Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
“Prohibit the taking of omens, and do away with superstitious doubts. Then, until death itself comes, no calamity need be feared.”
Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)
JULY 31, 1821
Twelve hours had passed, and Lily once again found herself seated in the breakfast room.
Alone.
Outside, the rain battered the windows, the heavens still weeping as they had done through the night. The sound was relentless—sometimes a steady rhythm, sometimes a sudden lash—as if the sky itself shared her unrest.
It took much to dim her generally buoyant spirits, but Lily had discovered that being startled by the sudden presence of the two Johns, coupled with her husband’s complete silence since she had fallen asleep in his arms on their wedding night, was quite enough to accomplish the task.
Add to that the dreary weather, and her hopeful mood had been entirely vanquished.
Sleep had evaded her, vanishing every time a floorboard creaked or the windowpanes rattled.
Each unfamiliar sound had startled her awake, heart pounding, despite knowing that Second John stood vigil nearby.
His muted pacing along the corridor did nothing to soothe her; rather, the soft, rhythmic footfalls added to the haunted quality of the night.
It was as though she had wandered into a ghost story, one in which she herself was the abandoned heroine.
Their first evening together had been perfect. A promise. A beginning.
And now her heart ached with disappointment.
She had enjoyed Brendan’s company more than she had dared to expect. She had enjoyed their tender intimacy. She had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that it marked the start of something meaningful, something shared.
But now?
She could not rid herself of the suspicion that he had left her to seek out someone else. Someone he had known before her. Someone polished. Sophisticated. Intimate with him in ways Lily could only imagine.
Perhaps their night together, which had felt magical to her, had merely been forgettable to him. Perhaps she was dull by comparison. She was unschooled in seduction, lacking the practiced confidence of a certain widow.
Perhaps she was being a ninny.
It has been a day and a half since I last saw my husband. Surely, I am permitted a touch of melodrama.
Lily let out a soft groan and leaned her head against one hand.
A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. At this point, even the presence of First John no longer moved her.
Her distress was plain, and she no longer cared who witnessed it.
It was exhausting to be observed, to live beneath constant surveillance like some sort of prisoner.
Last night, she had retreated to her room and shut the door against Second John.
She had tiptoed about her chamber, afraid to make noise, as though he might hear through the door.
This morning, she had risen beyond caring.
She could not pretend to composure forever, not while being ignored by her husband and shadowed by strangers.
She reached across the table and drew the small stack of news sheets toward her. Wesley had presented them when he showed her in, and Lily suspected it had been an act of sympathy. A thoughtful gesture, and one that had made her feel, if only for a moment, seen.
She sipped her tea and scanned the pages, willing her thoughts elsewhere. There was coverage of Town affairs, still abuzz with commentary on the coronation and King George IV’s latest appearances. A few items of political import followed, none of which held her attention for long.
Moving the top sheet aside, Lily reached for another. This one was of a more frivolous sort, one of those gossipy broadsheets she rarely read. She began to discard it when a single line caught her eye, halting her movement and nearly causing her to drop her tea.
Her hand trembled.
Setting the cup carefully onto its saucer, she pushed it away and bent over the page once more, reading the line again—slowly this time, though her heart was already racing.
Just yesterday, Lord F. and Lady S. were seen conversing intimately on a public street. Has the notorious widow taken back up with him, despite his recent vows to Miss A.?
Pain squeezed through her chest like a vise.
She released the sheet, letting it fall from her fingers, and dropped her head into her hands.
The tears she had been determined to contain rose fast and hot, escaping despite her best efforts.
Brendan had assured her that their marriage would be faithful.
What did the word intimately even mean in this context?
What had the observer seen? A touch? A smile?
How was she meant to interpret this?
“Lily?”
The voice, low and familiar, startled her.
She gasped, spinning in her chair and hastily wiping her cheeks.
Brendan stood in the doorway, rain-damp and travel-worn.
His cravat was wrinkled, his coat rumpled and speckled with mud.
