I stood on my second attempt.
A momentary win.
The noise in both my ears made me fall back. I crashed onto the mattress, headfirst.
“Dearest? You’re awake.” Jemina helped me sit, then hugged me. “You do remember me?”
“Yes. I remember.”
Jemina kissed my forehead. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t. Your nightmares were so vivid, I didn’t think you’d be free. Not everyone can keep their memories.”
I put her hand to my heart. “We widows have lost enough. No more. It wasn’t smart to do what I did to save the duke, but I had to.”
“It was better than smart. It was brave. The poor duke was shaken. He’s very concerned about you. It’s why we are in the room connected to his.”
The connecting bedchamber.
The room that would have been mine if Colin hadn’t insisted I have the best bedroom. It didn’t mean he’d stay, but that was the love he could give.
My foggy thoughts were too fluid, drifting in too many directions. I clutched the bedpost to keep from swaying. “Where’s Lionel?”
“He went to sleep an hour ago. Your baby’s fine. Lady Shrewsbury stayed with him as her physician made sure you were well. The duke took over his care and has had your son ever since.”
The duke was well enough to care for Lionel. My crazed action had helped.
The notion brought me some comfort, but my head raged. My stomach felt wobbly and readied for a revolt. I forced air in, in and out, in and out. “I need to see . . . see Lionel. Lionel needs me.”
“He’s well.” Jemina bounced up and grasped my arm and kept me upright. “The duke is like a father returned from war, not letting his babe out of his sight. The countess had to defer to him.”
Repington could have been badly maimed by the heavy chandelier. He could’ve died, and I’d have let another man suffer. Not again. “I acted. I didn’t think of much else. I knew I had to help.”
“Patience, he might’ve not been hurt, and you could have escaped with Lionel in the confusion. Lady Shrewsbury would’ve let you go. Instead, you risked your life.” Jemina put her face close to mine. “Why? Why take such risks?”
My shoulders rose before I could stop them.
I looked down at the bandages on my hand. The cut underneath stung, but not as bad as the daggerlike feeling to my chest when I saw the chandelier fall. “The duke’s a good man. He didn’t deserve to be hurt. I could’ve helped my husband, but I waited for him to ask. I can’t sit around anymore waiting for words. Does that make sense?”
Jemina nodded. “Perfect sense. You always act with your heart.” She helped me stand and take a step. “Is your heart telling you to act for the duke?”
I couldn’t admit it. I wanted to run, but the room spun. Jemina was my anchor. “The man is irritating. He’s full of rules and schedules, but he has been nothing but kind to Lionel. It’s only been a few weeks, and he’s shown more love to my son than any man. I’m grateful. I had to help.”
“It’s fine to admire the duke. He’s handsome and polite.”
Polite?
That wasn’t the way I’d describe him. He was terribly handsome, awfully rule-conscious, painstakingly diligent. My heart melted to a dripping puddle when he sang to Lionel or made plans for him. “I need to get my son back before this goes any further.”
Following close behind, Jemina hovered as if she thought I’d fall. With my stomach lurching, I just might.
We reached the adjoining door, but I couldn’t go through that one. I couldn’t have Repington looking at me like some sort of bridegroom in the bed that used to be mine.
I pushed away and wobbled to the hall. “We’ll go in through the main door. It will be more private if they are both asleep.”
The dim light of the hall made my vision worse. The ache in my skull intensified with each step, but I pressed forward. I had to see Lionel.
Easing the door open, I saw my boy’s crib. It gleamed next to the wide bed, but he wasn’t inside.
My heart would seize, but it was too tired from all the upset and the drummer beating on my head.
The duke, the back of him—thick, touchable hair, more brown in the candlelight—sat in his wheeled chair. In the crook of his arm, Lionel’s patch of curls peeked out.
My son wasn’t crying but making that sucking sound with his gums.
“Come on, young man. Just a few more sips. That’s an order.”
The duke’s deep voice was a whisper.
