Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cordelia declared herself fit at breakfast and waved away every caution the doctor had written on a card for her bedside.
“Fuss shortens a woman’s life faster than a chill,” she said, stirring sugar into her tea with more vigor than was necessary. “I was tired, not at death’s door. If I were at death’s door, I should have the manners to knock.”
Adeline smiled because Cordelia wished it. Winston did not. He watched his mother with a patience that had worry under it and put down his cup when a footman stepped in with several folded notes on a tray.
“From your man, Your Grace. Returned from his errand.”
Winston broke the seal on the first and read. A small breath left him, not quite relief, not quite anything else. He reached for the second missive and scanned the contents briefly.
“Oswald will meet me at Greystone,” he said, looking at no one and everyone. “He’s still visiting his relatives in the county. He asks that we come soon. And there’s this, too. Briarwood is restored.”
Cordelia’s spoon stilled. “Briarwood?”
“The south wing,” Winston said. “The builders have finished. You’ll be more comfortable there.” He glanced at Adeline. “You both will.”
Louisa, who had been counting sugared almonds into small piles of four, clapped once. “We’re going home?”
“Tonight,” Winston said. “If we can have the carriage ready.”
“Tomorrow,” Cordelia countered, eyes bright with mischief. “Tonight is for Vauxhall. I’ve no intention of leaving London without one last look at decent lights.”
Winston opened his mouth and closed it again. Cordelia raised an eyebrow.
“Mother,” he said, aiming at reason, “you have already visited Vauxhall Gardens and were unwell two nights ago.”
“I am suffering from ennui, my boy,” she replied. “Tonight, I shall be less bored. A little entertainment will improve my spirits.”
Louisa leaned across the table. “Please, Papa? The lamps! And the music! And the little boats with candles!”
Adeline caught Winston’s eye. “We can keep close to the entrance. An hour only.”
He hesitated. His servant had returned, Oswald had answered, and the city had shown its teeth.
He ought to pack and go. Yet Cordelia was watching him as if refusing would be a blow he could spare with little effort.
He looked down at the notes again, folded them once, and nodded. “Very well. One hour.”
Vauxhall was a blaze without heat, the kind of brightness that made people kinder for a time.
Lamps hung like coins along the walks. Music drifted from the orchestra stand.
Gentlemen stood in clusters, pretending not to look for ladies; ladies pretended not to see them.
Vendors strolled with trays of trifles. Children darted in and out like swallows.
They kept their promise and stayed near the entrance.
Cordelia took her seat with a view of everything.
Louisa planted beside her on a bench; her hands knotted in excitement.
Winston stood with his hand on the back of the bench, the protective posture so habitual that Adeline suspected he did not feel it at all.
“It’s pretty,” Louisa breathed. “Isn’t it, Adeline?”
“It is.” Adeline kept her voice even. She did not like crowds, but Cordelia’s color was better, and Louisa’s happiness was easy to bear. “Shall I fetch lemonade?”
“I’ll go,” Winston said.
“You’ll stay,” Cordelia said crisply. “Your knee informs the world when you’ve walked ten steps. Adeline can fetch. She will come straight back, and I shall scold her for delaying when she returns. Thus, everyone is satisfied.”
Adeline rose. It soothed Cordelia to command. “Two lemonades,” she said. “And a small cake if they have it.”
“For me,” Louisa added.
“For me,” Cordelia corrected. “You may share.”
Adeline made for the refreshment stall. The night had that odd London softness in it.
The air was damp without rain, the ground sound underfoot, noise made gentle by distance.
She kept to the edge of the walk, collected the lemonades and a small, iced bun, and turned back.
An elbow brushed hers. A man in a laborer’s coat shouldered past, jostling her a tad; not hard enough to spill the drinks, but enough to make her step to the side.
When she did, another figure separated from the hedgerow.
“Miss…Lady Adeline.”
Robert Grebe. He looked nearer to vagrant than clerk with lank hair, collar stained, and a bruise yellowing at the edge of his jaw. His smile had not improved with hardship. It had sharpened.
“I can’t wait any longer,” he said without greeting. “I’ve been generous.”
“I do not think appearing suddenly and accosting me at every turn are the actions of a generous man.”
“Lord Harston is in town,” he hissed, glancing over his shoulder. “I know it. He’ll find you. When he does, I’ll be very useful to him. Unless you pay me for my silence.”
“I won’t give you a farthing,” she said, and was surprised by the calm in her voice. “Do what you like.”
