CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“You truly kept vigil every day and night?” Amelia asked Graham the following morning, after they had both stayed awake long into the dark hours of the night, burning a candle that Graham did not let anybody change.
Felicity and Daphne had been in to greet Amelia for as long as Graham allowed them before ordering them to leave so he could be alone with his wife once again.
“Day, night, afternoon, evening,” he jested. He still had not fully been able to joke about Amelia’s condition, and he felt like a taut piece of rope, but those eyes had opened, as he had prayed for them to, and that was enough for him.
Owen had reported hunting down more evidence, telling Graham to simply be with his wife. That is where you are needed most, his letter had reported earlier that morning. Do not let her down by your own pride to find justice yourself. Let me do this.
So Graham had withstood his first test of setting his pride and need for control aside.
Instead, he smiled with his wife, and he held her hand, and he had a book in his lap, preparing to read to her.
But a knock on the door to Amelia’s chambers had him halting anything else. The butler entered the room.
“Lady Hawthorne, and her daughters, Miss Clara and Miss Elizabeth.”
Graham bit back a groan. He had forgotten that Amelia had him write a letter to them, telling them to visit at once.
Before he could even try to protest, as unfair as that was but he wished to be selfish and have Amelia to himself, three different footsteps sounded into the room, with two girls pushing their way to be the first to approach Amelia’s bed.
Respectfully Graham stood up from the bed to stand back, at the window.
“Oh, my darling,” Lady Hawthorne cried out, draping herself at the side of the bed, as Amelia’s sisters hovered, their faces pale.
The younger one that Graham recognized as Elizabeth, eyed Amelia wearily.
“I thought we had lost you. Oh, goodness, when we received the news—oh, it does not bear thinking about.”
“How are you feeling, sister?” Elizabeth asked, and Graham recalled Amelia describing her as rather intelligent, very wise beyond her years. She was the logical one; Clara was the more romantic young lady, eager to enter the debutante scene.
“As though I have been crushed by a carriage,” Amelia murmured, mustering a smile. She reached to squeeze her mother’s hand. “But I am well. Well enough.”
“I must arrange these pillows,” Lady Hawthorne murmured.
“They are not as you usually have them when you are ill. Here, let me arrange this for you.” She was already reaching for the second pillow that Amelia’s lady’s maid had propped up for her.
Then the lady’s hands were fussing over the blankets, smoothing Amelia’s hair, even offering to braid it back for her but Amelia only waved her off with her good hand.
“Mama, I have been healing well for three days, His Grace has told me. I shall not suffer due to a lack of pillow support.”
“Oh, but you must allow me to take care of you,” Lady Hawthorne sighed. “I am still your mother.”
“Yes, and you are fussing.” Despite their easy back-and-forth, Amelia only smiled softly at her mother, and Graham wondered just how lonely he had made her feel these last several weeks. Guilt gnawed at him but was promptly shut down by Miss Clara walking over to him.
“Your Grace, thank you for taking care of my sister,” she said, her words pointed and matter-of-fact. “You have been most gracious. I can see that she is looking happy, despite her injuries, so you must be very good for her to be around.”
Graham stiffened at the declaration, wondering why he second-guessed it for a moment. But the doubt did not linger as it usually would. Instead, he was only left with a brief discomfort at the praise.
“Your sister’s well-being is my highest priority,” he told the young girl. “She is always cared for by me.”
At his words, Miss Elizabeth looked up, her young eyes looking wise, as Amelia had described, and she offered him a small nod of acknowledgement. “Your Grace,” she murmured. “Thank you for everything you have done.”
He felt like her words encompassed not only Amelia’s well-being. He nodded curtly back. Soon, Lady Eleanor would have her visit, and then he would have his wife back to himself. He felt greedy but he had wasted enough time not treasuring her company as he should have.
***
Lady Eleanor arrived with Owen, and while Amelia’s friend curtseyed before entering Blackthorn House, following the butler, Graham left with Owen.
The happiness he had felt all night of having his wife awake and having her in his arms had dissipated, replaced by the knowledge of what he now had to do.
