"How is our patient today?" Dr. Whitticomb asked as the Westmoreland butler ushered him into the earl's study. Despite Dr. Whitticomb's brisk tone, he felt as pessimistic about her chances of recovery as Stephen Westmoreland, who was sitting in a chair by the fireplace, his elbows propped on his knees, his head in his hands.

"There's no change," the earl said, wearily rubbing his hands over his face before he looked up. "She's as still as death. The maids in her chamber are under orders to keep talking to her as you suggested. I even tried talking to her myself a few minutes ago, but she didn't respond. It's been three days," he pointed out as frustrated impatience edged his voice, "can't you do something?"

Dr. Whitticomb pulled his gaze from the earl's haggard features, curbed the impulse to insist he get some rest, which he knew would be futile, and said instead, "She's in God's hands, not mine. I'll go up and look in on her, however."

"A damned lot of good that's going to do," his lordship fired at his departing back.

Ignoring that outburst of noble temper, Hugh Whitticomb walked up the grand staircase and turned left at the top.

When he returned to the study sometime later, the earl was sitting as he had been before, but Dr. Whitticomb's expression had brightened considerably. "Evidently," he said dryly, "my visit did do some good, after all. Or perhaps she simply liked my voice better than the maids'."

Stephen jerked his head up, his gaze searching the physician's face. "She's conscious?"

"She's resting now, but she came around and was even able to speak a few words to me. Yesterday, I wouldn't have given a farthing for her chances, but she's young and strong, and I think she may pull through."

Having said all he had to say on that subject, Dr. Whitticomb looked at the deeply etched lines of fatigue and strain at Stephen's eyes and mouth and embarked on the second of his primary concerns: "You, however, look like the very devil, my lord," he pronounced with the blunt familiarity of a longtime family friend. "I was going to suggest we go up to see her together after supper—providing you invite me to stay for supper, of course—but the sight of you might frighten her into a relapse if you don't have some sleep and a shave first."

"I don't need any sleep," Stephen said, so relieved that he felt positively energized as he stood up, walked over to a silver tray, and pulled the stopper out of a crystal decanter. "I won't argue about the shave, however," he said with a slight smile as he poured brandy into two glasses and held one of them out to the physician. Lifting his own glass in the gesture of a toast, he said, "To your skill in bringing about her recovery."

"It wasn't my skill, it was more like a miracle," the physician said, hesitating to drink the toast.

"To miraculous recoveries, then," Stephen said, raising his glass to his lips, then he stopped again as Whitticomb negated the second toast with another shake of his head.

"I… didn't say she was recovered, Stephen. I said she's conscious and she's able to speak."

The earl caught the hesitation in his voice, and a pair of piercing blue eyes narrowed sharply on Dr. Whitticomb's face, demanding an explanation.

With a reluctant sigh, the physician acceded to the demand. "I'd hoped to delay telling you this until after you'd had some rest, but the fact is that even if she pulls through physically—and I can't promise you she will—there's still a problem. A complication. of course, it may be very temporary. then again it might not."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"She has no memory, Stephen."

"She what?" he demanded.

"She doesn't remember anything that took place before she opened her eyes in the bedchamber upstairs. She doesn't know who she is or why she's in England. She couldn't even tell me her own name."