Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I…I think I need a cup of tea.”
Those were the last words Winston’s mother spoke before her eyes fluttered shut and she lost consciousness.
“Mother!” Winston barked.
“Duchess,” Adeline cried.
Louisa reached forward, grabbed hold of the fine fabric on her grandmama’s sleeve, and tugged. “What…what is wrong with her?” the young lady asked in a tremulous whisper.
Winston had no answers to supply. He wished to call out for help, to order the driver to pull the carriage to the side of the road immediately, but before he could do anything of use, the coach halted.
The carriage had barely stopped before the servants were running down the steps.
Louisa cried while Winston hefted his mother’s motionless body in his arms and carried her into the townhouse.
Adeline followed close behind, pale but steady, her hand pressed against Cordelia’s shoulder as though sheer will could keep her alive.
“Summon Dr. Hadley at once,” Winston said as he carried his mother up the stairs. “And have hot water and clean linen brought to her room.”
The house erupted into motion. Footmen raced for the physician, maids whispered prayers in doorways.
Cordelia’s bedchamber was warm and faintly scented with lavender.
Winston laid her carefully upon the coverlet.
Her skin was grey, her lips drained of color, and the fragile pulse at her throat fluttered like a dying bird.
Adeline was steady beside her, giving quiet orders to the maid. “Another blanket. And a candle by the mirror, please.”
Louisa hovered in the doorway, trembling. “Is she dying?”
“No,” Adeline said gently, her tone more certain than her face. “She’s only resting. The doctor will help her breathe more easily.”
Winston stood at the foot of the bed, unable to move.
Yet Adeline’s calmness steadied him. She worked with quiet purpose, adjusting the pillows, whispering small comforts that belonged more to a daughter than a nurse.
The sight of it did something to him. It pierced through the numbness and struck directly at the place he’d kept closed for so long.
She turned once to him. “She needs warmth. The fire should be higher.”
He moved without speaking, feeding the flames, anything to keep from thinking about how naturally Adeline’s hand smoothed his mother’s hair, how instinctively Louisa clung to her skirts. She belonged to them; she felt like family.
But she has not been honest with us.
Winston stared into the fire.
She is really the daughter of Lord Harston. Why would she lie about that? Why?
He was trying to ignore it, but the memory wouldn’t leave.
If she had lied about her name, what other tales had she told?
Cordelia stirred, a small, broken sound escaping her lips.
Adeline leaned forward, murmuring something Winston couldn’t hear.
He was stung by the closeness that existed between the two ladies: his mother and a woman who… who they might not really know at all.
He left the room abruptly. The air outside the chamber was cooler, easier to breathe, but no less heavy.
He stood at the landing, gripping the railing until his knuckles whitened.
He didn’t want to believe what Mr. Pike said.
He wanted to trust that everything Adeline had told him was true, that the fear in her eyes these past weeks came from danger outside their walls, not deceit within them.
Downstairs, the great library waited like a confessional.
He went there because he couldn’t bear to stand idle, because anger felt safer than longing.
The room smelled of old paper and leather polish.
He went straight to the shelf behind the writing desk, where a volume of DeBrett’s Peerage stood among the histories. The gilt spine gleamed under the lamp.
It wasn’t a current edition; Winston had purchased it three years prior. But that was current enough. He opened it with shaking hands, scanning the entries until he found Clifford-Edge. No daughters listed. Only a son, deceased in infancy.
Then Harston, Lord of. One child. Adeline Warren.
He let the book fall shut. The sound was small, final.
So, Adeline had lied. About who her father was.
About being an orphan. All of it. He stood a long time staring at the spine of the book, rage rising like a tide he could not command.
Rage at himself, at her, at this whole wretched charade.
She’d lied from the moment she entered his house.
And still, he could not bring himself to hate her.
When at last the bell rang below to announce the doctor’s arrival, Winston straightened, forced the mask of calm onto his face, and went upstairs again. He met Adeline and Louisa on the landing. Both were pale and exhausted. Louisa clung to Adeline’s hand, refusing to leave her side.
“The doctor’s here,” Winston said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, flat and almost mechanical.
Adeline nodded. “I’ll take Louisa downstairs. She shouldn’t see too much.”
He hesitated, then stepped aside to let them pass.
The child brushed against him as she went, and he caught the faint scent of lavender from Adeline’s hair.
It lit a fire within him, made him reach out as she passed, his fingers brushing against hers.
His nerves tingled with the contact, and he snatched his hand away as her head began to turn.
As much as he wanted to, Winston could not look at Adeline directly right now.
He could not bear to see another false promise in her eyes.
After the Doctor entered his mother’s room, Winston went to the sitting room to wait for his verdict.
