She opened the door to her bedchamber. “If it isn’t too much trouble, could you have a tub delivered to my room? In light of recent events, a bath by a warm fire would be positively divine.”
Given a purpose, he straightened. “Of course. I’ll have a tub brought up straightaway, as well as water heated for your use.” His gentle smile gave no hint that he saw through her ruse. “In the meantime, if you need sustenance, I’ll have Cook prepare something for you.”
“Thank you. That would be most agreeable.” She moved through the door. “Oh,” she said, turning back to Goodayle as if suddenly remembering something of importance. “There is the matter of my maid—a Miss Cora Potts.”
“Never fear, we have a maid here named Daisy who can see to your needs.”
Of course they had a maid. “That is very kind.” But Daisy did not fit into Gillian’s plans. “I’m afraid you do not understand, Goodayle. Miss Potts traveled with me from Kent and is waiting for me to return to the Bull and Mouth Inn on Aldersgate Street. Do you know it?”
His brow cocked up. “I do.”
“I could not possibly allow her to fear for my safety. Would it be too much to ask to arrange for her to join me here—tonight? I fear that after all we’ve been through the poor girl will worry herself sick if I do not return.”
He bowed low. “I shall send for Miss Potts and your belongings without delay. You will have everything you need by morning, Baroness.”
She frowned.
“Is there something else, my lady?” he asked.
“Well, you see, Miss Potts is unaccustomed to city life. Because of that, she does not trust easily, as I’m sure you understand. I daresay she will not accompany any servant.” She behaved demurely for his benefit, batting her lashes and worrying her hands. “She has seen more than enough to know not to trust a stranger, and after . . . Well, I cannot bear to think—”
“I will retrieve her myself. You have my word.”
She loathed her machinations. Goodayle seemed like a good man, but she had no choice. “Thank you, Goodayle,” she said. She began to close the door to hide her triumphant smile.
He put his hand on the door to stop her, causing her momentary panic. “Forgive me, but you’ll need this,” he said, handing her the candlestick, “until we get your room fully prepared and a fire going in the hearth.”
“Of course.” Gillian nodded her thanks and took the candlestick from Goodayle’s hand. “You have thought of everything, and I am indebted to you.”
She closed the door to her bedchamber, leaned against it, and glanced about the poorly lit room, her mind made up. She was going to Curzon Street.
Simon frowned as the carriage jolted into motion. His desires, hopes, and dreams were nothing if not forfeit now that Gillian had walked back into his life. He’d tried to forget her, but now that he’d seen her, held her—even if at the expense of her broken heart—all he could think about were her soulful, beautiful, chocolate-brown eyes, and experiencing her painful loss as if it were his own.
Chauncey was dead. He was trying to accept it, but the process was exhausting, frustrating, and angering him beyond measure. There was no way to make this right. Only one thing would ease his tortured mind—sleep. But the comforts of a bed would not resolve the problems he faced. The baron had never been careless, never. How had Fouché’s men caught up to him?
He laid his head back against the squabs and squeezed his eyes shut. His racing thoughts made his head ache. What would tomorrow bring? Gillian had helped them avert a grand plot of catastrophic proportions. If not for Chauncey’s warning, England might have lost one of the greatest boons to its dwindling and brittle morale. The British people were tired of blockades and embargoes that prevented purchasing French goods anywhere but on the black market.
He opened his eyes. What the people didn’t understand was that this momentary peace was an illusion. Napoleon had amassed a fleet. Rebels were being slaughtered in France, Fouché’s men had infiltrated England, and now Gillian was involved. Her involvement endangered her life, a matter that caused Simon grave concern. She had successfully bolstered their intelligence to save Vice-Admiral Nelson’s life, a feat that forever put him in her debt. As long as they had Nelson at the helm of Nelson’s Tea, they would succeed in protecting England’s shores. But without the vice-admiral, they were doomed to fail.
Would Gillian join them? If she didn’t, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep her safe.