His dark hair clung to his forehead, and water glistened on the shoulders of his coat.
“Brendan!”
“I must speak with you.”
He stepped inside, closing the door firmly behind him and leaving First John in the hall.
Without waiting for an invitation, he crossed the room and sank into a chair at the opposite end of the table.
His eyes alighted on the covered plate, and with clear relief, he yanked off his gloves and drew it toward him.
Soon, he was eating like a man who had not seen food in days, while Lily watched in silence, taut with emotion. She longed to demand answers. The urge to knock the fork from his hand and force him to speak was almost overwhelming. But she held herself still. Just barely.
“Where have you been?”
Her voice rang sharply in the sudden hush, for just then the rain outside had eased, leaving only the sound of her own breath and the clink of cutlery. But she welcomed the fire that surged through her. Anger, at least, gave her strength.
Brendan sipped his tea, his plate now clean. “I was questioning the other barons who attended the coronation.”
Lily blinked. That was not the answer she had expected. “What?”
“I was running down the lords who sat near my uncle to learn what they recalled. Lord Simmons was about to leave for his country seat, so I rode out to Chiswick to catch him. We started back late, but we were caught in the rain and stuck in the mud within an hour. With the horses too exhausted to continue, and no fresh ones to be found at such an hour, we slept in the carriage until dawn.” He yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Though I would not call it restful. Not with Stephen as my companion.”
Lily stilled. Stephen, the footman whose intentions remained uncertain. So Brendan had not only been delayed, but he had been wary, perhaps even in danger.
“Oh,” she breathed.
Brendan reached across the table and laid his hand gently over hers. His fingers were cool against her skin, and the gesture sent a shiver down her spine, as she reached a sudden understanding.
“My deepest apologies,” he said, voice low and sincere. “Believe me, Lily, I would have far preferred to spend the night at your side.”
She stared at his hand, her heart still uncertain even as her mind began to calm.
When her eyes lifted to his, she found him watching her with that warm, quiet look that had undone her the first time he had used it.
His brandy eyes were lit with something deeper than amusement, something close to tenderness.
“Oh,” she whispered again, this time with less pain and more wonder.
The anger that had sustained her all morning faded, replaced by the bashful warmth of remembered closeness.
Brendan brushed his thumb across her knuckles before reluctantly withdrawing his hand, leaning back with a sigh.
“Unfortunately, I do not think we shall be sharing evenings for the foreseeable future.”
Lily straightened, her expression sharpening like cut glass. “What does that mean?”
“It means …” Brendan hesitated, then drew a breath. “I want nothing more than to be with you. But I have been thinking that perhaps, for a little while, you should stay with your parents.”
“What?” She sprang to her feet, her voice rising in disbelief. “Are you trying to send me away?”
He shook his head quickly. “Certainly not. This is about protecting you. Until we know who killed the baron, I do not believe Ridley House is safe. After all you have done, I cannot risk something happening to you.”
She threw up her hands in exasperation. “I refuse to leave! I am not some helpless child. I can take care of myself.”
Brendan stood as well. In two strides, he was beside her.
Gently, he drew her into his arms. At first, she remained stiff, unyielding.
But he held her close, his face buried in her hair, drawing comfort from her nearness after such a long and wearisome night.
Her scent, warm and familiar, washed over him. A balm to a frayed spirit.
He leaned close and whispered, “If anything were to happen to you, Lily Ridley … I do not know what I would do.”
She softened. Slowly, her arms encircled his waist. She rested her cheek against his chest, and he felt the tension ease from her frame.
“Did something happen?” she asked quietly. “I was … I expected to see you when I awoke, but then you were gone. No one said a word, and I had two strangers trailing me all day.”
Brendan lifted his head. “You did not receive my note?”
She pulled back, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. “There was no note. I searched the house. I looked in every room.”
“I left it on the pillow beside you. Perhaps it slipped onto the floor?”
Lily let out a low, frustrated sound. “I thought you had vanished. I thought you had simply …” She broke off, collecting herself. “What did the note say?”