“Not quite what you’re used to, son? This cold pap dish with warmed milk isn’t a woman. It’s not flesh. Not the plump bosom of a vibrant soul. Oh, there I go prattling away. But the stories we’ll share when you are older, I can offer advice about choosing ripe melons.”
He chuckled.
I wanted to box his ears.
Then I wanted to hug them both.
“Lionel, maybe you could share a thing or two since you’ve tasted such goodness. What a surprising woman your nanny is? The beautiful minx. One minute, exasperating. The next, not so. I’d like . . . I’m going to have to save this talk, too.”
Lionel’s hiss sounded louder. Maybe he disapproved of someone talking about his mother like that, like a woman to be desired. One of flesh and blood and yearnings.
Yes. The duke needed to save that talk.
I pushed Jemina out of the room. I had to be gone before my face burned with fever.
“Sorry, I guess Lionel doesn’t need me.”
“Of course he does, but he’s fine. Now go back to bed and rest.”
“How can I? The duke is growing more attached to Lionel. He’ll not let us leave.”
“Is that a bad thing? I see how you blush, how you stare at the duke. I lost a lot, but some things are unforgettable. My thinking is addled sometimes, but I see that there’s something between you and him.”
My friend had such an innocent expression, but my head wasn’t innocent. It was covetous, thinking of Repington, admitting I wanted his kiss. And hoping he wanted mine.
But I told myself no. There was nothing but heartache that came with Englishmen. Colin left us with his depression. The duke would abandon us for war.
“I’m done with this masquerade. Let’s get my trust documents. I’ll admit to who I am and leave this place ready to buy passage on a ship for you and my son.”
“A boat? Journey across the sea?” Jemina’s face became dour, her easy smile fading. A memory must’ve returned to her. It couldn’t be good.
“We’ll sort everything later. Now we must go to the drawing room.”
I turned and wobbled to the stairs. My vision spiraling, my nausea whirling, but I made it down to the grand hall.
It was quiet.
Wall sconces were lit, but the shadow of the chandelier was absent.
My heart sunk.
I’d lost a dear friend. The grand chandelier—the sparkle of crystals, the smoky silvered globes, the ebony iron limbs—it was the first thing to greet me coming to Hamlin. The last thing I saw when Markham carted me away.
Jemina put a hand to my shoulder. “You’re not well. You’re not thinking clearly. Remembering what is lost is never helpful.”
“But I do remember. I remember my life. This was my house for four years. That man upstairs will know tonight.”
“And then what? We haven’t proven that Markham tricked you and sent you to Bedlam. We’ve found nothing to show a conspiracy.”
“I don’t care anymore.” I took a candle from a sconce and stole into the drawing room. I lit up this darkened place. No more shadows. No more lies. No more thinking that all of this was a nightmare.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror.
I was pale.
My hair was down and wild.
And in my eyes, I saw a coward’s stare. I kept blaming myself, blaming Colin, kept circling the poison of our union in my heart, my soul.
It was easier to stay stuck, to keep reliving the past.
; Neither the duke nor Colin was responsible for me being moored in one place. I was my crutch. I needed to be free.
“Jemina, you don’t have to stay. You can go back to bed.”
“I’m with you, Patience.” The girl moved to the polished gilded frame. “This is crooked. It must’ve jostled when the chandelier fell.”
She put her hands to the frame, but it wouldn’t straighten.
That was the mirror Markham had touched before being tossed out of Hamlin.
I turned away from the desk. “Let’s take it down. The nails might be coming undone. Or it might be hiding what we’ve hunted.”
On the count of three, we lifted it from the wall. A small compartment door was now exposed.
I’d never seen it before, but Hamlin was a house built with secrets. “This must be what Markham’s after.”
Jemina started prying the slotted door opening. “One way to find out.”
We tugged together. Soon, the heavy door made a loud noise like its hinges opened a crypt.
“Oh no,” Jemina said. “That’s loud enough to wake everyone.”
Someone would come.
I knew how voices and noises carried in Hamlin. “Then we must hurry.”