How long he pondered the things that plagued his mind, he couldn’t be sure. The extended ride helped Simon sort through his thoughts whenever he needed to settle his nerves or put on a brave face for his wife. Her infirmity drained his spirits. His inability to locate a doctor capable of healing her had become his bane.
The carriage pulled to a stop at the back entrance of Number Seventeen Curzon Street, and Simon straightened his shoulders and resumed his stiff countenance.
His footman immediately appeared, bowed, folded down the step, and opened the carriage door. “My lord.”
Simon nodded briefly before exiting the coach and heading to the threshold where Archer, his butler, waited patiently on the stoop.
“Thank you, Archer,” he said, moving through the open door. Archer followed and moved up beside Simon. He gave the butler his cane and then took off his coat, top hat, and gloves, handing them over one at a time. “Is everything well with my wife?”
Archer’s expression grew more serious than it was by nature. “She is the same, my lord.”
Another stab of guilt pained Simon afresh.
“There is another matter, however,” Archer said, tilting his head. “His Grace, the Duke of Throckmorton, was here.”
“Here?” Rock usually sent a summons requesting Simon appear at Throckmorton Hall. It was unlike his brother to travel to Curzon Street unless Constance was coming to visit Edwina. But what did it matter? Archer had said was here, and Simon simply did not have the wherewithal to ponder Rock’s behavior now.
“Yes, my lord. His Grace waited for you in the study for an hour before he left.”
“And Lady Constance?” he asked, hoping he hadn’t missed a chance to see his favorite niece. “Did she call on my wife?”
“She didn’t accompany him, my lord.”
“I see.” Though he didn’t. Already six-and-ten, his young niece yearned for Society at a time when Rock was refusing her opportunities. After his wife’s death aboard the Caddock—and almost losing Constance to pirates, too—he strictly monitored Constance’s comings and goings, making her entirely too sheltered. She had a penchant for making rash decisions as a result. Yet for all her childishness, Constance was Simon’s joy. She was full of vigor, just as her mother had been—God rest her soul—which was probably why Rock shielded her so. But could Simon blame his brother? He wanted to protect Gillian the very same way.
Simon shook his head. Danburys certainly had their fair share of misfortunes.
“Would you like to take your brandy in the study, my lord?”
He blinked, then cut a glance at Archer. “Yes.” He could use a drink, but as he glanced up the staircase, the pull to see his wife was stronger. He quickly changed his mind. “On second thought, no. It has been a damned wretched night, and I must see my wife.”
“Yes, my lord.” Archer began to move down the hall but turned back. “I thought you should know His Grace was staring at her painting again.”
Simon shrugged. “A deep, abiding love does not dim when lost, Archer.”
Family obligations and memories in Number Seventeen seldom lured Rock away from Throckmorton Hall, in particular, to Simon’s parlor with its Broadwood pianoforte and portrait of Lady Olivia. His sister-in-law had adored playing the instrument when she was alive. Now Constance had grown quite accomplished, and she’d come to play for Edwina. Music was one of the few joys his wife could still experience.
“Send a message to the duke that I will visit Throckmorton when I am able,” Simon directed.
Archer nodded, bowed, and took his leave.
Simon climbed the stairs, loathing the path his and Edwina’s lives had taken. They’d been dutiful pawns in their parents’ quest to join two families. Making the most of their lives together, they’d become friends, trusted confidants, and lovers out of necessity. Edwina was all that was just and good; she had the purest of hearts. She didn’t deserve the kind of pain and suffering she endured simply by trying to give him an heir.
Damn him to eternal hell. Edwina deserved more than he’d been able to provide. She deserved to be loved the way Rock had loved Lady Olivia, not to be the woman a man married when he could not have the lady he truly loved. Didn’t every woman?
A warm light penetrated the hall as it spilled out from the door to Edwina’s room, which was currently slightly ajar. He hesitated a moment, trying to control the internal battle waging between his emotions.
“That should be . . . my h-husband,” Edwina said weakly. “Come . . . in, my l-lord.” Her voice faltered whenever she strung too many words together.
