Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What was in the champagne?” Beatrice asked, her voice still rough from sleep.
Her throat felt raw, as though she had swallowed broken glass, and her mouth tasted of metal and something bitter.
Memory returned in fragments: the crowded musicale, Lady Pennington’s laughter, Isabella’s sharp wit, the strange buzzing that had begun at the base of her skull.
The room spun slightly as she tried to focus, her body feeling simultaneously leaden and weightless, as if she might float away if she didn’t grip the sheets beneath her fingers.
Sunlight filtered through a gap in the heavy curtains, falling across the bed in a narrow golden beam. It illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air and cast the rest of the chamber into shadow.
The familiar scent of her lavender perfume mingled with valerian, perhaps, or laudanum. Her nightgown clung to her skin, still damp with the last remnants of fever sweat.
She brushed a tangle of dark curls from her face, noticing the tremor in her fingers.
How long had she been unconscious?
The last clear memory was of Leo’s arms around her, his voice urgent in her ear as the world tilted and went dark.
Leo.
He turned away from the window, the morning light accentuating the sharp angles of his face. Dark shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and his cravat was loose, his usually immaculate appearance showing signs of a sleepless night.
The relief that flickered in his eyes was quickly masked by something cooler, more distant.
“Belladonna.” His voice was clipped, businesslike. “A small dose, thankfully. Dr. Morris believes you’ve survived the worst of it.”
Beatrice pushed herself into a sitting position, fighting a wave of dizziness. The sheets pooled around her waist as she leaned against the headboard, studying her husband’s rigid posture.
Something had changed.
The tenderness he had shown through the night, which she remembered in hazy fragments, had vanished with the dawn.
“I remember feeling strange after the champagne,” she said. “Then, everything became… blurred.”
Leo approached the bed but maintained a careful distance between them. “You collapsed. I brought you home immediately.”
“And you stayed with me.”
It wasn’t a question. Even through the fever dreams, she had felt his presence, his hand holding hers, his voice murmuring reassurances when nightmares threatened.
His jaw tightened. “It was the least I could do.”
“The least you could do,” she repeated softly, hurt blooming in her chest at his coldness.
Leo turned away, pulling the cord beside the bed with sharp efficiency. “You need food and water. The doctor said both are essential for your recovery.”
Before she could respond, he was already moving toward the door.
“I’ll inform the staff that you’re awake. Dr. Morris will want to examine you.”
“Leo—” Her hand reached for him, but he was already beyond her grasp.
“Rest, Beatrice.” His eyes met hers briefly, and what she saw there—guilt, fear, and something else she couldn’t name—made her breath catch. “We’ll speak later.”
The door closed behind him with quiet finality, leaving her alone with questions that multiplied by the second.
Leo paced the confines of Blackwood’s cramped office, tension radiating from his body. Rain drummed against the windows, matching the staccato of his footsteps.
“We’re close, Your Grace,” Blackwood assured him, spreading papers across his cluttered desk. “The physician’s testimony regarding the poison is damning. With the Duchess’s account of what she consumed at the musicale, we can establish a clear timeline.”
“And Westbury?” Leo demanded, pausing his restless pacing.
“We have men watching every port and every coaching inn. He’s still in London. I’d stake my reputation on it.” Blackwood’s weathered face hardened. “He thinks himself too clever to flee immediately.”
Leo’s hands clenched at his sides. “He nearly killed my wife.”
“And he’ll pay for it,” Blackwood promised. “But we need a few more days to tighten the noose. If we move too quickly, he might slip through our fingers.”
“I want him caught now,” Leo growled. “Before he can make another attempt.”
“I’ll do my best to catch him as quickly as possible, Your Grace.” Blackwood met his gaze unflinchingly. “We’ll have him, I swear it.”
Leo nodded tersely. “Good. I won’t have him threaten anyone else in my family.”
Rain had intensified by the time he returned to the townhouse, his greatcoat heavy with moisture.
Peters stepped into the room. “Your Grace, Her Grace has requested your presence in her chambers. She has been reading for some time and wishes to speak with you.”
Leo’s jaw tightened. He allowed himself a brief, tight-lipped acknowledgment and followed Peters up the polished staircase, each step measured.
Beatrice’s chambers were quiet, pale daylight filtering through the drapes. She sat in an armchair by the window, a book open in her lap. The faint crease of concentration on her brow drew his attention, and he felt a stab of guilt in his chest.
She should not have to summon him; he should be protecting her, shielding her from everything.
She looked up at his entrance, hope flickering in her eyes, quickly tempered with restraint.
“Leo,” she greeted softly.
He inclined his head, keeping his tone clipped. “You wished to see me.”
“I did,” she affirmed, closing her book. “How was your meeting with Mr. Blackwood?”
