In her nightgown, she was improperly dressed for visiting, but she supposed since the visitor was technically her husband, it was allowable. She set the book aside and pulled the coverlet up near her neck.
There was a small settee at the foot of her bed, which he commandeered for his use. She watched with wide eyes as he rearranged the furniture, dragging the settee over to the hearth where the embers of Anna’s small fire still smoldered. The Marquess was too tall to lay upon the settee comfortably, but he didn’t seem to mind overmuch. With a pillow beneath his head, he stretched out, not bothered that his feet were hanging off the other end.
“I cannot sleep,” he announced once he was settled.
“I see.”
“And as your lamp was still lit, I thought I might see what you were up to. Maybe a few words like medico-chirurgical would invoke the elusive gods of slumber.”
“That is a sound plan, my Lord.”
“What great learning do you encounter in your new book?”
She cleared her throat and attempted to sound very learned indeed. “This article, my Lord, is of most importance in the world of medicine. It is called A Case of Violent and Obstinate Cough, Cured by A Preparation of Iron.”
“Hmmmm,” he mused whimsically. “The gods have heard. I feel sleepy already.”
She giggled. “Oh, I could read to you from On Gouty Concretions of Chalk Stones.”
“Oh yes, gout. Please do.”
“Or, A Case of Exposure to the Vapour of Burning Charcoal.”
“Fascinating,” he replied dryly. His eyes were closed, and even in the dim light she knew his expression was hinting at a smile.
“My Lord Marquess, who do think is responsible for the edifice falling from the roof of the theater?”
She had given it much thought throughout the day, and Henrietta was worried. She wanted to dismiss it as an accident, but something within her warned her against doing so.
“Officially, Mr. Kemble maintains it was an accident, and I see no reason to insist otherwise just yet. That said, I’d like to keep my eye on Seth Booth.”
Henrietta suspected Seth as well, but mostly because of the note she assumed came from him earlier in the day. Surely the Marquess had no knowledge of that communiqué.
“Mr. Booth? Because he leered at me on the cliff promenade?”
“Yes, my dear Lady, and because he has been lately part of Averson’s household which connects him to me and ultimately to you.”
“He has been what? In Lord Averson’s household?”
“For some weeks now, he has been in the employ of Lord Averson. At least, he was. Averson was going to dismiss him today.”
“Is that wise, my Lord?” she asked with concern.
“In what way? What do you mean?”
She pondered how to answer, and he anticipated her unease.
“Do you fear retaliation?”
“In truth, I wonder if the near-death event of last night, though officially deemed accidental, was indeed retaliation by Mr. Booth for his first dismissal from my father’s employ. If he, in fact, went to such extremes to exact a revenge for the first dismissal, what might he do after a second?”
“Your concern is not without merit.”
“May I suggest, my Lord Marquess, that should you desire to keep an eye on Seth Booth, you keep him in Lord Averson’s employ. At least we will know of his whereabouts most of the time. Otherwise, we will have nothing.”
“I think that is sound advice, my Lady. I will send a note recommending as much to Averson in the morning. Hopefully, he has not yet thrown him out.”
He apparently had nothing more to say. He apparently also had no intention of returning to his own room, and soon his breathing became deep and even. She watched his chest rise and fall steadily, happy he had found his rest. She settled back into her book, returning to the riveting article about curing a cough with an iron. It was clear the Royal Navy surgeons were forced to be creative.
An hour ticked by and still she read, engrossed. She was startled when he spoke.
“Henrietta, please call me Ewan.”
She started to respond, but something made her hold her tongue. She waited. His light snore returned. It appeared he was not awake enough to even know he had spoken to her.
“Please,” he said again. “Ewan. ‘Tis my name.”
She smiled mischievously, deciding it didn’t really matter how she answered. She doubted he would remember.
“I would rather call you my Lord Marquess if ‘tis all the same to you.”
His words were smooth, but sleep impressed a slight slur upon them. “And why is that?”
“Because you’re being so nice to me, but I don’t want to like you. And if I begin to call you by your given name on top of everything else, ‘tis possible it will come to pass.”
He said nothing. He was clearly asleep. And then, “You might like me?” he murmured, and then the snore returned. She waited until she was sure he was asleep before she replied.
“Yes, Ewan. I might like you very much indeed.”
* * *
To the astonishment of most of the guests at the Old Bell, the October sun graced the cliff with its presence the next morning, and given its cheery disposition, the Marquess suggested to his wife they ride on horseback to some picturesque spot outside of town and enjoy a picnic. She was agreeable and so Gerome had ridden behind them, and when they had decided to rest and eat their picnic lunch, he had laid out the blanket and all the appropriate accoutrements. Gerome then, as always, made himself scarce.