Hoping not to be bitten by one of those furry spiders, I slid my hand inside the dark vault.
I found letters, not insects.
The ones I’d sent to my sisters, my father. All were here.
Colin never sent them.
I flipped through them. They’d been opened, read, then carelessly creased and closed.
I’d lost contact with my sisters and my father these past four years. My husband had kept my letters. He didn’t think my words were worthy to be sent. How could you, Colin?
“Patience, what is it? And what is that? It’s a book.”
My face must seem so troubled. I hid within myself, something I’d learned to do on these shores. “Jemina, I’ll get it.”
I pushed past the dozens of letters, even fought the stinging of my eyes and drew out a book. The leather thing was brown with a torn spine. Stuck in its gold leaf pages was my final letter to Colin.
I set the book into Jemina’s hands, but the letter I kept. My heart pounded as I unfolded it.
The paper was stained with tears, old ones from the day I penned it. And new ones leaking now from my eyes.
My clever handwriting, the curly script of my d’s—dearest, disappointment, don’t.
All my words, all my heart—my wanting to leave him, my needing to go home, my hurts—all stared at me.
I felt the same, except I wished he’d been strong enough to hear me. I wished this hadn’t pushed him into the Thames.
I killed Colin. Here was the proof.
He was ill. Why else would he try to keep me away from everything?
Jemina was on the floor flipping through the pages of the book. “This makes no sense.” She counted her fingers. “No one would do this.”
“What didn’t Colin do?”
“These are IOUs in your husband’s name and Markham’s.”
“Yes. They owed money. We knew this.”
“But these have been canceled.” She lifted the vowels to me.
These debt markers had indeed been marked paid. “The papers indicated a man named Sullivan canceled them. How much debt? Is Hamlin encumbered to this Sullivan?”
“Still adding.”
Jemina’s fingers of both hands were involved. She’d have a sum in a moment or two.
“Patience, it’s at least 2,804 pounds, all paid by an A. Sullivan.” She stood next to me and pointed to entries in the book. “The debts are tied to Grapes, Brooks, Watiers, and Piccadilly. What are those? And look at the list of men’s names, varying amounts, and then this Sullivan’s mark.”
Why was Colin keeping a diary on this man? And why did that name Sullivan—A. Sullivan—sound familiar?
My dream. The voices. The ones condemning, threatening Colin—was one of the accusers this A. Sullivan?
Nauseous, dizzy, I tried to reason why Colin would have such records, but then I looked in the compartment at my letters, my unsent letters to my family. Maybe there was no reason. Maybe Colin was simply unwell.
“Patience, I see you. I see the fear in you. This diary and these canceled IOUs have to be what Markham wants. A. Sullivan would know. The Widow’s Grace must find him.”
In my heart, I knew this Sullivan person was the key. But my heart was never a good judge of anything.
Jemina took the diary from me. “Let’s put the mirror back. We’ll study this in our room.”
I was swimming again, trying to wake up from this new nightmare. “I don’t know the man I married. Why would he have so much debt, and why would this man he tracked pay for it?”
“Extortion. Sounds like this diary was enough to convince this man Sullivan to pay off the debts.”
My friend was guessing, but she was good at puzzling things. Colin an extortioner? That made no sense, but Markham . . . that sounded right. “His evil uncle would do it and trick Colin into helping.”
“If we locate this A. Sullivan, we could ask him. He would admit to how much your husband was involved.”
That didn’t sound like a good plan. I didn’t want to hear of Colin’s duplicity. He was my son’s father. There had to be some good in him. I rubbed at my temples, my renewed headache. “I know what the man who came here and threatened my husband looks like. I think he was called Sullivan. If we find him, I know he’ll admit that Markham was the mastermind.”
Jemina caught my hand. “If we can’t, the fact that Markham incurred so much debt might be enough to sway the Court of Chancery. He locked you away because you knew he gambled, and he didn’t want you to tell and remove him as guardian.”
It made sense, except that Repington was the guardian, not Markham. “My baby’s father can’t be a criminal.”
