by Cheryl Bolen
His gaze dropped to the chamber pot.
She duly dumped her soup into the pottery vessel and replaced its lid. Only the chambermaid need know the mistress disliked Annie's soup. If they had a chambermaid, which they did not seem to have at present.
Next Daphne cut into her giblet pie, then dug in with a spoon. This, too, was followed with lowered brows and a swish of claret. “Dearest?”
He could not repress a smile. “Yes, love?”
“Did you find the giblet pie to be. . . quite the thing?”
“Not quite.”
“Then, sir, you must have been enormously hungry to have actually eaten the entire thing!”
“Indeed.” He eyed the chamber pot.
She merely nodded, got up from the desk with plate in hand, and slung all the dinner offerings into the crocked receptacle.
“So, my dear, what are you going to do about our incompetent cook?”
“I cannot worry about that now. My husband's been gravely injured, and we must discover the identity of traitors who threaten our kingdom.”
A moment later Annie came to collect the plates. Her face brightened when she saw that each bowl and plate had been cleaned. “I remembered, my lady, Cook sayin' as how much Lady Daphne favored leek soup, so I made a big pot. It should last all week.”
“How kind of you,” Daphne said.
Even though he knew the problem of a cook who could not cook needed to be addressed, he was proud of Daphne's kindness to her young servant.
After Annie gathered up the dinner tray and left, Daphne came to stand beside his bed, stroking his brow as she murmured. "Now that you've had some nourishment, you will need sleep. I thought I'd lie beside you in case you need anything during the night.”
How in the hell was he going to be able to sleep with her lying next to him, every intake of her breath an aphrodisiac to him?
Chapter 13
She would not wear her lace night shift until Jack was mended. All that mattered to her now was that he get back on his feet.
In her bedchamber, Daphne donned a cotton cambric night shift with long sleeves, ran a brush through her unmanageable hair, dabbed spear mint behind her ears, then returned to Jack's chamber.
“It's beastly cold in here,” she said. “I shall build a fire.”
Still propped against the headboard, he regarded her skeptically. “Have you ever built one before?” For the first time all day, there was a bit of a humorous countenance on his (much beloved) face.
“I haven't actually done so, but I've watched the servants build thousands of fires. How difficult could it be?”
Fifteen minutes later, she was almost reduced to tears of frustration. “It looks so easy when others are doing it.”
He threw off the covers, but not without grimacing in pain. “I'll do it.”
She whirled at him. “You will do no such thing! Perhaps tomorrow you can start using your arms, but I absolutely forbid you to do so tonight.”
“I thought you were not going to be a domineering wife,” he growled as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“Is it being domineering to care about one's husband's wellbeing?”
“I'll not be dictated to.”
He limped over to the fire.
She rushed to scoot his wooden desk chair in front of the fire. “Please, dearest, sit. I'm afraid if you squat down, neither of us will be able to get you back up.”
He grumbled something she could not understand, then lowered himself into the chair.
She watched in wonder, her mouth gaping open, as he lit the fire in no more than twenty seconds. “That's exactly what I was doing! Why could I not succeed?”
He shrugged. And winced. “I daresay you just need more practice.”
“Which I will certainly get if we don't get servants soon.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. You mother said she's sending over prospective servants for you to interview tomorrow afternoon.”
She could tell from the winded way in which he spoke that his simple actions had taxed his lungs. “Allow me to help you back to the bed, dearest.”
“I won't have you treating me like I'm a half-wit child.”
Nevertheless, she was not about to leave his side. He was so utterly weak.
He went to get up from the chair, and fell back.
“Please, lean on me, just until you're upright.”
His next try succeeded. She fastened her arm around him, and together they moved to the bed.
This time he did not attempt to sit. Groaning at the effort, he stretched himself out upon the linen sheets, exhausted. She covered him, then bent to kiss him. Though she intended to kiss his lips, he turned his face away, and she settled for pressing her lips to his cheekbone.
Why did he not want to kiss her? Why in the blazes was he being so beastly curt with her? Not once today had he spoken to her in the soft way he normally did. He acted as if he were angry with her.
Or worse. He acted as if he was no longer in love with her. She circled the foot of the bed and came to lie on the other side, next to her husband. “Should you like me to draw the curtains around the bed?”
“No. I'd just as lief like to see the fire.”
“And gloat over your domination over coal, no doubt.” Normally, such a comment would elicit a chuckle, but not tonight. Why was he being so cold to her?
She blew out the candle and climbed into his bed. On her belly, she scooted closer to him, then propped herself upon her elbows. “After a good night's rest, you'll be a great deal better.” She wanted to touch him but was afraid to hurt him since no part of his face or body had been spared from his attackers. “If you need anything during the night, you must awaken me.”
“I'm not going to wake you up,” he barked.
She wanted to protest, then she remembered his comment about her being domineering. Nothing could alienate a strong-willed man like Jack more than a domineering wife. How difficult it was for her to be meek and compliant. “I wouldn't mind, love. If the tables were turned, you would assist me, would you not?”
