Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor

by Regina Jeffers

  Miss Neville scowled, her expression darkening. “I do not understand, Sir. Do you think me an accomplice? I assure you, this is the first I have heard of it.”

  Another wave of fury crashed over John, but he quickly reined in his anger. None of what had happened could be pinned upon her chest. “I so not doubt your innocence. The issue of which I speak goes beyond my wife’s secret. I have spoken previously of my service to King George.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  John scoffed, “In my governmental service, my unit conducted numerous confidential operations and made more enemies than I care to consider, one of whom is a Baloch warlord named Shaheed Mir. Mir believes one of my former unit has stolen a palm-sized emerald, and the tribal leader has sent a pair of agents to England to recover the jewel.”

  Dazed, Miss Neville shook her head. “Do you mean to say someone believes Lady Fiona’s emerald was once owned by a foreign warlord?”

  John watched the blood drain from Miss Neville’s cheeks. “I have been informed by those at the Home Office that Murhad Jamot, Mir’s agent, has learned of Lady Swenton’s impetuous action. The Baloch also knows of the other pieces in Lady Swenton’s wedding gift. The assumption is I stole Mir’s emerald and presented it to Lady Fiona.”

  Miss Neville protested, “How foolish can the British government be? Anyone with eyes can see you are the most principled of men?”

  For John, her belief in him was a balm to his bruised soul. His wife had not been so quick to defend him. “I appreciate your devotion, but I must warn you Murhad Jamot will come for the emeralds in Lady Fiona’s collection.”

  “I thought the brooch sold?”

  “One of my former associates accidentally discovered Lady Swenton’s mission and recovered the piece. It has been returned to me. My fear is if you remain in my employ, you will be in danger. Jamot is not known for his finesse. If you are between him and a successful mission, the Baloch will dispense with you. I mean to escort Lady Swenton to York. It will be easier to protect her at Marwood than it is in London. Please consider carefully what I have shared before you make your decision. If you choose to leave us, I will finance your return to Dublin. If you choose to remain as part of my household, I will protect you with my life.” Before she could voice her decision, he continued, “Do not choose at this moment. I know you to be true-hearted and unswerving in your devotion to me and the baroness, but in this matter you must be faithful only to what serves you best.”

  “You wish to be rid of me, Sir?” she whispered into the stillness, which rested between them.

  John knew he should keep his thoughts private; yet, he could not stifle the words that sprang to his lips. “My marriage has not known an easy road, but I would admit it would have been gut-wrenchingly miserable if not for your presence. If not for your sensibility.”

  An indefinable emotion flickered in the lady’s eyes. “I shall do as you ask, my Lord.” Her expression was suitably serious. “I, too, have a matter of import I must bring to your attention. It is one of a highly personal nature, and I would not do so, but I fear for the baroness’s well being.”

  “If you possess ill information regarding my wife, I beg you to speak earnestly.”

  Miss Neville closed her eyes to steady her resolve. “Have you, Sir, taken notice of Lady Swenton’s small stature?”

  “My wife is of a petite nature,” he protested.

  Miss Neville blushed. “Have you taken no note of how little Lady Swenton eats in order to maintain her svelte waistline?”

  John understood the lady’s implication. Miss Neville thought he regularly looked upon Satiné unclothed. John cringed: How could he admit he and Satiné had yet to share a bed? “The baroness is most modest, Miss Neville.”

  “Then I shall speak of what I have observed. Your lady eats no more than one slice of toast throughout the day.”

  John spoke in disbelief. “How can what you say be so? I have dined with my baroness repeatedly!”

  “Lady Swenton is an expert at moving food about her plate. When she does partake of the offerings, she returns to her rooms to empty what she has consumed into her chamber pot. I have heard Sally say so of her mistress. Your wife hides her weight loss with long-sleeved gowns and several layers of under garments.” Her bottom lip trembled. “I do not wish to place additional troubles upon your shoulders, Sir, but the baroness has made it her purpose to recover the figure she had before giving birth to Rupert. In doing so, your wife has taken the task to extremes.”

