ROBERT HERRICK MINUTES AFTER DOMINIC RODE INTO THE STABLES AT WOLFESTONE, the wind died down and the rain dribbled to a stop, as suddenly as it started. The sudden silence was almost shocking. “My luck running true,” he muttered as small rivulets dripped from his clothing, forming muddy puddles on the dusty cobbles. He’d seen a black tilbury parked in the courtyard. The doctor? Already? But how? He went to unsaddle Hex and found his own saddle hanging up and the gray mare safe and sound, dry, watered, and well rubbed down. She’d found the mare then. Presumably the girl was out of the rain, too. When he went inside, Miss Pettifer came hurrying toward him. “Thank goodness you’ve returned. Where on earth did you get to?” He opened his mouth to explain, but she hurried on, “Papa is a little better, but Dr. Ferguson wants him in bed but he can’t walk and none of us can carry him upstairs.