“Of course I would.”
“That's what marriage is. We're to be each other's helpmates.”
“And always honest with one another, right?”
“Of course.”
Soon Jack was sleeping soundly, but sleep eluded her. For hours she lay there in the dark room, listening to Jack's steady breathing, feeling his heat, and asking herself why he was angry with her.
It must just be that he was upset at being injured, upset at the world because of his condition. It wasn't just her he'd been so brusque with. He'd spoken wretchedly about poor, dear Ronnie.
Her thoughts, too, would blend into the investigation they were conducting. Would Ronnie have gone to his clubs tonight? What would she do the following day? The afternoon would be taken up with interviewing prospective servants.
Hopefully another day of rest would help ease Jack back to normalcy. She lay in the darkness and prayed her thanks that Jack's life had been spared. At this time the previous night, she had been mad with worry. With each passing second she had feared she would receive the news that Jack had been murdered.
Even after Sir Ronald had brought her husband's mangled body home, she had been terrified his injuries would prove fatal. When the surgeon assured her he would recover, she had thrown her arms around the neck of the surprised man and thanked him repeatedly.
She finally convinced herself that Jack would be his old cheerful self in the morning.
* * *
Annie awakened them the following morning with a breakfast tray which included a pot of hot coffee. “Just set the tray on the desk,” Daphne instructed. “How good of you to bring the food to us, considering my husband's lack of mobility.” Daphne left the bed and poured Jack a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar, and took it to him. “Tell me, Annie, how was your room?”
“It was very comfortable, my lady.”
“Please let me know if you n
eed anything.”
“Oh, I will, my lady.”
“Hopefully, you'll soon have company in the servants' quarters. This afternoon I will interview candidates for housekeeper and man servant.”
“Very good, my lady.” She pulled a letter from her pocket. “This came for you a few minutes ago.”
Daphne recognized Sir Ronald's handwriting. How would she explain the letter to Jack? There was nothing for it. She would have to tell a little white lie. It really was for the best. She set it on the desk. “What do you like on your toast, dearest? Black currant or marmalade?”
“Both.”
She cut his toast, slathered on both black currant and marmalade, and took Jack his bed tray. “How did you sleep, my dearest?”
“Fine. As long as I didn't have to move.” Very slowly, he brought himself into an upright position.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
“Better than yesterday.” He bit into the toast.
“That is good news, indeed. I believe you're moving better. I see you're lifting the fork without getting winded.”
Nodding solemnly, he eyed her, his gaze still icy. “Why have you not opened your letter?”
She shrugged. “It's just from my sister. I shall read it once you're situated. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“A new set of ribs?”
“Then they still hurt dreadfully?”
There was resolution in his voice when he said, “I will be better tomorrow.”
She sat before his desk and began to pick at her own breakfast, which was most dreadful. She had almost spat out her coffee it was so bad. Were she and Jack going to be saddled with this most dear, inept cook for the rest of their lives? She hadn't the heart to let the poor girl know they were dissatisfied.
Daphne absently broke the seal of Sir Ronald's letter, unfolded it, and read the short missive.
Come to my office at noon to discuss what I've learned.
Sir Ronald
She refolded the letter and glanced at the mantel clock. It was already past ten. She would need to hurry if she wished to be cleaned, dressed, and at Whitehall in an hour and half.
“Well?” Jack asked, glaring her.
“Well what?”
“Are you not going to tell me about the letter you just read?”
“Of course. I will need to meet with Cornelia at noon today.”
“Why can't she come here?”
Daphne shrugged. “Because she's a duchess. She's used to having everyone at her beck and call.” How she hated lying to her husband. But it was really for his own good. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel inadequate because of his non-aristocratic origins. It was such an easy matter for Sir Ronald to handle this small aspect of their inquiry. “Oh, dear, are you afraid of being left alone again?”
“Madam, there is very little that I'm afraid of.”
She knew he feared the duc d'Arblier because the man was so devious. And so evil. It was difficult to fight an unseen enemy, and for d'Arblier, stealth was his most formidable weapon. “Just say the word if you don't want me to leave, and I will stay with you.”
He shrugged. “It matters not if you go.”
That iciness again! Did she no longer matter to him?
* * *
This was only the second time Daphne had visited Sir Ronald at the Foreign Office, and she nearly blushed remembering the last time when she had come there to steal his seal. But, of course, he had no way of knowing about that. At least, she hoped he did not.
She sat meekly in front of his leather-topped desk, her hands folded in her lap, as he finished giving instructions to the young gentleman who was his secretary. As soon as that gentleman left the chamber, closing the door behind him, Sir Ronald faced her. “How is your husband today?”
“He's better, but still not ambulatory.”
“It must be very difficult for an active man like him to lie in bed.”
“It's turning him into a positive ogre.”
“You'll find marriage isn't always a bed of roses. You must take the good with the bad. Of course, in my marriage,” he said, laughing, “it's poor Virginia who has to put up with all the bad.”
