Chapter 26
Henry’s shoulder throbbed that morning, but moved freely enough.
Still, he grunted as he attempted to put his coat on without aid.
He’d been an idiot thinking to slip outside to follow Mrs. Trumble.
He’d awaited her leaving her office, fully expecting she would simply go to bed, but needing to complete his investigation on her.
But she’d not gone to bed at all. Under cover of night and inclement weather, she’d left the house.
But instead of gaining more information, he’d caught his own fall down the stairs.
Or rather, his shoulder had caught it for him.
He was still cursing himself for his own idiocy.
Henry tugged at the coat with an extra hard jerk. The tight-fitting thing seemed intent on not sliding up his arms.
Blast the lack of funds that made it impossible to keep a valet.
After two more unsuccessful attempts, Henry accepted that he was not up to the task.
Maybe Julia had not gone down to break her fast yet. He would just pop across the hall and ask her to help him. He needed to see her regardless. All his promises to spend more time with her, and he’d hardly done so.
With his coat over his arm, Henry pushed into the hall. His hand was raised and poised to knock when a figure appeared around the corner, coming toward him.
He knew her in a moment. Mrs. Seymour. His heart rate seemed to speed up at the very sight of her. Attempting to calm himself with humor, he glanced down at his state of undress.
“Mrs. Seymour, you find me unfit for company yet again.”
She pulled up short, eyes glancing down then shooting back to his eyes. “Goodness, I am terribly sorry . . . again. I was hoping to catch your sister and—I will just go. I shall see you—”
Entirely too pleased by her reaction, Henry lifted his hand to stop her.
His shoulder twinged in protest. “Do not do that. I am sure Julia would love to see you, I only need her help with my jacket. It will not take me long, and then you can have your say.” Before she could respond, he rapped at his sister’s door.
The door did not open, so Henry tried again.
And again, the door did not open.
He smiled over at Mrs. Seymour, then knocked a third time.
“Sir Henry,” Mrs. Seymour murmured. “Perhaps she is not in her room.”
“Well, where else would she be?”
“I hardly know, but . . . you need help with your jacket, you said?”
He rapped on the door one last time but despaired of it opening even before he’d pulled his hand away. Dejectedly, he turned to her. “Ah . . . yes. I do. My shoulder is rather uncooperative after last night.”
She nodded, though he noticed she kept her eyes slightly to the side of his, as if she did not want to fully look at him. Then she held out her hand. “Give it here then.”
He hesitated but handed the jacket over, turning to face away from her.
Slowly, gingerly, she helped him slide the jacket up his arms. He bit back a groan as he had to push his shoulder further than he would have liked, but then the feather-light touch of her fingers grazed his upper arms as she inched the coat upwards.
The sensation of a hundred painless pinpricks dotted their way down his arms. He was grateful to not be facing her but was sure even his neck had reddened.
What was this sorcery she held over him? It was not just her beauty, though that certainly played a part.
Mrs. Seymour settled the coat in place, brushing the shoulders quickly as if to remove some lingering lint or dust.
He turned to face her. “Thank you,” he said.
She reached out and tugged his lapel into place, cocking her head with a scrutinizing gaze. Then her eyes lifted and met his, and she seemed to still. Her cheeks were tinged pink, and he had the strangest urge to cup them with his hands.
Actually, no, it was not strange at all. It was wholly understandable as a man to be attracted to a woman of her charm and beauty. Her eyes were the most beautiful shade of brown. Nearly golden in the light, but dark when shadows crossed them. A man could be lost in those eyes.
One specific man was, at that moment.
“Does your shoulder hurt terribly?” she asked, her voice pitched just a bit quieter than usual.
“It is nothing bad.”
“So it does.”
The side of his mouth quirked up. “That is not what I said.”
“Sir Henry, it is often what people do not say that carries more significance than what they do. Should I send for a physician to look it over?”
“I should hate to disparage the good work that your servants managed. I can handle any discomfort.”
“I am certain you can. But that is not always reason to do so. And no one is disparaging anyone. Except, perhaps, me to you.”
“Me?” He pointed at himself, eyes wide. “What have I done to warrant that?”
“Held to your pride rather than allowing yourself to be helped.” She smiled through the words, but they cut him to his core. He felt them on a level far deeper than just this conversation.
That was not what he was doing with his life. He had certain responsibilities he was upholding. It had nothing to do with pride and help. At least very little.