Simon inhaled a breath to steady himself and then eased the door open. The all too familiar abhorrent aromas of laudanum, valerian root, and Peruvian bark entered his lungs. Nausea roiled in his stomach.
“My lady,” he said, bowing. He paid no attention to the maid in the room as he moved quickly to his wife’s side. He was accustomed to there always being one present.
Edwina was lying on a chaise longue, her body adorned in a delicate lace night rail, her hair brushed to a golden sheen, and her skin looking a shade too pale. “Come.” Her dull blue eyes examined him as she stretched out her arm, but the limb dropped swiftly, as if the effort had been too great to maintain.
Her gentle smile, still capable of producing the single dimple in her cheek, took him back to the day they’d wed. She’d known then that he loved another, as had she. Their losses were deeply guarded secrets that only the two of them shared. They’d gone into their marriage with their eyes open, determined to make the best of their time together.
“T-Tell me. Did you . . . enjoy H-Holcroft’s play?”
He bent down on one knee, lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it gently, amazed once more by how thin Edwina’s skin had now was, how fragile she had become. Her pulse throbbed faintly in her veins as she struggled to inhale a breath. They’d been down this road once before with Edwina coming close to death and then rebounding. He prayed it would be so again, though the doctors had given them little hope, citing everything from miasma, puerperal fever, consumption, and immobility as the causes.
“The theater,” he said as he began to describe the night’s events, as he always did upon his return, “was full.” He used colorful language to bring the crowd and music and acting to life in her mind’s eye. “People milled about in the latest styles. How I wish you could have seen it. There were feathers and frills, cravats, hats, and canes. The announcer dramatically directing the throng to be seated. The stage lights flared. The players began to sing—”
“Ah.” Her eyes lit up from within. She inhaled a ragged breath. “And then a m-most . . . unexpected p-pause.” Her voice was a raspy hiss.
“How did you know?” he asked, stunned.
“I was there.” She smiled, confusing him all the more. “‘S-Surprises . . . are all the r-rage at D-Drury, the th-theater of the age.’”
Simon blinked. Her poetic reference to the Theatre Royal was one he’d heard Gillian use before. But how could Edwina possibly know that? His blood ran cold. He didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Surprises?” he broached.
She touched his cheek. “I know.” Her weak caress forced him to remember the strong woman she used to be. She was the woman who’d encouraged him to leave the navy after he had wounded his leg, and hunt spies instead, and the wife who did not quibble about him being gone for months at a time while she struggled to bear a child, facing one disappointment after another.
“What is it you know?” he asked, his voice smooth but insistent as a chill settled in his core. “You must tell me, my lady.”
“The t-time has come . . . I must t-tell you—” Edwina was struck by a fit of coughing.
Simon helped her sit up and move to her side. When the episode dissipated, he leaned her back and held a hand to her brow, fearing she’d worsened. She wasn’t making sense. But her skin felt oddly cool to the touch, telling him there was no physical reason for her current state of mind.
“I kn-know about . . . Nelson,” she finished.
How could she have possibly heard about the assassination attempt so fast? The servants were quick about gossiping amongst themselves, it was true, but there hadn’t been enough time for the information to travel to Mayfair. Had there?
“Who told you?” he asked.
“Gillian.”
His mouth went dry. She’d never spoken Gillian’s name in his presence. They’d both agreed not to mention the names of their one true loves. “You cannot mean that the baroness was here?”
Wood crackled in the fireplace, and the logs fell. Startled, his reflexes on high alert, he spun around. “You may leave us,” he told the maid.
The woman was dressed in an old, gray, wool gown and a white apron. Her hair was covered by a mop cap, and she nodded, curtsied, and scurried out the door.
Something oddly unsettling struck him about her. “Have we hired a new maid?”
“Do n-not be angry,” she said, remorse contorting her features. “I w-wanted this.”
His brow furrowed. “Wanted what?” He brushed an errant hair out of her face. “It has been a very long day. I fear my head must be muddled.”
