Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“For heaven’s sake, Gentry, I hear you. But Miss Woolf has barely opened her eyes in two days.
It isn’t natural.” Gabriel pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, but it did little to ease the tightness behind his eyes.
Patience had never been his virtue. “There must be more to it than exhaustion.”
Gentry glanced at Miss Woolf sleeping peacefully in the poster bed, surrounded by plumped pillows and images of blasted peacocks.
The faint aroma of herbs lingered in the still air.
“You’d be surprised how often I’ve seen this.
A problem builds, the mind won’t rest, and the body gives out. She needs sleep more than medicine.”
“What about the mausoleum? She breathed in the rot when I opened the coffin.” Dust and a sour damp had risen as the lid shifted, clinging to their throats. They were so intent on recovering the valise that neither had shielded their mouths. “Or will you tell me miasma doesn’t cause disease?”
Gentry put a reassuring hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “You were only there a few minutes, though I wish to God you’d tell me why. And you said Miss Woolf felt unwell before she entered the crypt.”
“She complained of being hot, and she seemed unsteady.” Anger rose in him like an unstoppable tide.
She would not be in this state if she’d accepted his help sooner.
He had offered countless times. And what was in that damnable valise?
He’d give his right hand to know. “I suspect the long ride from World’s End didn’t help. ”
In the silence that followed, Gentry merely arched a brow.
“What?” Gabriel pressed. The man observed him as if he were a patient in need of dosing. His friends Dalton and Rutland would doubtless share the same concerns, which was precisely why he hadn’t told them, either. “I’ve broad shoulders, and we’ve been friends for over a decade. Speak your mind.”
“You rarely keep secrets, certainly not from me. You’ve burdens of your own, a matter that needs—”
“You refer to Miss Bourne’s sudden return.” Ten years spent praying for answers, and now he’d sooner see her crawl back beneath the stone.
Gentry’s gaze drifted to the woman lying still beneath the coverlet. “I mean you should examine why you feel compelled to take on Miss Woolf’s troubles.”
Gabriel could almost hear the unspoken concern beneath his friend’s calm tone. He knew what Gentry was thinking, that loneliness had driven him to take desperate measures. “My interest in Miss Woolf has nothing to do with my closest friends being married.”
“No? You spent three nights at Fortune’s Den last week.”
“And half the lords in London are still cursing my luck.”
“You’ve not done that in years. Not since—”
“Forgive me. Last I looked, I was a grown man of thirty.”
“Who, despite rampant gossip, doesn’t keep a harem of women lounging in the grand salon. If people discover Miss Woolf is staying here, she will have no choice but to leave town.”
Not if I marry her.
The retort burned on Gabriel’s tongue, but he swallowed it. Fate had mocked him once; he would not tempt it again. Miss Bourne had made a public fool of him, and he would not wake to find himself abandoned a second time.
“She needs help,” he said evenly. “She can’t tackle this problem alone. But we’ll wait until she recovers before we make any arrangements on her behalf.”
He understood Gentry’s need to make sense of this debacle. As a rational man, Gabriel should have questioned his own logic, too. But the moment Miss Woolf entered his thoughts, reason deserted him.
As if to prove the point, Miss Woolf moaned softly and shifted in her sleep.
The sheet slipped, the thin fabric of her nightgown drawing taut over the gentle rise of her breasts.
For a moment, Gabriel felt like the man people claimed him to be—a creature ruled by appetite.
Yet this woman stirred something that defied such definition, something that blurred the line between friendship and folly.
Gentry’s voice cut through the silence, sharper than usual. “Tell me you see this isn’t right.”
“Says the man who married his herbalist in my chapel to save her from being sold to the highest bidder.” He crossed to the bed and pulled the sheet higher to cover Miss Woolf’s modesty, his hand steadier than he felt.
The quip left Gentry verbally stumbling. “What are you saying? That you plan to marry Miss Woolf? When did you decide this? Was it when Miss Bourne entered the fray?”
“Be careful. You’re close to crossing a line, and you know how bloody-minded I can be.”
“Fine.” Gentry reached for his black leather case. “Give her barley water and let her sleep. A light broth when she wakes, nothing heavy. Keep her cool, and she’ll regain her strength.” He snapped the brass clasp shut. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
The tension was palpable.
“I’m not a man who keeps score,” Gabriel said. He was a man who valued loyalty above all else. “But I’ve stood by you in your darkest hour, risked my life more than once. I only ask that you trust my judgement now.”