“Sir Henry?”
He shook his head. “No, I promise you, I am just fine. In fact, I could undoubtedly win a game of lawn bowls just now.”
“If you are certain.”
“Yes. Though perhaps the lawn bowls game could wait till afternoon. I think the ground is likely still too wet, and I’d hate to slip.”
She nodded. “And me with such wonderfully polished steps.”
“Treacherous, they are,” he said solemnly.
She shook her head at his antics. “Very well then. Shall we go down? The play practice begins in a quarter of an hour, so we have little time to break our fasts.”
He offered his uninjured arm, and they began down the corridor.
At the top of the stairs, she paused, turning narrowed eyes on him. “Say, are you right handed or left?”
“Right.”
“Then of course you could play lawn bowls. You’ve injured your left.” She pierced him with a lifted brow that seemed entirely accusatory.
He chuckled. “Figured that one out rather fast, did you?”
She rolled her eyes. “You are a handful, Sir Henry.”
“And proud of it.
She shook her head, smiling, as they continued on down the steps.
“I do have a question though,” she asked.
“Yes?”
“However are you to fall off the couch during our rehearsal today, if you’ve injured your shoulder? Where will the group find their entertainment now?”
He laid a hand over hers on his arm, griping. “Gads, I hadn’t considered that. You will have to take up the torch, my lady. You must succeed where I will fail.”
Her grin broadened. “I can, with complete certainty, tell you that nothing of the sort will happen. I am not the entertaining type.”
“Stuff and nonsense. I am always entertained when in your presence.”
She scrunched her nose, and the playful expression suited her famously.
Together, they stopped in front of the drawing room doors, but did not enter.
Her chin tilted up to eye him. “Well, then what am I to do? Am I to trip as we enter the room? I fear that would be more clumsy than entertaining, but I can think of nothing else. I tell you, Sir Henry, I am a lost cause.”
He could not help himself. Practically of its own accord, his hand lifted to trace the divet that her smile made in her cheek.
“Not lost at all. Only in need of a little teaching. I am happy to provide the service, but you will have to agree to no less than . . . shall we say eight evenings with me?”
“Eight?” she sputtered. “Am I so poor a pupil?”
“I only want to ensure I am thorough, you see,” Henry said, his hand shifting, now cupping her face.
“Oh yes. Magnanimous of you.” Her words were a murmur.
The truth of his situation and hers seemed far away, beating against a glass that encompassed them both. It was far too easy to ignore with this woman smiling up at him, drawing him in with her mere presence.
The drawing room door opened, and Henry let his hand fall. Miss Fawcet appeared, looking over her shoulder at someone still within the room, giving Mrs. Seymour time to step aside. Henry lamented the space.
Together, they bid Miss Fawcet hello and entered the room. The practice was nothing particularly special—Henry fell off no couches and Mrs. Seymour did not trip even once—but whenever possible, he sat at her side, stealing snatches of conversation.
Over the next several days, they fell into a new normal that felt anything but.
Henry spent his days with the group, picking up the Gentleman Pirate’s breadcrumbs and better coming to know Mrs. Seymour.
Then his nights were spent with his lists of suspects and trips around the island.
Smuggling activity was sparse with a new moon a fortnight away and less activity meant fewer clues.
But all was not stagnant. A garden party had introduced him to the rest of the high society on the island, a trip to the White Hart had uncovered that Mrs. Seymour’s dismissed footmen now worked there, and one night, when the fog was heavy, Henry had noted signals coming from a cliff near the location Carlton’s ship had been run aground.
Henry had begun digging into the proprietor of the White Heart, finding many discrepancies in how the man—one Edward Pike—ran the place.
But he did not have any naval experience, and years before, Henry’s father had been certain the pirate they sought was a navy man.
Perhaps most promising of all, Julia had begun spending more—somewhat begrudging—time with Lord Jennings as a result of Henry’s clear attention to their hostess.
His sister noted that she approved of the woman he’d chosen to focus his flirtations on.
To which Henry had set her straight. Mrs. Seymour was no flirtation.
And when his mind argued that he should not allow himself to become so attached, not with his affairs so uncertain and his profession being unknown to her, it was far too easy to ignore.
Somehow, even the sting of seeking his father’s murderer became dulled when with Mrs. Seymour.
A man could become addicted to the effect she had.
Henry might already have.