Chapter 25
It was well past midnight by the time Miles returned to St. James’s Square. The house was dark except for the dimmed gasolier Mrs. Bright had left on for him in the hall.
He climbed the stairs to his room. He had to wash and change to rid himself of the stench of the slum. And then—
He wanted to see Nell. He needed to see her, even if it was only to catch a glimpse of her sleeping form beneath the covers of her bed. He wouldn’t be able to calm himself otherwise.
It had been years since Miles had engaged in a fight.
He was no longer used to the aftereffects.
The cold sweat. The delayed exhaustion. The ache in his hands and the sudden bursts of pain wherever Silas’s fists had managed to deal him a glancing blow.
Blows Miles hadn’t even felt at the time—he’d been too full of rage to feel anything but his own blood lust.
He passed the door to Nell’s bedchamber on the way to his own. No light shone from beneath it. She would have gone to sleep hours ago. Mrs. Bright had mentioned something about a poultice and a special tea.
Exhaling heavily, Miles opened the door to his own unlit bedroom. He entered, shutting the door behind him. He shed his hat, coat, and gloves, and was in the process of unknotting his cravat when he heard the strike of a friction match.
A flame blazed forth, illuminating Nell in the darkness. She was seated in the upholstered wing chair beside his bed.
Miles froze where he stood.
Nell lit a taper candle on the small table beside her before wafting out the match. Her countenance was inscrutable. “Good morning,” she said.
Miles swallowed hard. “Good morning.”
Nell didn’t rise from the chair. She was in her dressing gown, her hair disposed in a plait over her shoulder, and her right arm still in its makeshift sling. A quilted blanket was draped across her legs.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked.
“Waiting for you.” She motioned to a collection of medicinal implements on the table. “I have a jar of salve and a roll of bandages. There was a can of hot water, too, but it’s gone cold by now. I’ve been waiting for some time.”
“Nell—”
“He’s not dead, I trust?”
“No.”
“And he didn’t see you?”
“No.”
“Well, then.” Her rigid expression relaxed a fraction. “Come here, if you please. I would come to you, but my leg is being uncooperative after sitting for hours in this chair.”
A sharp twinge of guilt constricted Miles’s chest. He crossed the room to Nell. Rather than remain standing, he sank down on his knees in front of her, bringing their eyes level. “How did you know?”
“I’ve been a teacher for many years. I have a sixth sense when mischief is afoot.”
“Mischief?” He gave a hollow laugh. “You do have a way of taking the heroism out of it.”
Nell lifted her hand to smooth the rumpled hair from his brow. Her fingertips were cool and gentle. Infinitely soothing. “I didn’t need you to be heroic,” she informed him. “But I understand the impulse.”
Miles bowed his head to her touch. Some of the tension went out of him. “Do you?”
“I was responsible for Miss Brent,” she said. “And you—well, I daresay you feel you’re responsible for me.”
“I am responsible for you.”
“Because I’m your wife.”
“Yes.”
But that wasn’t all. It wasn’t even the largest part of it. His overpowering sense of protectiveness for her had nothing to do with any antiquated notions about ownership, duty, or property. It was something dearer. More important.
“And because you’re my friend,” he said.
Nell’s gray eyes were solemn in the candlelight. She wasn’t angry, but otherwise…it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. “Friendship is a powerful thing.”
“It seems so,” he said.
Powerful enough that he’d do anything to keep her safe. To make her happy. Powerful enough that he was beginning to have difficulty imagining his life without her.
She dropped a glance downward. “Let me see your hands.”
He reluctantly presented them to her. He’d been wearing gloves when he’d pummeled Silas, but they’d had no padding in them. His knuckles were raw, and a few of them bleeding.
Nell examined them in the candlelight, unflinching. “You must soak them before I apply the salve and bandages,” she said. “If you don’t mind cold water. I’d hate to trouble the servants for another can of hot.”
“I don’t mind,” Miles said. But he didn’t move to the basin. Too weary to consider the wisdom of it, he leaned forward and rested his head in her lap.
Nell stiffened beneath him in surprise. But only for an instant. In the next, she was relaxed again, her body wondrously soft against his cheek beneath the layers of her blanket, and her voluminous nightgown and robe.
Miles breathed her in. The scent of candle flame and clean linen, and a fragrance that was distinctly hers—some heavenly combination of gardenias, warm skin, and woman.
Peace followed with it. He didn’t know what tomorrow or the next day would bring.