“My sister would argue that point with you. She adores being your wife.”
“I am the most fortunate of men.” His brows lowered. “Now as to the situation you asked me to look into. . .I may be too hasty, but Lord Lambeth's sudden ability to pay off all his debts as well as his renewed high stakes play leave little doubt in my mind that Lambeth is the blackmailer.”
“And murderer. It does sound as if he's our man!” She told him that Lord Lambeth had bumped into the major's murdered batman when both men called on Mrs. Styles.
“Well, I say, we've all done a bang-up job of sorting all this out.”
Instead of gloating, though, over the revelation, she thought of the noble Eli Prufoy, who had been murdered by the greedy Lord Lambeth. Blackmail she almost could have forgiven. After all, Cornelia was no saint. But what of poor Fanny Hale? All she had now of the man she loved was his regimental pin. It was heart breaking. “Do you know if Lord Lambeth is married? I suppose I could I have looked it up in Papa's Debrett's.”
“He was married some time ago, but his wife died. She was only about five and twenty.”
“I daresay she's better off where she is than with him. The vile, contemptuous man.”
“Why did you want to know if he's married?”
“Because I need to get into his house. And Cornelia is going to help in that matter.” Her gaze fell to the ink well upon his desk. “May I use your pen and paper?”
“Of course.”
She quickly penned a note to the duchess. “Could I impose on you yet again?”
“I would be happy to oblige you in any matter, my lady.”
She stood and handed the folded missive to him. “Would you see that this is delivered to Lankersham House?”
“I will be happy to. Tell me, my lady, is my dear wife still to remain ignorant of this business?”
“I promised Cornelia. She doesn't like your virtuous wife lecturing her about her lack of morals.”
Standing, he chuckled. “May I call a hackney coach for you?”
“Not today. I have our carriage.”
His brows lowered. “Your father's?”
“No. The one Jack and I hired to bring us from Portsmouth. We decided to keep if for a few additional days. I couldn't use it the other day because Jack was.”
He bowed. “Please let me know if I can be of further assistance.”
“You've been wonderfully helpful. I never dreamed you'd make the round of your clubs last night after spending the previous night assisting me and Jack. You must have been exhausted.”
“I learned everything I needed to know just by dining at White's. I was home in bed by eleven.”
***
Andy was grinning like a newly knighted commoner as she returned to the coach. She hated to think that soon they would have to send him—and the coach—back to Portsmouth. How she would miss them both.
“So this is Whitehall, the seat of British government,” he said.
“You're certainly knowledgeable for one so young—and especially for one from the provinces.”
“I makes it my business to constantly acquire knowledge, and I can put two and two together—if you know what I mean.”
“You're good at mathematics?” she teased.
He opened her carriage door. “I'm good at deducing that you and the captain are involved in clandestine work for his majesty's government.”
The sagacity of his comment broadsided her. “If you're as good in mathematics as you are in deduction, you must have been a remarkable student.”
His face went somber. “I believe I can be of valuable assistance to you and the captain.”
“I believe you will, my dear boy, and I shall apprise my husband of your abilities.”
* * *
Daphne barel
y made it home to Dryden House in time to interview the first candidate for housekeeper, a Mrs. MacInnes, whom Annie had shown to the morning room. The woman had stood and introduced herself when Daphne entered the chamber. Mrs. MacGinnes looked to be well past forty—older than Daphne would have liked. Since they were just starting what Daphne hoped to be a long, happy married life, she had thought she and Jack would surround themselves with a staff that would serve them into old age.
“How very good of you to come,” Daphne told her. “Forgive me for just a moment while I look in on my husband. He's recovering from a rather nasty injury.” How she loved to refer to Jack as my husband! She scurried from the room and raced up two flights of stairs. She couldn't have a moment's peace until she assured herself he had met no harm during her absence. Knowing d'Arblier must be in London worried her more than she would ever allow Jack to know.
She had supplied Jack with pen, paper, and a portable desk top upon which to write in bed while she was gone, and he was scribbling away madly when she threw open his bedchamber door. “Do tell your family we have plenty of room for them when they come to visit us in London, my darling.”
He looked up at her, no mirth on his handsome face.
Had her didactic ways angered him? What had gotten into her sweet Jack? Was this the same loving man who had hovered over his heaving wife during the wretched sea voyage? “Forgive me for telling you what to write.”
“What did your sister want?”
Oh, dear. She had quite forgotten she had lied about meeting with Cornelia. She shrugged. “You know Cornelia. She thinks the entire world should move at her behest. She thought we should have found out the blackmailer's identity already because she wanted it to be so. We were not able to talk for long because Virginia came—which silenced any further talk of blackmailers. I did have to hurry home to interview our prospective staff—and to check on you.” She approached the bed and was powerless to stop herself from dropping a kiss upon his brow.
He stiffened.
And it fairly broke her heart. Her voice softened. “How are you feeling?”
“Not great, but I'll manage.”