“Gerome informs me there is a hunting party in the woods, so do not be alarmed should you hear shots,” the Marquess informed her. Reclining, he made himself comfortable on the blanket near the basket that held the food. Leaning on an elbow, he watched her attempt to keep her bright blue cape tightly closed against the cold air. It was sunny, yes, but it was not warm.
“Perhaps a picnic is better suited to the summer season in Scarborough,” the Marquess commented.
“Nonsense,” she replied. “I understand from the Gazette ‘tis just as cold in July.”
“You are quite the avid reader, are you not, Henrietta? You move with ease between Dr. Bostock’s The Gelatine of the Blood to the papers of the common folk. What will I catch you reading next? Tom Jones?
“Certainly not! Why would I bother with such drivel when I can freely read about an artificial dilatation of the female urethra?”
“Please. I beg you not to delve into further explanation of that,” he said dryly, sampling some cheese from the basket.
They ate their picnic in relative silence, the conversation lagging but not awkwardly so. They were content in the quiet, almost as if old friends. Henrietta broke the reverie at last. It was not all she sought to break.
“I should like to break a rule, my Lord.”
“Oh dear,” he sighed. “I thought you were staunchly against the breaking of rules.”
“No, no.” She held up her index finger to indicate this to be a point of correction. “If you will recall, my Lord, I actually said that I do agree with you that some rules – some – beg to be broken.”
He chuckled, shaking his handsome head. “You did not say that.”
“Yes!” she countered earnestly. “Yes, I most certainly did!”
“My Lady has a faulty recollection.”
She threw a nut at him in protest, hitting him in the chest.
“We will agree to disagree then,” he offered in truce. “What is the rule you wish to break?”
“It is your rule, my Lord.”
“Which? I made two.”
“I wish to invoke one while I break the other.”
He grinned at her, obviously amused. He popped the nut she had thrown at him in his mouth.
“Clever. Break and invoke as you please, my Lady.”
“At great risk of spoiling your winsome mood, I wish to speak of your first wife.” She held her breath, trying to gauge his response. H
is smile faded, but his eyes did not darken dangerously as they had when she had called him a hypocrite. She proceeded with caution.
“I wish only to comment, not to pry.”
“And which is the rule you wish to invoke?”
“That I may always speak to you in freedom.”
“To express thoughts that may very much seem like opinions?”
She did not want him to think her disrespectful. Her voice dropped low when she said, “Something like that, my Lord.”
He sat up from his reclined position and seemed to brace himself in preparation.
“Very well. What is your comment?”
“I very recently learned that I bear a resemblance,” she wavered, searching for the courage to continue, “some similarities to –” That was a far as she went.
“To Patricia.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “And so, now that I have been made aware of this most unusual development, I just wanted you to know that I understand you would feel shock upon seeing me for the first time. And ‘tis only your shock that is to blame for anything said that was, perhaps, unkind. It might have felt like you had seen a ghost or something.”
“Hmmmm, something,” he concurred between pursed lips. “Is that all?”
“No. I,” she stammered, “I also want to say that I’m sorry. I understand now and I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m sorry that I look like her. I wish for all the world I didn’t for it must be unbearable for you to look at me.”
“Are you finished?” he asked gently.
She nodded, not sure how to read him.
Have I just ruined everything? This pleasant rapport that is beginning to feel safe? Like trust?
“As I have been most generous in allowing you latitude with my rules, I wish to break one of yours.”
“Very well. I owe you that much at least for your kind condescension.”
“Henrietta, you are incredibly lovely of face and form and feeling. You are a beautiful, brave, intelligent woman who happens to look very much like Patricia. But while you may bear a striking resemblance to her, in the most important ways, the very best of ways, you are uniquely Henrietta. And far from unbearable, I find you inspirational.”
His dark eyes sparkled, holding hers in a gentle embrace. She could not breathe. She dared not. The beauty of his words rolled so sweetly over her; she feared anything she would say might wash it all away.
Finally, she whispered absurdly, “Which rule is that?”
He matched her low tone, “The very first rule you made. I am not to comment on your appearance.”
“Oh, yes.”
“But since you seem to have forgiven me for insulting you on our wedding day, it seemed like a good time to break that rule.”
“Yes,” was all she could manage. She shivered, but it was not from the cold.
“You are chilled,” he said as a hunting shot rang out in the distance. “Perhaps we’ve had enough picnicking for one day.”