“Perhaps. But this book has to be what Markham wants.”
Flipping to the last pages, I scanned the final figures and dates. The last entry was dated a month before his suicide, a few days before I gave him my letter. “Sullivan is the key to everything.”
Footsteps.
Jemina tugged my wrist. “Someone’s coming. Help me put the mirror back, Patience.”
I tossed my awful letter into my pocket, then we forced the squealing door closed.
When we lifted the mirror back into place, we couldn’t get it straight. It tottered on the nails.
Jemina collected the IOUs, stuck them into the diary. “We must—”
The door swung open.
The duke and one of his soldiers stood there.
I wasn’t sure if he was going to toss me and Jemina out.
But I didn’t care.
I’d been through too much to be scared.
I looked in those seeking eyes of Repington’s and wasn’t afraid. Too much was at stake.
CHAPTER 19
BE A LITTLE WEAK
Busick waved his soldier out of the room. “I can handle this disturbance. Get some sleep, man.”
He tried to appear calm, and even waited for the fellow to leave before he reprimanded his remaining troops, his female troops.
The door behind him closed.
He leaned on his crutch and folded his arms against his brocade robe. His sleeve had pap-milk stains from his noncompliant troop upstairs.
“Mrs. St. Maur, I thought I asked you to alert me when Mrs. LaCroy awakened.”
“I . . . I . . .”
LaCroy swept in front of the other widow.
Exactly what he would expect the superior officer to do. “I’m responsible. I wanted to come down and write.”
“We were talking about paper before . . . You need to write now?”
“Yes.”
Her pale pallor made him fearful for her health. He stepped closer. “Woman, do you feel well?”
She put her hands to her temples. “Yes, Your Grace. A headache.”
She didn’t make m
uch sense, and if he could, he’d sweep her up into his arms and carry her to bed. “LaCroy, does the physician need to return?”
“No. Yes. I need Lady Shrewsbury. Send St. Maur for her. Please, Jemina, go to her.”
He couldn’t deny the request. LaCroy’s healthy olive skin looked very gray, even green. The good woman had risked her life for him. He owed her everything. “You want Lady Shrewsbury, you shall have her. St. Maur, dress and have someone send for a carriage.”
Mrs. St. Maur stooped in a low bow with her hands behind her. The demure miss came from LaCroy’s shadow and backed to the door. “Yes, sir. I’ll run now.”
Arms folded under her thick shawl, she fled the room.
Busick returned his gaze to LaCroy.
The look on her face was unreadable. Her hair was loosed, full of tight curls. Not the orderly lady, so neat and tidy. Not the woman he was used to seeing.
More mesmerizing than ever.
Pallor aside, she seemed calm and in control. Yet, a smidgeon of him wanted her to break, to come to him with need, asking for advice, seeking him to make things better. “You’ve too many secrets in your eyes.”
“Perhaps, you shouldn’t look.” She slipped to the sofa and leaned against it. “If you’re finished with your questions, I should go lie down and wait for the countess.”
“Sit here and wait for her. I won’t risk you growing dizzy and toppling over the stairs. I won’t be so lucky a second time that you’d be mostly unharmed.”
Her lips tugged to a brief smile then drooped again.
“Why is it you seem one step ahead of everyone? Ducking in and out of Hamlin. Detecting my injury. Noticing the chandelier.”
“Lucky, I guess.”
He moved closer, her scent of lavender and liniment hinted at her enticing femininity and her bravery. “That kind of luck will get you killed. I wanted to see you when you awakened. I needed to thank you.”
Her eyes squinted as she peered up at him. Then, she touched the bruise on her forehead. “We did peek at you, but you were busy, Your Grace. You were instructing your ward on melons.”
“Oh”—he rubbed at his neck—“that would be awkward for you to interrupt. Melon selecting . . .” Maybe Busick did hit his head.
“You’re very good with him, but that’s not new. We spend too much time together in the nursery for you not to know how much I think of you and Lionel.”
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