A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1)

by Hallie Alexander

She arched a brow. Were all women born with an ability to skewer, or did it come with motherhood?

  “Lying to me?” she added to the endless list of his sins.

  Was this about the chicken? He’d at least started with good intentions. There was a lesson in this he’d circle back to another time.

  With a hand on her hip, she waited for his answer.

  “I never said I couldn’t read at all. I said I couldn’t read. The difference lies between what is entirely humiliating as an adult, in my family in particular, and what a child can do that I can’t.”

  Henrietta set the bucket on the ground. Planting her fists on her hips, she cocked her head with her brow furrowing. He prepared himself for another round of battle. But instead of fighting, she deflated with a sigh and reached for his face. A whisper of fingertips across his stubbled jaw echoed with lust in his groin. “You can do so much more.”

  “I can . . .” He couldn’t finish his thought because her mouth formed a pout that had nothing to do with resentment. Which meant there was only one thing he should do.

  He kissed her. He brought his mouth down hard on hers. She released his jaw and gripped his shirt, twisting her hand into a fist. He slipped an arm around her back. She stepped closer and their bodies aligned, burning at all points of contact. He wanted more. He wouldn’t be satisfied until their naked bodies crushed together, pasted by arousal and sweat.

  Her clever tongue swept the seam of his mouth and licked the stubbled edge of his lips. She mewled at the sensation. She goddamn mewled.

  Restlessness and desire rumbled through him. He wanted to lay her on the table, lift her skirts, taste every inch of her, sink into her, lose himself in her. Make her howl with pleasure. A mewl wasn’t good enough for Henrietta Smith.

  He dragged his lips from her mouth. Dammit. They should stop. This wasn’t the time or the place.

  It was bloody fucking morning, and Shrupp would walk through the door and demand his breakfast any moment.

  She let go, and he felt like a paper lantern loosed to the sky without a tether binding him to the earth.

  “Dr. Nealy shall be here soon.” Her face was flushed, her lips gloriously swollen.

  “Right.” Foiled again by Nealy. He’d chosen to forget she’d made plans with the quack. If she still wanted to marry him, offering to assist in his rounds would either speed things along or cause a permanent rift. He knew which he was hoping for.

  Henrietta stepped back, righting her shifted bodice. In doing so, she might as well have stepped them back three weeks. Had they shared a night of passion? Was she ever mad at him? He remembered being mad at her, but not a lingering, lasting mad. More like momentary insanity.

  “I’ll be back tonight.”

  She pressed her hand to his shoulder and walked out of the kitchen, the bucket of dirty dishes and Marcus soon forgotten.

  ~ ~ ~

  By the time Henrietta, Sarah, and Dr. Nealy arrived at Bedloe’s Island by skiff, it was past midday. Sweat beaded under Henrietta’s shift, making her feel sticky and feverish. Annoyance gathered under her flesh. She wanted to be here as much as she wanted to relive her last months with her ungrateful, dying husband.

  Her chest tightened in its familiar way. Twisting her wedding band under her gloves, she forced herself to draw slow breaths. The brine of the river and muck of the marsh tinged the air. The stacked roofs and spires of Manhattan lay in the distance in a wash of gray and sunlight over the water. The shoreline of Bedloe’s Island shouldn’t have made her feel isolated like the walls of her house once did.

  She was not a prisoner here.

  With this reminder, the tension in her chest slowly eased.

  The island wasn’t large. At one end, a lighthouse warned sailors of the changing tides between the converging East River, Hudson River, and New York Bay, as well as the myriad islands speckled between the New York and New Jersey shores. At the other end of the island sat a large, squat building. It must have been the old quarantine station, now the prison. To the east, terrifyingly large warhorses grazed in a fenced-off pasture by a large barn. They were kept for their masters and ferried to shore as needed.

  Along the path that took them from the dock to the prison, an alarming number of rabbits gamboled in the grass. At least there weren’t troops parading with their insufferable fifes and drums here like they did in the lower streets of Manhattan. White gulls with black wings circled dizzyingly above on an air current. The smell of horses and hay baking in the sun increased the further from the docks they walked.