But right here, right now, he knew beyond all doubt that this was where he belonged.
Nell’s fingers threaded through his hair. Her voice was pure velvet—husky and soft. “Mrs. Bright says you didn’t sleep last night.”
“I slept.”
“In a chair by my bed?”
“No place I’d rather have been,” he murmured.
She continued stroking his hair. “Must I do the same tonight? Keep vigil over you?”
“On no account.” In a moment, he would get up and carry her to her own room. She didn’t need to remain here to treat his trifling wounds. She had her own injuries to contend with. She required rest. Still…
He couldn’t bring himself to move.
“I finished reading all of the documents you gave me,” she told him.
“Mr. Cowgill’s columns, the whole of both his notebooks, and the articles on the Fawn-Purvis family.
There was nothing to indicate the significance of that second date.
And absolutely nothing mentioning anyone named Innes.
I did, however, learn that Mr. Cowgill attended a great many house parties. ”
“He did,” Miles acknowledged.
“Is that where he gathered his society gossip?”
“That was the rumor.”
“And another thing,” she said. “Did you notice that Baron Amstead’s ancestral estate, Northwick Hall, was designed by Sir Robert Taylor?”
“Mmm.” Miles had seen the brief mention of the man’s name in one of the articles.
“He was an architect of some repute, I believe. Highly sought-after for a time. He designed many great houses.”
Miles didn’t know. He couldn’t think presently. Not about that or about anything else. The feel of her fingers was turning his brain to melted treacle.
No one in his life had ever touched him so soothingly. Not even his mother. Rose Quincey had been a hard woman, full of fierce determination. She hadn’t allowed for any softness. To her, it was equivalent to weakness. Miles hadn’t felt the lack of it. He’d known no different. But this…
To be petted and caressed by the lady he was coming to care for…
It was a pleasure beyond anything.
“Miles,” Nell said. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes,” he replied gruffly. “What did you say?”
Her fingers tightened in his locks in gentle reproof. “I asked if you were going into the office today.”
“Mmm.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
“Today is tomorrow,” she said with a hint of impatience.
Miles suppressed a grimace. She was right. He needed to get up. To take her to bed, and then to take himself to bed, if only for the few remaining hours until dawn. If he didn’t, he’d get no proper sleep.
“When you go in to work,” Nell said, “I wonder if you might do something for me?”
“Anything,” he said.
“Do you suppose the Courant has access to the architectural plans for Northwick Hall? They must be available somewhere, given Sir Robert’s reputation.”
The question was provoking enough that Miles finally raised his head. “Why would you require plans for Amstead’s house?”
“Common sense.” She removed her hand from his hair. “We’d be foolish to travel to Hertfordshire blindly. If we had a floor plan to consult, it would give us an idea of where the different rooms are located, and where the exits might be in case we need to make use of them.”
Miles slowly sat up. The delicious fog that had temporarily numbed his brain receded. A burgeoning suspicion came in its place. “Have you done this sort of thing before?”
Nell lifted her uninjured shoulder in a casual shrug. “Knowing one’s surroundings is the first step of any successful endeavor.”
His brows lowered. “Is this more wisdom from the Academy?”
She smiled. “Wisdom to live by.”
· · · · ·
Nell was in the library the next day, snuggled in a chair in front of the fire reading her advance copy of Can You Forgive Her?, when Effie came to call.
“Reading rather than sewing?” Effie observed as she entered. “This is a change.”
Nell put away her book. She rose from her chair to greet her friend. “Mr. Quincey has forbidden me from sewing while my arm heals.”
Effie closed the distance between them, the velvet-trimmed skirts of her amethyst silk carriage gown rustling in an elegant swish of expensive fabric. “Forbidden? Has he?” Rather than embracing Nell, Effie gently clasped her left hand.
Nell pressed Effie’s fingers in return. “Out of an excess of concern.”
It was the only reason Nell had acquiesced. However trying his commands, she’d known Miles had her best interests at heart. His every action had attested to the fact, from the nightlong vigil he’d kept at her bedside to the beating he’d administered to Silas.
She shouldn’t be moved by any of it. Certainly not the violent aspects. But it was difficult not to be. Nell had never had anyone behave so protectively toward her before.
Effie’s gaze skimmed over Nell’s right arm. It was still cradled in Miles’s makeshift sling. “How are you faring?”
“My shoulder was dislocated,” Nell said. “But it’s on the mend now. I hardly notice the pain.”