry floor, he might not have noticed the imperfection. The girders had passed through many hands and many inspections.

      The result was the same.

      Jack had divested himself of three-quarters of his holdings. Anything that could blow up, break, burn down, or cause possible harm to the general populace had been sold. He could now personally guarantee that such industrial carelessness would not continue on his watch. His money was now tied up in harmless, nonlethal endeavors.

      It should have improved his spirits, but it did not. He’d sunk further and further—

      There was an anxious tap on his shoulder. Ah. They had reached his passenger’s home. He carried her up the steps from the street and shouldered his way through a gate. A long slippery stone path led to a cottage. The sign near the door read Stonecrop. Much better than Tulip. More masculine-sounding. He knew next to nothing about plant life, could not have identified stonecrop if he were thrust headfirst in a bed of it, but that could be remedied by books.

      If only he could get his hands on some. Tulip Cottage’s bookshelves held only musty sermons and other “improving” tracts. He’d been forced to take apart a butter churn before he could fall asleep last night.

      “Here we are,” he said cheerfully. “Is the house locked?”

      She shook her head.

      He turned the knob and sudden warmth surrounded him in the hallway. To the left was a small conservatory, its glass door closed. Not much was growing within, save for a straggly fern. Maybe this young lady could do with some botany books as well. To the right, a parlor with a plush horsehair sofa. He deposited her on it and looked around the crowded little room. The appointments were superior to his cottage, newer. There was even a piano. Stonecrop didn’t feel quite so much like a prison as his pared-down abode.

      “Shall I make you some tea before I fetch the doctor?”

      More headshaking.

      “You do want me to fetch him, don’t you?”

      The blonde bit her lip.

      “That’s it. I’m going.” He gave the fire a few sharp pokes before he left so the cottage would stay warm. “Don’t move. Not an inch.”

      The blonde scowled at him. And then stuck out her tongue.

      Jack laughed. “I know I’m bossy. But it’s for your own good. I’ll be right back.”

      He remembered where the doctor lived, for he’d been given a map of the village yesterday in his packet. Once he read something, it tended to stick in his head. He usually could quote whole paragraphs of the most useless books and monographs without too much effort, one of the skills that had so frightened his teachers.

      Jack could still see the newspaper headlines from last March all too clearly, even if his name had not been mentioned.

      After making one wrong turn—he guessed he was a little worn out, for how could one get lost when there were only five streets, rambling though they were, to choose from?—he rapped on the door of the surgery. The brass plate read Charles Oakley, M.D. The man himself answered after the second knock.

      “Lord Ryder, isn’t it? What can I do for you?”

      “Nothing for me, sir. I found a young woman on the street. Wait, that sounds odd, doesn’t it? Anyway, she slipped and fell, and I picked her up and carried her home. She’s wrenched her ankle, and I think you should give it a look. I don’t know her name, but she lives at Stonecrop Cottage.”

      “Is Mrs. Grace there now?”

      Jack felt a stab of disappointment. So his lovely, silent blonde was married. Where was her husband? Had he throttled her so hard she couldn’t speak? People came to Puddling for a whole host of reasons, and Jack was naturally curious about hers.

      “Yes.”

      “Well, she’s in good hands then. Thank you for your help.”

      He wasn’t prepared to leave his chivalrous stance just yet. “I’ll walk that way with you. My cottage is down the lane from Stonecrop. But of course, you know that.”

      Oakley got into his coat and clapped a hat on his wispy white hair. He picked up the medical bag that sat on a bench in the front hall.

      “Aye. Settling in, are you? I’ll come over tomorrow to give you an examination. Should have come this afternoon, but the day got away from me. Three cases of purulent sore throat, one broken finger, and twins born over in Sheepscombe to boot. I haven’t even had my lunch yet, but it will be dinnertime before I get anything in my stomach.” He locked up his house and they were on their way.

      “I don’t want to hold you from your important obligations. An examination’s not necessary. I’m perfectly well,” Jack lied.

      “So you say. But I can see you haven’t been sleeping. You were cagey when you applied to come here at the last minute, but anyone can tell it’s not for the clean air and good plain food.”

      Jack tried to open his eyes wider to look more awake, but he had a feeling nothing would trick this old fellow. “I just needed a change. A quiet place to think.”

      “We can’t help you if you won’t help us.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “We usually have an extensive file on each of our Guests. You’re a bit of a mystery, Lord Ryder. We only allowed you to come since our Christmas season is slow. Most Guests want to be with their families at this time of year. Of course, after January, our applications triple. Familiarity breeds contempt, I reckon.”

      A mystery? That made Jack sound far more interesting than he was. He had not been precisely forthcoming when he’d filled out the endless paperwork, though. There had been no mention of the railway accident and his part in it, and he preferred to keep it that way. He was frankly tired of trying to explain what he felt every waking minute. Nighttime too.

      “Quite a racket you all have going on here. Popular place, is it?”

      The doctor came to an abrupt stop. “Do you doubt our efficacy? There are scrapbooks touting our success stories.”

      “But I don’t expect I’ll ever get to see them. That would be a breach of confidentiality, wouldn’t it? Pesky ethics.” Jack knew his law and had read every word of the contract he’d signed. Everything about Puddling and its famously successful Program was hushed up, and one virtually took a vow of silence to be here. Mrs. Grace fit right in naturally. “Come along. Mrs. Grace is in pain.”

      The doctor shot him an odd look but shuffled down the hill as fast as was safe for an elderly fellow.

      Impatient, Jack went faster. He decided he’d go home in a minute, once Mrs. Grace was settled with the doctor. He entered the cottage without knocking and found his charge still on the sofa, bare feet stretched out, trying to smile. Her inappropriate shoes were laid neatly on the floor, her woolen stockings rolled into them.

      “Dr. Oakley’s just behind me. Does it hurt very badly?” He could see himself that her ankle was twice the size it should be. He should have packed it in ice before he left.

      She rolled her eyes at him. They were blue, fringed with short thick lashes that were

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