  They came to a quaint, old house with a meandering collection of wings, stories, and mismatched roofs. The sign read: War Office. Henrietta and Sarah waited outside as Dr. Nealy announced himself.

  The prison, a separate building, lay in shadow, though the sun beamed overhead. It was a neat trick of light and doom.

  When Dr. Nealy returned to them, they headed toward it. As they approached, the scent of illness and unwashed bodies, shrill cries and harsh banging assaulted their senses. Henrietta stiffened. Frown lines formed on Sarah’s usually placid face. Dr. Nealy looked as impassive as ever.

  Inside it was worse. The prison smelled like sewage-filled gutters. Screams rang in their ears. Rats bigger than the rabbits outside scurried in droves down the hall. She and Sarah drew closer, hands clasping tight. Beneath the screams, there was a constant roar of thunder vibrating through the floors and walls. The guards led them to a set of wood doors.

  The bottles of medicines in Henrietta’s basket rattled with her shaking hands. She tightened her grip and cursed herself, not for the first time today, for having agreed to this. And she cursed Dr. Nealy and Sarah too, because they were dedicated and reverent, and she was not. Further, she cursed Marcus because she had something to prove to him, to society, to her awful uncle. She didn’t want this. And she didn’t want Dr. Nealy.

  The doors to the ward opened and Henrietta couldn’t believe the number of men filling the space. Cots set up along the walls, and a dozen down the center aisle were occupied by two or three men each.

  “Might as well start here. They’re the sickest lot.” The guard gestured to another. “Jones here’ll guarantee your safety. Right, Jonesie?” He patted the other guard on the back. Jonesie scowled, offering little in the way of confidence. More guards arrived, allowing each of them an escort.

  By the time two hours passed, their supplies were running low. Henrietta was sitting with an older man and cleaning his festering wound. Today, she followed whatever advice Dr. Nealy offered without argument. Gone were her debates over honey and bee balm. If Dr. Nealy insisted dog tongues were the cure for festering wounds, she’d apply them with an attentive touch. Thankfully, the remedy was an ointment made from herbs she’d use herself.

  “This smells like the queen’s arse.” The prisoner, whose name she learned was Timothy Rudd, sniffed his arm and twisted his leathery face.

  “Like the devil’s shite, begging yer pardon, missus.” Noah Edgar, a prisoner with a persistent cough, like many of the others, doffed his nonexistent hat.

  Henrietta laughed. The lighthearted sensation was startling after hours of intensity. The pot of brown cream slipped from her greasy fingers and fell to the floor.

  Retrieving it, she gave it an experimental sniff. “It’s not that bad. I rather like it.” They stared at her in disbelief. The ointment smelled woodsy and earthy, like a river cutting through an old forest amid regrowth. “Well, at the least, I can’t smell the lot of you when this is at hand.”

  In the space between uttering the insult and anticipating their reactions, time ceased to exist.

  ’Tis a lady’s place to smooth the rough edges in a room, not create a ripple for others to trip upon.

  Who taught her this lesson? Was it her mother, who would have told her gently, or Sam, whose scolding
s grew crueler the worse he felt?

  A loud bark belted between them, followed by hearty laughter and backslapping. Time sped up and snapped back into place.

  Henrietta wiped her brow with the back of her hand. She felt a cool streak of ointment leaving a tingling sensation on her skin.

  “Oh!” Henrietta shrieked. “It is awful.” She giggled with them.

  When their laughter settled, a harsh coughing belted from the other side of Mr. Edgar, shaking their shared cot. The man’s back bowed and shuddered as he worked through a fit.

  There was only a small amount of tisane left in Henrietta’s basket.

  “Mr. Rudd, you’ll do for now.” She patted his arm gently over the bandage. “Who is he?”

  Mr. Edgar peered at his cot-mate. “Didn’t catch the lad’s name. He’s a bit poorly by the sound of it.”