Gentry’s gaze lingered on Miss Woolf before he inclined his head. “Others fear challenging you, but friendship grants me that privilege. Your welfare is, and always will be, my concern.”
The words cooled his temper. “When Miss Woolf wakes, she alone will decide what’s best.”
He was not about to dictate her choices. One man had already made her suffer enough, and he had no intention of doing the same.
“I would encourage her to contact her friends, particularly the countess. Let them know she is safe. They’ve been worried about her the last few days.”
“Certainly. In the meantime, reassure them all is well.”
But all was not well. A man meant to kill her, and Gabriel had no notion why. Her past was a blur, like a view through a misted window. Miss Woolf embodied everything he despised: secrets and evasions. Yet for all she withheld, he was already ensnared.
“There is something you can do for me.” Gabriel felt no shame in asking. “Miss Bourne’s aunt, Mrs Culpepper. Speak to her physician. What’s her prognosis? Is she expected to last the week?”
Gentry eyed him with a calculating expression. “Would you like me to learn more about Miss Bourne? Whether she seeks a reconciliation or something else? If you’re the real reason she’s come home?”
Gabriel’s mouth curved, but there was no humour. She had returned for the same reason she’d left—for money.
“No need. The moment she accepted my father’s bribe, she ceased to exist to me.” She could come crawling on bended knee, and he would not offer his hand. “Loyalty is the foundation for anything lasting.”
He had watched his parents’ marriage crumble like cracked plaster at the first whisper of adultery. He’d seen the craving for love wielded like a weapon of destruction. He refused to suffer the same fate. Better no love at all than a bond built on betrayal.
“I’ll call when I have news,” Gentry said, gripping his case. “Miss Woolf should begin to improve, but send for me at once if she develops a rash or a fever.”
Gabriel nodded. “Thank your wife for the tisane. I won’t ask you to lie, so tell her the truth.”
“I would if I knew what the devil is going on here.” Gentry gave an amused hum as he let himself out, leaving Gabriel alone with his thoughts and the woman who refused to leave them.
If only his friend knew he had spent two days staring at a battered valise, fighting the urge to pry it open and unearth its secrets. Or that he had ridden to town that morning to press the Archbishop into granting a special licence.
He moved to the end of the bed and watched Miss Woolf draw slow, even breaths. Something about the sound soothed him. Still, he whispered, “What is it you’re not telling me, woman?”
What did the blackguard want from her?
And where the blazes was he now?
The questions plagued him until a discreet knock broke the silence. Mrs Boswell entered, carrying a pitcher of water and a stack of clean towels.
“Still no improvement?” she said softly, setting the pitcher down and draping the linen over the rail. “Mr Gentry seems to think it’s exhaustion. Perhaps the herbs his wife sent will serve as a restorative.”
“Perhaps.”
What would he do if she never recovered?
He had not allowed himself to think that far ahead.
“I can sit with her for a while.” Mrs Boswell wet a cloth in the porcelain bowl and came to the bed, dabbing Miss Woolf’s forehead with the linen. “Have you tried moistening her lips with brandy? A little nip can do wonders for the constitution.”
“I daren’t risk hindering her recovery. And there’s no need to stay. I’m sure you have enough to contend with. I have nowhere else to be.”
Mrs Boswell schooled her expression, as she had the night she’d led him back to bed when he was ten and had stumbled upon his parents’ orgy.
“There’s a pile of unopened letters on your desk, along with the surveyor’s report from Eaton Chase.
And Mr Davies sent the accounts for you to review when you’re ready, my lord. ”
“They can wait.”
Neither spoke for several seconds. The silence stretched taut as a held breath.
He knew why.
“Have you news to impart, Mrs Boswell?”
His housekeeper smoothed the sheets and cast a furtive glance at the woman in the bed, as if Miss Woolf had the power to bring empires to their knees. “The chapel has been cleaned, as requested. Fresh flowers placed in the vases.”
Gabriel dipped his chin. “And you’ve informed the vicar I may need him at a moment’s notice?”
“Mr Collard knows that if he values your patronage, he will be on hand night or day.”
“Excellent. Though I sense your disapproval.” He lifted a staying hand before she spoke. “You fear this will end in disaster. That, despite all I have done to avoid past mistakes, I am blind to the dangers.”
“It’s not my place to pass comment, my lord.”
“Yet you know damn well I want to hear it.”