  “You believe Lady Swenton in dire straits?” he asked incredulously.

  “I do, Sir. A person cannot survive on so little food.”

  John ran the fingers of his right hand through his groomed hair. “I might have thought you to speak of Lady Swenton’s overuse of laudanum.”

  Miss Neville admitted, “The laudanum relieves the pain of the baroness’s hunger. In the matter of your wife’s overuse of the medicinal, we are both to blame for permitting Lady Swenton access to the drops. We must be more aware of the baroness’s consumption of the opiate. As her weight has decreased substantially, it takes very little of the medicinal to place her under its spell.”

  “My God! Will the madness never end? I thought I knew Satiné Aldridge, but even with my worldly experiences, I am sadly lacking in the ways of my wife’s twisted existence.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  John had not slept, Miss Neville’s warning haunting his resting and his waking hours. He could not understand why his wife would obsess over her weight. He wished he had not severed ties with Sir Carter; he thought he could ask Lady Lowery’s advice on the subject. The baronet’s bride possessed natural good sense, something he was sorely missing at this time. “Why would any woman treat her body so poorly?”

  In the night’s middle he had called upon his housekeeper to secure the key to his wife’s chambers. It had become essential for him to observe for himself what Miss Neville had described. Some part of him thought the lady had exaggerated. John had known Satiné to be very svelte when he had tended her aboard ship, but when he thought on it, he had not seen her unclothed. Only once–the day she clung to her gown when he had asked for a kiss farewell–had he even viewed her partially disrobed. He had held his wife briefly before he had departed for York, but that had been some five weeks prior. He attempted to recall her appearance on that occasion, but his anger and frustration had ruled his thoughts, and he could not drum up an image of Satiné as she was then.

  The London night had been stifling warm, but when he turned the key to enter his wife’s room, he had discovered she had asked his servants to set a fire in the hearth. The heat struck him, bringing a red flush to his cheeks and perspiration to his forehead. John stood silent, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the pale light. He entered on silent feet, expecting to find her in her bed, but she was not under the counterpane. In a panic, he had thought Satiné had somehow managed to escape, but then he saw her: a muslin-clad lump on the floor beside her dressing room door.

  “My God, Satiné!” he gasped. Rushing to his wife’s side, John rolled her gently to her back. “Satiné!” he whispered with urgency, but she did not respond. For a few brief seconds, John had thought her dead–thought Satiné had succumbed to the opiate she preferred; but when he searched for a pulse, it was there. “What have you done?”

  He started to lift her from the floor; yet, he held when he discovered her gown soiled. “Jesus, Satiné! Damn the laudanum!”

  John rushed to light a candle. Then he filled a bowl with tepid water. Retrieving a cloth and a clean gown, he set about cleaning her. “Thank God it was I who discovered you,” he whispered as he drew the wet gown up and over his wife’s limp body. His eyes skimmed down her form. Miss Neville had spoken the truth.

  John had witnessed English soldiers starved as prisoners of the French, but there was no sane reason his baroness should present herself as such: There was food aplenty for those under his responsibility.

  Pulling his eyes fr
om her skeletal appearance, John made himself concentrate on washing her body and redressing his wife. His hands trembled: How was he to address yet another crisis created by Satiné Swenton’s hands?

  As he worked, his baroness never once opened her eyes or attempted to shove his hands away. It sickened him to view her as such, and it ripped his soul raw to know he had somehow contributed to what was happening to his wife. “Foolish man,” he chastised as he carried Satiné to her bed. “You thought yourself invincible. Thought your proposal would save the lady. Instead you have brought your baroness more pain.” Sadly, he adjusted her position on the pillow before covering her with the counterpane. Then he had searched the room for the laudanum. Discovering two partially filled bottles among his wife’s intimate clothing, he removed them from their hiding places before leaving his baroness to sleep deep in her medicinal induced slumber.

  “Miss Neville, I mean to be from the house for an hour or two. You are in charge. Permit no one to enter. Lady Swenton will likely sleep for several more hours.” The lady had been in the morning room when he had come downstairs.