After the accident involving Amelia, he decided not to repair the damaged carriage and ordered it to be burned, wanting to erase any reminders of the incident.
However, he instructed that the carriage be inspected for evidence before it was destroyed.
Following this, in another carriage he and Owen travelled through the streets of London.
His fingers drummed an agitated rhythm on his knee, his jaw clenched, as he watched the townhouses fly past. Owen said nothing but Graham had felt his stare on and off for their entire journey, and could all but feel his friend’s concern radiating off him.
Graham did not need concern; he needed a friend who would stand at his side, and he knew Owen would still provide both things.
More houses rushed past, and Graham’s patience wore thin.
“Graham.” It was some moments later when Owen spoke up. “I know I do not need to remind you—”
“Then do not.”
Owen sighed. “You must tread with caution and exact control.”
Up ahead, the gentleman’s club that his cousin frequented came into view, its dark exterior emerging through the hustle of the London street.
His heart pounded with fury. His wife had woken up but she had still been in bed; she was still injured.
There had still been a chance that she would not have made it out of the carriage alive—and Percival had intended that, for either Graham or her, or both of them.
“Graham?” Owen prompted.
“Caution,” he echoed, nodding. “Although being careful is the last thing that man deserves.”
“I know,” Owen said. “Just think only of your wife. She deserves your patience for evidence and justice.”
Graham finally nodded, conceding. He did not take his gaze off the club ahead, and the carriage soon pulled up to a stop outside of it.
Graham did not wait for the carriage to be fully stationary before he stepped out, landing onto the pavement with a hard, resolute thud.
He inhaled deeply, bracing himself for the confrontation.
Behind him, Owen climbed out of the carriage and put a hand on his shoulder.
His support came in the clench of his hand, reassuring Graham without words.
Striding into the gentleman’s club, Graham focused on his one goal.
He would bring Percival down, once and for all, and he would expose him for the reckless, awful man he had become. With his wife’s pale face as she was pulled out of that carriage in his mind, Graham stormed into the gentleman’s club.
Combing through each room, Graham and Owen searched for Percival Randall, knowing that they would know the sound of his raucous laughter anywhere.
And soon, Graham indeed heard it. That charming, arrogant laugh that so many of the ton fell for came from the smoking room where Percival blew out a plume of smoke, a glass of brandy in his hand.
There were other men sitting with him around the table where he held his own court, orchestrating his crowd as surely here as he did in the ballrooms.
The sight set Graham’s nerves on-edge. How could they eat up his words that way? Percival’s laughter was very annoying to him, and he took a step forward, entering the room properly.
“And then I only went and ran my tongue, did I not?” Percival was laughing. “Oh, it was a joy to see such…” His gaze lifted to Graham, and his words died off, “anger…”
Graham slowly took another step, watching as his cousin’s face turned pale. Around them, the room fell silent. Percival’s smile faltered but he tried to compose himself. His expression flickered between nervous arrogance and confusion as he beheld both Graham and Owen.
“Good afternoon, friends!” Percival said, laughing off any worry he expressed on his face. “Graham, it must be at least five years since I have seen you frequent a place like this, is it not? Come, let me get you a drin—”
“You may cease your pretence, Percival,” Owen interrupted. “I believe you understand why we are here.”
Percival’s face flickered again before he let out a loud, forced laugh. “Well, you are in a gentleman’s club, so there is only one reason, and that is the same as us all, is it not?”
“No,” Graham answered, bracing his hand on the table Percival lounged at. “No, it is not. For my reason is far greater than anybody’s here. See, my reason involved you, cousin. You, and my wife.”
There was a rustling sound of movement around the room as men began to speculate, wondering if there had been an affair—or something far more sinister.
“See, Percival, at my own wife’s ball, you performed something of an outburst, and at the time, I was rather…
affected, I might say, by what you had to declare about me.
Deep in your cups, as you admitted, you proclaimed to know about a night that caused me great grief.
I thought I might return the favour of a public speech, seeing as you are so fond of them. ”