Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Adeline woke to the tick of a mantel clock and the soft rasp of a fire settling.
Her cheek lay against a cushion. Louisa was curled in the circle of her arms, warm and heavy, her breath brushing Adeline’s wrist in small, regular puffs.
On the rug beside the chaise, Winston lay on his side with his back to them, one arm crooked under his head, his shoulders rising and falling in a slow, measured rhythm.
The distance between his temple and hers was no more than the span of a hand.
Adeline momentarily worried for Winston, as she knew he was still recovering from his own injuries.
But—he looked so peaceful in his sleep that she dared not disturb him.
Cordelia slept in the big bed. Color returned to her lips if not yet to her cheeks.
A glass stood on the bedside table, a spoon resting in the dregs, and two clean cloths cooled on the rail.
Adeline recalled that she had opened the window to let in the night air.
Now the room held both warmth and the faint bite of dawn.
Adeline shifted the smallest amount to ease a cramp in her back.
Louisa murmured but did not awaken. Winston did not stir.
For a breath, she only watched them. The child’s soft mouth, the man’s untidy hair, the loosened lines of sleep that made him look younger and gentler.
It was a picture of a family that required no speech: mother, father, daughter.
The thought warmed her, bright and simple. It lasted three heartbeats.
Then the truth came with its blunt edges. None of this belonged to her. The name she used in this house was not hers. The story she had told them was a carefully woven veil. If the veil slipped, they would hate her for the lie. She would deserve it.
I am not Louisa’s mother and have no right to be. I am not Winston’s wife, and he will never claim me to be. I think it is time for me to go before more damage is done.
Her throat tightened. She pressed her lips to Louisa’s hair to steady herself and counted the clock’s ticks until the sting behind her eyes receded.
The bed creaked. Cordelia’s lashes fluttered, then lifted, and she looked toward the chaise.
For a moment, the old alertness returned to her face, and then something easier.
She tipped two fingers the smallest fraction in Adeline’s direction, a request to be still.
“I want to look at you all,” she whispered, voice rough from the long night. “Just for a little while. My family.”
Adeline didn’t trust herself to speak. She nodded, laid her head back, and closed her eyes to keep the tears where they were.
The pulse of Louisa’s breathing steadied her.
Winston’s hand opened and closed once as if grasping for, then wrapping around the hilt of a sword, then he slept again.
After a time, Cordelia dozed, the soft rattle in her chest smoothing to a faint snore.
Louisa stirred and blinked up at Adeline.
“Is Grandmama better?”
“Yes,” Adeline whispered. “Much better.”
“Good.” Louisa wriggled closer. “You’re warm.”
“So are you.”
A rustle from the hearth, a louder tick from the clock, and then Winston rolled to his back with a wince. He reached, found the leg of the chaise with his fingers, and paused when his hand brushed the fabric near Adeline’s hair.
“You’re both awake,” he said, keeping his voice low.
Adeline turned her head. “We didn’t want to leave her.”
“Nor I.” He pushed himself up, careful not to scrape the floorboards. “How do you feel?”
“Rested enough,” she said. “You?”
“As if I slept on a floor,” he said quietly, drawing a small smile from her despite the ache in her chest.
The door opened, and a maid carried in a tray of coffee and broth. She curtsied at once when she saw who lay where. “Beg pardon, Your Grace. I’ll fetch another cup.”
“Leave it,” Winston said. “We’ll make do.”
They managed the breakfast between themselves. Adeline coaxed a little broth into Louisa, then crossed to the bed to help Cordelia take a few careful sips. Winston took coffee black and stood at the window, looking out at the pale sweep of St. James’s Place.
Cordelia’s eyes were clearer when she set the cup aside. “If you two fuss anymore,” she murmured, “I’ll never recover. I can’t have my son worn to threads.”
“You will not rise today,” Winston said, turning from the window. “We’ll have Dr. Hadley back at noon.”
“I am improved,” Cordelia said, making it sound like a point of pride. “I’ll not die before luncheon if I can help it.”
Louisa slid off the chaise and put both hands on the bed. “Don’t die at all.”
