Chapter 6 6

The drive to the estate felt like an eternity. Every bump in the road elicited a sharp intake of breath from Jennings. Dawn kept her hand on his chest, monitoring the rise and fall.

"Stay with me," she commanded softly. "Don't you dare die on my upholstery."

His lips twitched. A ghost of a smile.

When they pulled up to the service entrance of the Montgomery estate, the house was dark. Good. Aunt Eleanor went to bed at nine, but she was a light sleeper.

"Catrina, go to the main house," Dawn ordered as the car stopped. "Take a shower. Burn that dress if you have to. And say nothing."

"I'm not going to burn a Valentino," Catrina hissed, stepping out into the rain. She looked at the blood on her shoes and gagged. "You deal with this... stray. I'm washing my hands of it."

She ran toward the main entrance.

Dawn turned back to O'Malley. "Help me get him to the guest room in the West Wing. The one near the old library."

It was the most secluded room. No servants went there unless called.

They carried him in. The transition from the cold rain to the climate-controlled stillness of the mansion was jarring. The house smelled of lemon polish and old paper.

They laid him on the four-poster bed. The pristine white duvet was instantly stained red.

"I'll get the first aid kit," O'Malley said, rushing out.

Dawn stood over Jennings. He was shivering now. Shock. She needed to get his wet clothes off.

She reached for his belt.

"Buy a man a drink first," Jennings mumbled. His eyes were open again, glassy but alert.

"You're in no condition for cocktails, Mr. Stafford," she said, unbuckling the belt.

The sound of wheels rolling on hardwood floor froze her.

Whir-clack. Whir-clack.

Her mother's wheelchair.

Dawn spun around. She stepped out into the hallway just as Eleanor Montgomery rounded the corner.

Her mother looked frail. The disease that would eventually kill her was already eating away at her muscle mass, but her spine was as stiff as iron. She wore a silk dressing gown and a look of supreme disapproval.

"Dawn?" Eleanor's eyes swept over her daughter's ruined dress, the mud, the blood. "You look like you've been in a war. Where is the gala? Where is Catrina?"

"We... we had an accident," Dawn stammered. The lie tasted like ash. Seeing her mother alive was a punch to the gut. She wanted to fall into her lap and cry, but she couldn't. She had to be the general now.

"An accident?" Eleanor's voice sharpened. "Is the car damaged?"

Not are you hurt. Is the car damaged.

"The car is fine," Dawn said. "But we picked up a... a friend. He was hurt. I brought him here."

"A friend?" Eleanor tried to look past Dawn into the room. "Who is he?"

"Just a friend from the city," Dawn blocked her view. "I didn't want to take him to the hospital and cause a scene. The press, you know."

Eleanor sighed, a sound of profound exhaustion. "Always the drama with you, Dawn. Always the stray dogs."

"I'll handle it, Mother. Please. Go back to bed."

Eleanor looked at her for a long moment. "Don't let him bleed on the Persian rug. That's an antique."

She turned her wheelchair and rolled away.

Dawn let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She turned back to the room. Jennings was watching her from the bed. He had heard everything.

"Stray dog?" he asked.

"Better than 'dead body'," she retorted. She closed the door and locked it.