Chapter 4 #3
Her soft-spoken warning pierced the sluggish clouding of his thoughts. Julius knew she was right. He felt hollowed out, lightheaded. His limbs were like lead, yet unsteady.
“It is the brandy,” he muttered. “I shall eat and feel better.”
Audrey stepped to his side. Her cool hand settled over his, stilling the frantic motion of his fingers. The gentle pressure was firm yet calming.
“The needs of the patient outweigh any other considerations. You and I must take this one step at a time, so I shall collect the honey while you eat and Patrick helps you upstairs. I will be back to take care of you.”
A sudden wave of dizziness swept through him. He lurched slightly and braced his palm on the solid oak table. The wood felt stable, its smooth surface worn by decades of use. The grain swirled beneath his fingertips, offering something tangible amidst the swirl of his thoughts.
He was not himself. And deep down, he knew he could not do this without her. He needed her to stay.
“Markham House is on the way to the grocer,” he said finally, his voice hoarse.
Audrey tilted her head. “What of it?”
“I need you to deliver a note to a guest staying with the Duke of Halmesbury. He will want to know that I have narrowed the list of suspects in his father’s murder. For the safety of the others involved, they must know this information.”
Her brows drew together. She licked her lips, clearly considering the weight of his request. “I can deliver it, but I will need to be quick. Could I drop off the note with the servants so I can get back here in good time?”
“Agreed. Do you have paper and ink in that magic bag of yours?” Julius gave a faint nod toward her valise.
“Of course.”
Audrey crossed to the bench, her skirts whispering softly across the flagged floor. She bent over the well-worn leather bag, her fingers rummaging efficiently until she produced a modest notebook. Tearing a page free with practiced care, she passed it to him, along with a stub of lead pencil.
Then she turned to the birdcage and lifted the sodden starling with a delicacy that belied her tired frame. Sitting on the bench, she gently peeled back the damp linen and replaced the wrappings around its wing. Her movements were sure despite the worry etched in her features.
Julius bent over the page and began to write. His shirt was speckled with blood, and a few drops had found their way onto the paper. He dabbed at them with the cuff of his sleeve, wincing at the sight of the crimson stains, but he lacked the strength to begin again.
It is not Smythe. 1 of the other 3. Do not inform Peel until you hear from me.
- Traf …
Gadzooks! He could barely finish signing his own name.
The pencil wobbled in his grip as though the weight of the few strokes were beyond him.
His hand, normally so steady, now trembled with effort.
But once he had regained his strength, there remained a genuine possibility that he might identify the man responsible for this morning’s violence.
It would be premature for Brendan to contact the Home Office or to speak with Sir Robert Peel. Nay. His friends must wait.
Folding the paper with care, Julius held it out. “It is for Lord Filminster. He is the duke’s brother-in-law. The duke has trustworthy servants, so you may leave it with whomever answers the door.”
Audrey had been fastening her cloak while he was writing, drawing the hood up over her dishevelled coiffure. Returning to his side, she accepted the note and tucked it securely into her pocket with a pat.
“You must eat and drink before you go upstairs.”
He offered a grunt in reply, too exhausted to form words.
The heat in the room, the scent of hearth coal and vinegar, mingled with the lingering smell of roasted meat and eggs, all thickened the air around him.
When Rose placed the warm plate into his hands, the steam rising from it nearly made him weep.
Food!
Julius devoured the eggs with single-minded determination, sitting on the kitchen table like some unkempt barbarian.
But he could not bring himself to care. Had Rose not passed him the fork with her usual brisk efficiency, he might well have eaten them with his fingers.
The yolks were soft, slightly salted, and impossibly warm—a balm against the chill still working its way through his limbs.
Rose stepped aside, wiping her hands on the edge of her apron, and withdrew a large brass key from its depths. It gleamed in the hearth light as she held it out.
“This’ll allow you out the door by the mews.”
Audrey took the key, which looked enormous in her gloved hand—a hand that, only minutes before, had stitched a wound closed with calm, competent strength.
Julius watched her as she moved toward the back of the kitchen, her cape swinging around her ankles, the hem already drying from the earlier crossing. Her form, though slight, seemed to carry purpose with every step.
As his unexpected physician reached the threshold and opened the garden door to the cold beyond, he called after her, “Be careful. No one must see you!”
She turned just enough to glance back, her face framed by the hood, and smiled.
“I shall be but a ghost in the rain.”
And then she was gone.