  “Do you not wish to break your fast, Sir? You appear not to have known your bed.” Her usual frankness actually soothed his troubled mind. With Miss Neville, John never waited for the truth to arrive: The lady’s emotions were always clearly displayed upon her countenance.

  “Mr. Mission brought me a tray while I saw to necessary correspondence.” He bowed curtly. “Remember. No one is to visit with the baroness.”

  The lady nodded her understanding. “It will be as you wish, Sir.”

  *

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me on short notice, Coyle.”

  “Certainly, Baron. Please have a seat.” The gray-haired gentleman had served as a consultant on several cases during John’s active Realm years, and he had decided in the wee hours of the morning to seek Coyle’s professional advice. “How might I serve you, Sir?”

  John placed his beaver and gloves on an empty table before sitting. “I have a dilemma of a personal nature. A very private nature,” he added. “Of which I require both your professional analysis and your discretion.”

  “Absolutely. You have my word. Why do you not explain what has brought you to my door, Lord Swenton?”

  Swallowing his pride, John wove a tale of having been stricken with admiration for a beautiful woman, of having finally won the lady’s hand, but not her heart, and of the way his baroness had responded since they had spoken their vows. “I do not understand Lady Swenton’s great need for Society, nor do I comprehend why she mistreats herself so. I have failed her.” Admitting his inability to protect his bride gnawed at all for which John stood.

  “A dilemma, indeed, Baron.” Coyle folded his hands upon the desk. “Certainly, it would be better if I could speak to the baroness personally.”

  “I do not believe my wife is prepared to admit what plagues her,” John confessed. “I thought if you could explain the ‘why’ of her condition that perhaps Miss Neville, the baroness’s companion, and I could address Lady Swenton’s unusual tendencies.”

  Coyle hesitated, as if searching for the correct words. “In a select few, the mind plays havoc when it meets the tests God sends. I assume Lady Swenton has known some sort of peril in her recent past.” John nodded his agreement, but did not elaborate. “I suspected as much. Of course, I cannot be certain until I have your wife’s acquaintance, but generally mania stems from trauma. Some respond by becoming stronger, while others swallow their pain and make it very personal.” John immediately thought of Miss Neville’s search for her father and how well she had responded to the grief and the possibility the lady might never know her father’s fate. In comparison to Satiné’s inability to cope, Miss Neville was the superior choice. It was to his detriment he had not seen the obvious before now. “To put it simply, Lady Swenton likely feels as if she has no control over her life, except in her weight. Such is all speculation on my part, but I would venture to say your lady was happiest when she was praised for her figure and her beauty. That she has been honored for her appearance all her life. Perhaps someone remarked on your wife’s attractiveness, causing her to know her self worth in that moment.”

  John hid his trembling hands. “Am I to assume Lady Swenton’s desire for company a means to relive the adoration she had known in the past.”

  “Possibly.” Coyle mused, “Her actions could also be part of the lady’s desire to please. You spoke earlier of Lady Swenton’s relationship with her uncle. I would imagine your wife was a dutiful niece, one praised for her cleverness and her beauty, but something changed the circumstances. Your lady found it harder to maintain her position in Baron Ashton’s life. Her uncle’s favor did not fall on her solely.”

  Everything came clearer. “We saved first Lady Swenton’s elder sister from an enemy of the Home Office and then her twin sister from a religious tyrant. Both girls claimed part of Ashton’s approval.”

  “Was this prior to the event you acknowledged previously?’

  John’s heart ached for what Satiné had suffered. “Yes.” His hands fisted and unfisted. “How may I protect Lady Swenton?”

  Coyle shook his head in the negative. “It will not be an easy task, Baron. It will likely take years to convince Lady Swenton of her worth. It is important to avoid situations where she risks being criticized. In truth, her life is in danger. The body can only survive for so long without sustenance. Literally, the body attacks itself.”

  “I mean to remove the baroness to York in two days.”