“You don’t seem to understand your position,” he said, moving closer.
The sourness of his breath made her stomach turn.
“I can put a note in his hand before midnight. I can tell him where you sleep, what name you use, and with whom you share your house. The Duke will have you out in the street before morning and thank me for it.”
“You speak of what you do not understand,” she countered. “If you talk to Lord Harston, you won’t be paid. You’ll be used and thrown aside. That was always his way.”
He sneered. “I’m done with your family’s lectures. I want money. Now.”
“No.”
He reached for her wrist. She stepped back. The lemonade slopped, cold against her fingers. He moved again, quick and ugly, trying to pin her between the hedge and his body.
“Grebe,” she said very quietly, “if you don’t leave, I’ll make you sorry.”
That made him grin. “How? Cry for help? No one will believe a woman who…”
She thrust the tumblers into his chest. He grabbed for them by reflex.
That gave her both hands freedom. She pushed hard at his shoulder and hip, used his surprise, and turned him with the force of it.
He flailed for balance, failed to find it, and went backward in an awkward, sinking sprawl into the ornamental pond behind the hedge.
The splash was not dignified. It was a child’s splash magnified, wide and loud and satisfying. The lemonades went with him. He came up cursing, weeds in his hair, water streaming from his sleeves. Two attendants in blue coats were there almost at once, drawn by the noise.
“No riot,” one said briskly. “What’s this?”
“Pickpocket,” Adeline said, choosing the lie that would end this quickly. “He tried to catch hold of my reticule and lost his footing.”
The attendants took in Grebe’s state, Adeline’s calm, and made a decision any sensible man would make when a lady spoke plainly, and a wet man shouted.
“Out you go,” the other said, seizing Grebe by the collar. “Save the lungs for the street.”
Grebe spat pond water and fury. “You’ll regret…”
“You’ll be quiet,” the first attendant said, and he was. The two of them marched him toward the gate, Grebe stumbling and sliding, his boots leaving a thin trail.
Winston appeared on the walk as the little procession passed. “What’s happened?” he asked, looking at Adeline first, then scanning the crowd.
“A thief,” Adeline said, feeling the edge of her fear afterwards, not during. “Lurking in the bushes. He fell into the pond. The attendants are very efficient.” She led the way back to their table, where Louisa and Cordelia sat.
Winston’s gaze moved over her swiftly, cataloguing. “Are you hurt?”
“No. Only a little damp. And in need of fresh lemonade and another bun.”
Louisa tugged at Winston’s sleeve as he slunk slowly into his seat. “Papa, the man, he looked like…”
“Like every scoundrel in London when he’s wet,” Cordelia said from the bench, which she had not left and would not. She had seen nothing and knew it. She patted Louisa’s hand. “We shall not allow criminals to spoil the lemonade.”
Louisa looked back toward the gate. Her eyes narrowed with the suspicious memory of a child who notices faces better than adults. “I think I’ve seen him,” she said. “His chin is wrong.”
“His manners are wrong,” Cordelia said. “That’s sufficient. Sit. You’re shaking.”
“I’m not,” Louisa said, and sat at once because she was.
Winston’s attention stayed on Adeline. He didn’t turn to look after the attendants. “We’re going home,” he said. “Now, please.”
Adeline knew that Cordelia would have argued if his tone had been different, but it was the voice of a man nudging a team back from a cliff.
She accepted her shawl with grace and let him guide them to the gate.
Adeline walked beside him. He didn’t offer his arm, keeping it free, and she understood why.
By the time the carriage rolled away from the pleasure gardens, Winston had set his teeth against obvious pain.
He said nothing until the jolt at the first turning made him shut his eyes and draw a breath through his nose.
“Damnation!” he hissed.
“Tell me,” Adeline said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re clearly not. I was not asking if the pain was real, only where it is.”
He relented. “It’s the knee. It catches.”
“May I?” She glanced at Cordelia and Louisa, who were opposite them, the former brisk, the latter sleepy. “There’s a technique. I read about it. You may pronounce it nonsense, but you’ll be doing so with less pain.”
He looked at her and nodded. “Very well.”
She shifted to the floor of the carriage, kneeling in the narrow space, and laid a fold of his coat over her lap to keep from soiling her gown.
He extended his leg across the seat. She set her hands above the knee, thumbs on either side of the kneecap, and pressed, not hard, not soft, in a steady, circular motion.
His breath left him at the third circle; by the fifth, his jaw unclenched.
“Where did you learn that?” he asked.