“I’ll do my best,” Cordelia said, brushing a hand over the child’s curls. Her gaze slid to Adeline and stayed there. “Thank you.”
Adeline shook her head. “There’s no need.”
“There is,” Cordelia said, voice quiet. “Allow a selfish old woman to say it.”
Winston watched the exchange without comment.
The doctor’s word from the night before lay between his shoulder blades like a knot he couldn’t reach.
It had not been an accident. Someone had meant to harm his mother.
The idea made his jaw ache. Louisa soon lost the thread of adult voices and curled again on the chaise, falling asleep with her mouth open.
Once she slept, the room slipped back into its hush.
Hours later, with Dr. Hadley satisfied and Cordelia insisting she would live to scold them all, Winston drew Adeline aside.
“She’ll sleep now. Louisa as well,” he said. “I have some letters to write.”
Adeline nodded. Her own words were scarce. She’d been quieter with each hour. If she kept her mouth closed, she could keep everything inside it. She thought of leaving and had to lower her eyes to steady herself. Winston looked at her a fraction too long.
“You needn’t stand watch like a sentinel. I’ll set a footman at the door and send for you if she stirs.”
“Yes, of course. I will see to Louisa,” Adeline said.
He left for the library and wrote quickly, the strong black line of his hand eating the page. He paused once, stared at the ink’s shine, and began again with a fresh sheet.
My dear friend Oswald,
You have every right to wash your hands of me, and yet I find I must ask a favour. I require your help in a matter that touches my family’s safety. Come to me at once if you can. If not, send a note to say when I may call upon you and where. Pray forgive my earlier temper. I was not myself.
W.
He sanded, folded, and sealed the note, then rang for a footman.
“By hand,” he said. “To Lord Duskwood at his lodgings. Wait for an answer if one is offered.”
When the door closed, he pressed the heel of his hand into the place between his eyes. DeBrett’s had settled one question and raised five.
Adeline Warren. Lord Harston. The man he’d glimpsed last night beside Mr. Pike.
The tight net of it drew itself around the house and tugged.
What business does Lord Harston have with Bow Street?
He sent a second note to the Bow Street Office, carefully worded, requesting an interview with a certain runner he trusted to keep this quiet. He did not write the word poison. He wrote only that he had a household matter requiring discretion. The runner would understand.
Upstairs, Cordelia would brook no hint of relaxation or insist upon needing time to recuperate her strength. She shooed off fussing with a regal flick of her fingers.
“Go. Both of you,” she said when Winston returned. “Take a pair of horses and ride, freshen yourselves, and talk of nice things other than sick old women. Louisa shall stay with me today. There’s to be no sobbing. We’ll play spillikins and I shall cheat.”
Just as his mother instructed, Winston and Adeline set out an hour later, the day dry but threatening.
The horses were fresh from the stable and keen for a run.
The roads opened beyond Hyde Park and hedges replaced terraces.
Winston barely felt the injuries that confined him to the use of a cane when on foot.
His knee had ached abominably all night after carrying his mother in from the carriage.
Now the horse took the weight, and Winston felt the illusion of being hale and hearty. Adeline rode with bright eyes and red cheeks. She, too, gave the illusion of glowing health. There was no sign of the deception she practiced.
Does it pinch? Does she feel the lies, the guilt of it? Or is she quite content?
That was the part he could not believe. Would not believe.
She was a good person, motherly and with a wife’s awareness of his needs.
Her touch, her kiss, her body brought him intense pleasure.
Brought him a desire that overwhelmed him.
He could not imagine his life without her.
His house without her scent, her soft footfall, and challenging stare.
They rode side by side toward Brompton, the city’s noise fading behind them.
Fresh earth, wet lane, a hawker’s cry from very far off, and the clean stamp of hoof on road.
These were easy things to bear. Winston kept his hands light on the reins.
He wanted to speak, but each way he composed his question, it sounded like a charge.
Who are you? That was too blunt. Why did you lie?
That statement was worse. He tried to ease toward it by degrees.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
“So are you,” Adeline answered.
“I don’t wish to crowd you,” he said.
“You don’t.”