“Productive.” He kept his tone neutral, professional. “He believes they’re close to apprehending Westbury.”
“That’s good news.” She hesitated, then set her book aside. “Leo, is something wrong? You’ve been… different since that night.”
He turned away, unable to meet her searching gaze. “I should see to some correspondence.”
He felt rather than saw her flinch at his dismissal, but he forced himself to continue to the door.
Distance was necessary now. Distance to protect her, to ensure Westbury saw no further advantage in targeting her. No matter what it cost them both.
Once in the privacy of his study, Leo pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching rain transform the garden into a blur of green and gray. His reflection stared back at him, hollow-eyed and haunted.
The image of Beatrice collapsing in his arms, her skin burning with fever, her breathing shallow and uneven… it wouldn’t leave him, nor would the knowledge that his connection to her had made her vulnerable.
If she died…
Leo shook his head sharply, as if to dislodge the thought.
She hadn’t died. She would recover.
But a part of him felt like he had been too careless, too distracted to protect her. No, he couldn’t let that happen again. He had to sharpen his focus, to let the sentiment go.
For her sake. For her safety.
When darkness fell, Leo found himself in his chambers, the flickering candlelight reflecting off the polished wood and leather-bound books.
The servants had obeyed his terse instructions without question, filling the large, claw-footed tub with ice and water before discreetly withdrawing.
He stripped with methodical precision, folding each garment as though it mattered, and stepped toward the bath.
The cold hit him immediately, a shock that stole his breath and tightened every muscle. He submerged himself slowly, letting the icy water crawl up his calves, his thighs, and envelop his chest.
“Master the cold, and you master yourself,” his father’s voice echoed in his mind.
Leo closed his eyes, willing the clarity that had always accompanied the ritual to emerge.
This was penance for his failure to protect Beatrice, for caring too much, wanting too much, needing her beyond reason.
But even as his body submitted to the ice, his mind rebelled. Thoughts of Beatrice flooded his consciousness: her smile, the warmth of her presence, the light she had brought into his ordered life.
The clarity he sought remained elusive, submerged beneath emotions he could not name, a chaotic current he both feared and craved.
The next few days passed in a measured rhythm of recovery and quiet tension. Beatrice’s strength returned slowly, each step forward careful and deliberate, yet her mind remained restless.
Leo moved through the house with a relentless purpose, checking reports, speaking in clipped tones with Blackwood, his attention focused entirely on Westbury. He was present in body, but in every other way, he seemed elsewhere, locked in a pursuit that left no room for her.
Beatrice lingered in her sitting room after breakfast, the morning sunlight spilling across the polished floors.
She had not overexerted herself; Dr. Morris’s instructions had been followed with careful obedience. Yet her thoughts refused to remain idle. Every detail of the past days—the fear, the fever, Anna’s quiet bravery—kept pushing her forward, insisting that she act rather than wait.
She found herself moving toward the library, not for books, but for a chance to see Leo, to remind him that she existed outside his investigation. Her hand brushed along the banister as she descended, steady but not hurried, her agency balanced against her recovery.
“Your Grace?” Emilia’s voice called softly from the doorway.
Beatrice looked up, offering a small smile. “Yes?”
“A letter has arrived for you. From the Duchess of Windermere.”
She took the note, letting her fingers linger on the seal for a moment before breaking it.
Georgina’s hand was evident in every graceful loop and flourish, her words a balm and a reminder of the world beyond the confines of illness and investigation.
Beatrice refolded the note carefully, then glanced toward the hall, catching the sound of the front door opening. Footsteps fell with the familiar cadence of Leo’s stride, precise and unyielding.
Her chest tightened with determination. She stepped into the corridor, moving to meet him, careful not to impede his progress but unable to resist the pull to see him, to reach him in the small way she could.
“Leo,” she said gently, lifting her hand as if to touch his arm.
He barely glanced at her, already turning toward his study, papers in hand, his mind sharp with the hunt for Westbury.
“Beatrice,” he acknowledged, his voice low. “I need to review these reports. Westbury won’t wait for our convenience.”
Her hand lingered in the air, the faintest tremor of frustration brushing against her calm exterior. She had no desire to hinder him, yet the urge to be seen, to matter beyond the mission he had placed above all else, won out.
“I understand,” she said softly, letting her hand fall. “But… you’re here. I wanted to make sure you were safe, too.”
For a fleeting moment, his gaze flicked to her, a hint of warmth flashing across his features before the hunt claimed him again.
“I am,” he said, his voice clipped. “Focus on your recovery. That is all that matters right now.”
Beatrice exhaled, resisting the urge to argue, to insist. She could not defy the doctor, not yet, but she would not fade into the background either.
She would be present, quietly insisting on her place beside him, even if in small ways, until the moment he allowed himself to notice.