“She . . . is k-kind.” Edwina paused to take a breath, the sound jolting through him like a riptide. “I like her.” Her voice cracked slightly. “She t-told me . . . you s-saved Nelson.”
His jaw slackened. The new maid told her this? His heart sank in his chest. He turned and glanced at the door again, feeling the need to chase after the maid and prove Edwina wrong.
“She came.” Edwina tried to rise. “I am—”
“Please, Edwina. You are overexciting yourself.” He grabbed her shoulders and eased her back down on the pillows. “You must rest.” She smiled wanly, and he continued, his voice soft. “I don’t know how the baroness managed to get here, but she does me no favors. I wasn’t the one who saved Admiral Nelson’s life. She was.”
She sucked in a pained breath. “I know.” Her chest rose, and she turned her head as if in agony, writhing for a moment before relaxing once more. “I’ve a-always known . . . this day would c-come.”
“What are you talking about?” As a rosy shade moved into her cheeks, he felt as if they were speaking about two different things. Years of pain, illness, and addiction had staked its claim on Edwina, ravaging her body with unrelenting force. “What did the baroness tell you?”
“She c-came to ask . . . m-my f-forgiveness,” Edwina said, holding out her hand to him. He took it in his, feeling his vigor evaporate along with his innocent wife’s. “But it was I who . . . needed absolution.” She took a rattling breath. “Don’t be angry. I s-stole . . . you from her.”
“You’re talking nonsense, Edwina.” He shook his head, swallowing back the bile that had risen inside his stomach. Neither of them could change the past. If he could, he would wish her healthy. “None of that matters now.”
“She is alone.” She smiled, her eyes glimmering with affection. “Her husband is gone.”
“But you are not. You never will be,” he promised.
“You deserved b-better.”
“Life isn’t about what we deserve.” How could he make her understand? “It’s about what we do with the time we’re given.”
“Use it well,” she said, nodding weakly. “I can g-go now. Happily s-so.”
His eyes widened, and his breath caught. “What nonsense is this? You are not going anywhere. You cannot.” He squeezed her hand, brought it to his lips, and tenderly kissed
it. She didn’t respond. His chest tightened, his heart stuck in his throat. “You need to rest so you can get well. You must. I demand it.”
“No,” she said, barely above a whisper as she stirred back from wherever lethargy had taken her. “You c-cannot stop . . . what has already b-begun. It’s too late for me. B-But not . . . for you. You h-have my b-blessing.” She licked her dry lips. “Kiss me . . . once m-more.”
He pressed his mouth to hers and then pulled back a hairbreadth. “I will not allow you to go, Edwina. You cannot die. Do you hear me?” She didn’t answer. “Fight!” he cried.
Footsteps padded down the hallway, but he ignored the people racing toward them.
“I am . . . at p-peace.” She closed her eyes, a single tear trailing down her cheek. “Live, Simon. Go to her . . .” Her breath exhaled on a sigh.
“Edwina?” He laid his ear on her chest. Her heartbeat was faint, and then it stopped. “Edwina!”
War had forced him to reconcile with death, but not like this. Never like this!
“No . . .” He brushed her hair away from her face as servants gathered round them. He ignored them, straightening her gown and smoothing his hands down her arms. They’d had so little time together during their marriage, and like a spring flower nurtured from bud to bloom, she was gone in the blink of an eye.
Eight
“And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side . . .”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It
Gillian left Number Seventeen with tears streaming down her face. She hadn’t meant to intrude or be discovered in Edwina’s bedchamber. From the moment Goodayle had told her that Edwina was gravely ill, she’d been pulled to the woman by an invisible thread. She’d wanted to help Simon’s wife in any shape or form, but when Edwina had asked for Gillian’s forgiveness, then asked her to love Simon the way he was meant to be loved, she’d been so shocked, she’d lost all sense of time or place. And Simon had seen her. She was sure of it. Would he ever forgive her for the deceit?
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