He stood and offered his hand to her, helping her up. They left the blanket, knowing Gerome would be back to pack it all up. They mounted the horses and made their way slowly back, content with the leisurely pace.
Another gunshot was cracked off, this time quite close. Too close. And another rang out, stinging their ears and spooking the horses. Ewan was able to skillfully keep his mount under control, but Henrietta was no experienced equestrian. Her mare reared back, throwing her to the ground, and running off the path into the woods.
“Dear God! Henrietta!” Ewan shouted, jumping from his saddle and at her side in an instant.
Fortunately, the horse had thrown her clear of its path when it bolted. The wind was knocked out of her, but nothing appeared to be broken. She had not hit her head, but landed on her padded side, such as it was. She tried to get up, but he was there dissuading her.
“Not yet, my dear. Wait. Breathe.” He took her gloved hands in his and rubbed them gently.
She drew a shallow breath, wincing slightly. And then another and another, the pain gradually subsiding.
“Let’s see if you can stand without issue.”
He helped her up, though she leaned against him for support.
“I fear I will have bruises on my backside to match the cuts and scrapes on my front.”
“We must get you back to the Old Bell on my horse. The mare is gone. Gerome will have to retrieve her.”
“If he can find her,” Henrietta added scornfully.
Ewan gingerly helped her mount his horse, and in a moment, swung himself up behind her, reins in hand. Though he was anxious to see her safely at the inn, he kept to a reasonable pace for the sake of both Henrietta and the horse.
They made good time back to town and to the cliff. She winced as he helped her from the mount, not really certain what it was that hurt. As they entered the Old Bell, they were motioned into conference by the innkeeper. Henrietta excused herself and limped on toward their rooms.
“My Lord,” the innkeeper said to the Marquess in a low tone.
“Mr. Chambers?”
“I beg your pardon, but I have news that is most troubling to report.”
“Go on. You’ve nothing to fear from me.”
Reassured, he continued. “A few days ago, your wife dropped some letters in the post box. I thought I had managed the correct postage, but somehow, I blundered, and the letters were brought back. I beg your pardon, My Lord.”
“Don’t make yourself uneasy, man. Return the letters to my Lady and if she still wishes them all put in the post, you can work it out together.”
Mr. Chambers looked most relieved. “Thank you, My Lord!”
“On second thought, just give them to me and I will discuss it with her presently.”
“Very good, My Lord.” Chambers handed the three letters to Ewan and returned to his desk.
The Marquess glanced at the letters he held in his hand. He expected to find them addressed to the General or Mrs. Oliver or even his own mother. Instead, he found himself reading the addresses of the Royal Academy of Physicians, Guy’s Hospital in Southwark, and St. Bart’s Hospital at the London City Wall. Disbelief egged him on.
Impatiently, he ripped open the seal of the first letter, quickly scanning its contents. At the bottom of the page, in a crisp and even hand, the letter was signed ‘H. Oliver Clark.’
“Bloody hell,” he cursed, knowing full well what he was looking at but unable to believe his eyes.
She did not, he thought in disgust, she would not.
But he knew very well that she would and that she did.
Chapter 22
Henrietta sat at the edge of the bed and patted her side, trying to feel out what was wrong. Every breath she took made her gasp and the half-corset she wore was doing nothing to help matters.
Swollen intercostal muscles and acute tenderness would suggest a broken or bruised rib. Shortness of breath would perpetuate my conclusion. There was nothing to do about injuries like that, except wait for them to heal all on their own.
She looked up as Ewan stepped through the doorway to her side of the apartment. A smile tugged at her lips. He looked handsome, his hair swept forward over his forehead. She was about to open her mouth to tell him about the bruising, but he beat her to it.
“When were you going to tell me about this?” he asked curtly, pulling a letter from behind his back. “And here I was, thinking that you and I were making some sort of progress with our honesty towards one another.”
Henrietta froze. “Is that… is that my letter, Lord Marquess?”
“That depends. Do you mean the one that you sent to the Royal Academy of Physicians, or the one to St. Bart’s, or the one to Guy’s Hospital? Need I go on?”
She stood sharply, a jolt of pain rippling up her side. “You had no right!”
“As your husband, I had every right.”
“And here I was, thinking that you and I were unlike other married couples—that I might have some
autonomy within my marriage to you. You promised me as much, did you not?”
“That autonomy does not permit you to indulge in deception, Henrietta.” His eyes narrowed. “You have deliberately attempted to fool these individuals. H. Oliver Clark—does that ring any bells for you?”
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