* * *
Helen’s hands moved over his chest to grip his shoulders. Her voice washed over him in musical waves. “Mr St Clair.” She shook him gently. “Speak to me. Please wake up. Are you sick?”
The minx had refused to heed his advice and keep her distance.
Thank heavens he was dressed and not sprawled across the coverlet naked as the day he was born. Still, if he opened his eyes and saw her delicate face, her golden tresses falling about her shoulders, he would be done for.
“What’s wrong with him?” she said, worry tingeing her tone.
“I presume the empty decanter is to blame for his comatose state,” Sebastian mocked. “Doubtless he’s still drunk.”
The sound of his friend’s voice altered the dream considerably.
“This is all my fault,” she said.
Sebastian snorted. “Why? Were you prying into his personal affairs again? I know you want him to be happy, Helen, but Nicholas is a private man. The last thing he needs is a sister playing matchmaker.”
“How would you know what he needs?” she snapped, her reaction too dramatic. “Since Michael died, all you’ve done is take advantage of your friendship. Our brother is gone, Sebastian. Nicholas is not his replacement.”
Sebastian hissed a breath. “Did you fall out of bed this morning and bang your head? Perhaps you’ve also downed a quart of brandy because you’ve most certainly lost your wits.”
Nicholas had no choice but to prise his eyes open. In the heat of an argument, Helen was liable to mention their secret conversations.
“What are you doing in my room?” he said, squinting against the bright morning sun.
“Thank heavens,” Helen said, touching him briefly on the arm and encouraging him to lower his defences. “We’ve been trying to wake you for the last ten minutes. Are you unwell?”
Yes, he was heartsick and plagued by lustful dreams of forbidden encounters. “I couldn’t sleep.” The moment he met her gaze, he was transported back to the small tower, to all the things he should have said and done. “And so drank myself into oblivion.”
And he was paying the price this morning.
His head throbbed behind his eyes.
And his mouth was as dry as sandpaper.
“Have I missed breakfast?” Nicholas added.
Sebastian stepped into his line of vision. “More importantly, you missed our ride this morning. I wish to God I had stayed abed, too. The house is in chaos. Mrs Waltham is beside herself because no one has seen Charles Holland since he left his bedchamber late last night.”
The mere mention of his nemesis raised his hackles.
Had the fool left for London?
Had he decided to hunt for the thief?
“Has anyone looked to see if Holland’s carriage is in the mews?” Nicholas said, his calm tone belying his inner turmoil. “Has anyone checked Miss Thorndyke’s room? I saw two people in the garden last night, and the lady is in want of a husband. It’s no secret Mrs Waltham is desperate to see her nephew wed.”
“He came to Grayswood in his aunt’s carriage,” Helen said, worry lines still marring her brow. “And Miss Thorndyke is out scouring the estate with the rest of the search party.”
“We’re to join them when you’ve lugged your lazy backside out of bed.” Sebastian strode to the armoire, found a clean shirt and threw it at Nicholas. “Mrs Waltham seemed suspicious of your movements. I’d lie and say you were with me until dawn, but since you deprived me of your company again last night, I was in the billiard room with Chadderton and Bowden.”
Nicholas propped himself up on his elbows and winced against the pounding in his head. “Why, what did Mrs Waltham say?”
What the hell had Holland told his aunt?
“She thought it odd you were absent this morning. After yesterday’s debacle, when you stormed out of the dining room, she told everyone you hate her nephew.”
Helen cleared her throat. “It would help if people saw you about the grounds, searching for Mr Holland. The fact you’re in bed is fodder for the gossips.”