  The man was tall with fiery red hair, hanging lank and greasy around his shoulders. A scar ran from his brow, over his eyelid, and down his cheek. He looked terrifying.

  Henrietta spared a glance at Jonesie standing to the side. He gave her a shrug, conveying he didn’t know who the prisoner was.

  Henrietta moved to the other side of Mr. Edgar. The red-haired man’s eyes were bloodshot and dull. She dug a flask from her basket and passed it to him. “Drink this.”

  He waved the flask away. “The others need your help more.”

  A lock of hair clung to his cheek. She pushed the vibrant bronze strands out of the way. “You must have a hundred sweethearts worried over you.”

  He cleared his throat, eyes fluttering closed. “A hundred and one.” Dragging his long body to sitting, he made it as far as slumping against Mr. Edgar, who hardly took notice as Mr. Rudd regaled him with a story.

  “What is your name?” Henrietta asked.

  His shoulders curled in on themselves through another coughing fit. This time, when she pressed the flask into his hand, he took it.

  Fevered heat rose from his flushed skin, burning her palm before she made contact with his brow. Henrietta lost whole minutes thinking of the familiarity of the scene with her daughter while this man, this stranger, struggled for breath. She found herself eye to eye with him, gasping for air but for different reasons.

  “Maybe you need a sip?” He offered her the flask.

  Henrietta blinked away the fog of memories, so strong were they, she swore she was sitting beside Willow, jumping both time and distance, life and death. A shiver overcame her. “Maybe I should, later. This is for you, now.”

  He tilted his head and swallowed. Then he braced an arm against his knee, bottle dangling from his hand, and struggled to catch his breath. “Call me Ash.”

  “Ash.” Henrietta stilled. Short for Asher. He was a similar age to Marcus. If he were solid and strong, he’d fit in with him, Augie, and the dashing Captain Turk. She could practically see them together, arguing and building something that would no doubt infuriate her uncle to no end.

  Had she inscribed this man’s fate with her ink? Or had she saved him from a worse fate by omitting his name?

  She pressed her hand to her churning stomach.

  “Are you unwell, madam?”

  She blew out a breath. “Are you a friend of Marcus Hardwicke’s?”

  He stared at her hard. His eyes reflected the wash of gray light coming through the filthy windows. “Aye?”

  “As am I.”

  He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was meant to be on a ship. He should have been hale. Moreover, had she thought it possible to find him here, she would have come prepared. With a letter or something, not with a basket full of guilt and not enough medicine.

  “How long have you been here?”

  He scratched his fingers through his dirty hair. “I don’t know. A day? A week?” His voice was rough, worn from sickness.

  Marcus couldn’t have known. Or if he did, he hadn’t told her. But why would he? Why would he trust her when her hands were dirtied by the ink of her uncle’s letters? She folded them into the pleats of her skirts. As if she could hide her shame.

  “Don’t drink it all at once. Save some for later when you need more.” Henrietta stood. Realizing Marcus might not trust her hurt like a blade to her heart, and she wouldn’t, absolutely couldn’t, think about it here. Not in a room full of greater misery.

  “Wait.” He caught the edge of her basket with his hand. “You’re Marcus’s girl?”

  She didn’t know what he meant by that. She wasn’t his lover. Not in truth. Once didn’t count. Nor was she sent by him. “My name is Mrs. Henrietta Caldwell. Mr. Caldwell passed a year ago. He was the Colonel’s nephew.”

  A muscle bunched in Asher’s jaw. She knew this piece of information would undermine any goodwill she’d offered thus far. But it was the truth. It was who she was. “Marcus fell off my roof some weeks ago and broke his ankle. He’s been staying in my home.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “He rarely has to work so hard for a woman.”

  She let this go. “Yes, well, that happened about the same time the colonel sent a soldier to quarter in my home.”

  “And the two get along?” Asher choked on a laugh.

  Henrietta risked being inappropriately forward and rubbed his back. She owed this man whatever he needed.

  “Not at all. In fact, I hope they are both alive when I return.”