Adeline knelt beside Louisa, smoothing her hair and promising that her grandmother would be well.
Louisa’s eyelids drooped. Adeline stayed by her until her breathing evened into sleep.
Winston stood at the far side of the room, watching.
The candlelight threw soft shadows over them both.
Adeline’s gown was rumpled from travel, her hands reddened by water and effort, yet she had never looked more beautiful.
There was strength in her gentleness, the kind of strength his mother had admired in women of old. He felt the pull of it like gravity.
I should demand the truth. Accuse her.
But the anger died in his chest as he looked at his sleeping child and the woman who knelt vigilantly by her side. A mother whom Louisa had never known.
He crossed to her quietly. “You should rest. I doubt my mother will be back on her feet this evening. Or for many evenings to come.”
“I can’t,” she said softly. “Not yet.”
“Louisa’s asleep.”
“She’ll wake if she dreams that I’ve gone.”
He sat at his daughter’s feet on the low chaise. They spoke in whispers, careful not to disturb the child. He reached out and took Adeline’s arm, guiding her to sit beside him, moving so that she could be closest to Louisa.
I defer to her as though she really were Louisa’s mother. I must remember that she is not. She is an impostor. A liar.
“The doctor will help her,” Adeline said, meaning Cordelia. “She’s strong. She’ll recover.”
“I’ve seen stronger women die,” he said.
“Don’t say that.”
He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Forgive me. I’m not myself.”
“No one could be, after tonight.”
The clock on the mantel ticked between them. He felt her hand shift, resting for a moment on his sleeve. It was a brief, unthinking gesture of comfort, and it broke something in him.
“Adeline,” he said quietly, “when you look at Louisa like that…it’s as if she were your own.”
Her eyes met his. “She’s a child who’s lost too much. What else can I do but love her?”
The simplicity of her answer cut straight through his defenses. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It is easy to give love to someone who so very much deserves it.”
He wanted to tell her he trusted her, but the memory of the book upstairs burned behind his eyes.
A tremor passed through her then, as though the night had finally caught up with her strength.
He reached for her hand without thinking.
“You’ve done enough for one day. Sit back. Rest. Sleep while Louisa sleeps.”
“I’m fine,” she murmured, though her eyes glistened.
“No,” he said. “You’re not.”
For a moment, she resisted, and then the fight left her.
Tears slid down her cheeks in silence. He drew her gently into his arms, meaning only to steady her but, when she leaned into him, when her forehead touched his chest, something deeper than comfort answered.
She clung to him, shoulders shaking, and he held her without thought or reason.
“Winston,” she whispered, “I never wanted to bring trouble into your house. I would have gone if I’d thought…”
“Don’t.” His voice was rough. “Don’t say you’d have gone.”
He meant to stop there, but her face was so close, her breath warm against his throat.
He tilted her chin up, saw the reflection of the lamplight in her eyes, and kissed her.
It was not the fierce claiming of desire but something quieter and soothing.
A kiss that asked forgiveness and offered it at once.
She didn’t pull away. Her hand came up to his shoulder, fingers trembling.
When they broke apart, the silence felt almost holy.
He brushed her cheek with his thumb. “Adeline…”
But whatever he meant to say was lost as the door opened.
The doctor stood in the doorway, spectacles fogged, wearing a grave expression. “Your Grace.”
Winston rose at once, Adeline drawing back, her composure returning with visible effort.
“Well?” Winston asked. “What is it?”
“I’ve administered an emetic,” the doctor said. “It was necessary.”
“For what cause?”
The physician hesitated. “I believe Her Grace has been poisoned.”
The words struck like a blow to Winston’s already tender ribs. Adeline gasped softly. Winston’s jaw tightened.
“Poisoned?” he repeated.
“There’s no mistake,” the doctor said. “The symptoms are unmistakable. Whether by accident or intention, I cannot yet say.”
Winston’s hand closed into a fist at his side. “Intention,” he said quietly. “It must be.”
The doctor looked between them. “She’ll live, if the treatment takes. But someone in this house should watch her through the night.”
“You may leave that to me,” Winston said.
The doctor bowed and withdrew.
For a long moment, neither Adeline nor Winston spoke. Louisa stirred in her sleep, murmuring Adeline’s name, and Adeline went to her, smoothing her hair with shaking hands.
Winston stood where he was, the weight of suspicion, desire, and fear pressing down upon him until he could hardly breathe.
He looked at Adeline, her tenderness, her courage, the woman who had lied to him and yet held his family together in a single night.
He thought, with terrible clarity, that he could no longer tell the difference between love and ruin.
Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed midnight.