  “That is an excellent beginning,” Coyle assured. “Limit her environment. Remove your lady from the possibility of censure.”

  John suggested, “Would it be possible to secure your services at Marwood Manor? Say by the end of week. You might be a guest…not a physician. Perhaps someone interested in Lady Swenton’s thoughts.”

  Coyle countered, “I could not set out before Saturday for I hold prior obligations, but I would be willing to speak to your baroness.”

  John clarified, “As ‘Mr.’ Coyle. Not as a man of science.”

  “As Mr. Coyle,” the physician agreed.

  *

  “Isolde! Isolde!” the baroness’s voice echoed off the walls of the high-ceilinged foyer. “Isolde!” Isolde rushed from where she had watched out the drawing room window for the baron’s return. She skidded to a halt upon the polished marble before the main staircase.

  “I am here, Lady Swenton.” She looked up to find her mistress in a white muslin gown and little else. Lady Satine’s small frame was easily visible through the cloth. Isolde grabbed a cloak from the garment stand and rushed up the steps to wrap it about the girl. She glanced to where several footmen adverted their gazes. “Permit me to assist you to your quarters, Baroness.” Isolde encircled the girl’s waist and used her forearm to turn her mistress’s steps.

  “I searched my rooms,” Lady Swenton said on a silent sob.

  Isolde kept the girl moving forward, but she coaxed, “For what are we searching, my Lady?”

  “The drops.” Lady Swenton spoke as if Isolde should have recognized the obvious.

  Realization had arrived. “I purchased the medicinal recently.” Isolde led the baroness into the room. “You return to your bed, and I shall search for the missing bottle.”

  “I cannot rest without them. My body knows pain,” Lady Swenton complained woefully. “My arms. My legs. My stomach. Even my teeth.” The baroness leaned heavily into the pillows.

  Isolde brushed hair strands from Lady Swenton’s cheeks. “How would it be if I add the drops to a cup of hot tea or even some of Cook’s chicken broth? The warmth should make you feel more yourself.”

  Lady Swenton glanced to the hearth. “There is a chill in the air.” She reached for the discarded cloak and added it to the counterpane. “Ask Sally or one of His Lordship’s footmen to add coal to the hearth.”

  Isolde nodded her understanding. “I shall see to it all. You must rest; it is not wise f
or you to be from bed until you are well.” She noted the soiled gown on the floor and rushed to retrieve it.

  “Where is the baron?” Lady Swenton asked.

  “Here,” a deep baritone voice responded, and Isolde looked up to find Baron Swenton, who filled the still open door’s frame. “Mr. Cooper said you were ill, Baroness.” Isolde recognized the strain in what likely appeared to others as a calm countenance.

  Isolde started past him, but the baron touched her hand–only one finger moved against her skin, but she had felt his warmth in the base of her soul. “You will find the missing bottles in my quarters,” he whispered. “Use only enough to ease the baroness’s pain.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Why the whispers?” Lady Swenton said testily.

  The baron relinquished his touch as he stepped into the room. “I simply asked Miss Neville to quash any gossip among the servants,” he assured. Isolde knew his pronouncement was another request. “I thought I might keep you company while Miss Neville sees to your needs.”

  Isolde glanced to his backside. Tension rippled across his shoulder muscles. Without a doubt, the baron had learned something of import regarding his wife. His tone and his movements were calculated to assure and to calm his wife. Isolde had never known a man so in control of his emotions. Certainly, her brothers were always going off like fireworks. The fascination she held for everything Lord Swenton was both frightening and exhilarating at the same time.

  *

  Hours later, John sat slumped upon a chaise in the dimly lit drawing room. Long after the baroness had succumbed to the effects of the drug, he had sat upon her bed’s edge and simply gazed upon his wife’s countenance. It was more drawn than he had first thought. Not surprisingly, until yesterday, when he looked upon Satiné, John had seen the girl he had rescued upon the towering glass cone, but the woman resting in the baroness’s suite was no longer a girl. Satiné Swenton was a woman set upon destroying her future, as well as that of all those who cared for her.