  A whistle tore through the ward. The prisoners settled to a hum. “Time’s up!” shouted a guard.

  Henrietta looked around for Sarah and Dr. Nealy and spotted them gathering their things at opposite ends of the room.

  “Thank you.” Asher drew her attention back.

  Guilt milled inside her. He shouldn’t thank her. Coming to his aid was the least she could do.

  “I am sorry to have met you under these circumstances. I—” She broke off. What could she say? His imprisonment wasn’t her fault, and yet acting as her uncle’s secretary placed his orders in her hands.

  These were foolish thoughts. He’d have found someone else if she had refused, and she’d be destitute. Asher would still be imprisoned and ill, and maybe without any help at all.

  “Thank you for coming.” Asher lay back on the cot, eyes fluttering closed.

  Outside, Henrietta, Sarah, and Dr. Nealy took a moment to gather themselves before proceeding to the skiff to take them back to Manhattan.

  A spray of blood marred the white stock at Dr. Nealy’s throat. He stood more rigid than usual. The grim lines of his face furrowed deeper than usual.

  “Dr. Nealy, thou must have had quite an experience.” Sarah motioned to the stain on his stock. She looked away, cheeks pinkening as she spoke. “I might clean it for thee if thou desires.”

  Ruddy patches colored Dr. Nealy’s cheeks. “That would be most kind.” He spared a flitting glance at Henrietta. “Well, you’re both alive and unscathed.” He smoothed his hands down the front of his coat. “Let’s away, shall we?”

  Chapter 18

  Henrietta waved off Dr. Nealy’s carriage, her mind turning to the glass of brandy she’d sip in the relative silence of her parlor. Sure, she had work to do. The floor wasn’t going to sweep itself, nor would the dusting rags dance across her mantel of their own volition. The image of them tickling the face of her mother’s clock and the loud sneeze the satyrs would bark made her laugh aloud. Did satyrs bark? They were more goatlike, and goats made a phtit-phtit sound when they sneezed.

  “Finally, you are home.” Uncle Caldwell’s voice carried from the parlor.

  Sparks of irritation shot down her spine, destroying her frivolous thoughts of goat sneezes.

  “I was about to ask one of my men stationed out front to send a message of your return.”

  Henrietta stood in the doorway to the parlor, trying to untangle his threat and
calm her beating heart. “Whyever would you do that?”

  Shafts of late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows, leaving behind a gray bath of light. Despite her exhaustion, the realization that her uncle had been spying on her caused a fresh wave of bitterness to rise as the last remnants of her privacy faded before her eyes.

  Uncle Caldwell remained seated as she dutifully approached, leaned over, and brushed a kiss against his cheek. A sickening feeling sank in her stomach.

  “I told Sergeant Shrupp and Mr. Hardwicke how long I’d be gone. If anything, I’ve arrived somewhat earlier than expected.”

  He shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Neither are here at the moment.”

  “Neither?” Henrietta listened for them, hearing only her clock and her uncle’s breathing. “Where did they go?”

  “That man you were harboring against my better judgment is a rebel. I don’t have the evidence to hang him for a spy, but when I do, I shall. Sergeant Shrupp arrested him today.”

  Henrietta staggered. The room tilted. “What?”

  “Have you any idea why I wanted Shrupp quartering here?”

  To plague her? Embers smoldered in her chest. “For my protection, you said.”

  “Among other reasons. Sit.” He held out his hand, inviting her to sit beside him.

  She could almost taste the brandy’s spices and the heady, fruity depths, the initial fire down her throat, and the warm glow in her belly vanquishing her mood. However, it would have been the height of impropriety for her to pour herself a glass without offering him one as well. She didn’t want him comfortable enough to stay. Instead, she sat and crossed her ankles beneath the chair and seethed.

  Her uncle picked lint from his knee. “As you may be aware, Sergeant Shrupp is with Butler’s Rangers. One of their primary concerns is exposing underground spy networks.”

  “And?” she said, grinding her molars to powder.