“I cannot understand,” she said, “for I’ve always gone to great lengths to take such precautions. It stands to reason, then, that perhaps my counterpart has not.”
Matthew turned to find Lady Caplin staring him down, inasmuch she could from her lesser height.
“Recall that youth before the Euston Hotel, the first night we…” She paused, pursing her lips, barely concealing some angry sentiment. “He marked me, suggested he knew who I was.”
“Hush,” Matthew said, his voice rough. He couldn’t bear to see her like this.
Suspicious. Of him.
He pulled her close once more. This time she melted into him, her hands clutching at his waistcoat as tightly as one clutching a strap while standing in a tram.
“Do you think he means to blackmail us?”
An icy sensation rippled through him. That she would fret, that she would be humbled by someone as vile and greedy as Charles Sharples, and by Matthew’s own folly. He should have dealt with the man at the first. If only there hadn’t been that bleeding raid, if only he hadn’t stopped to help Fliss withhis wound, tying it off with that blasted handkerchief. The one Harriet had embroidered for him, back when their sweet, innocent mutual regard had sustained him for so many years.
He’d been a coward.
Anger and disdain rushed through him, lacing through his veins.
So many paths he could’ve taken, but never mind all that now. He would not allow himself to wallow in guilt. He would make it right.
“I’ll sort it out,” he said, his voice gruff and angry. It startled him to hear himself, but he shut his eyes and leaned into the cold determination, the overwhelming desire to protect her.
How he wished to stroke her hair, to kiss her forehead in reassurance.
“Don’t fret. I’ll take care of it all.”
“Take care of it?” She raised that eyebrow again. “So you acknowledge that this… man… speaks the truth?”
“Hush,” he admonished. “Leave it to me.”
He knew she was fearless, formidable. He knew the power she had, knew that she would fix it all herself, given the chance and the appropriate information. But Matthew wouldn’t allow it.
She breathed deeply, sighing as she turned away.
“And to think I’d meant to suggest next Tuesday, if you were willing.”
Matthew shut his eyes. Never before had he something so dear, someone so precious to protect. He’d never cared much for his own hide, wishing for himself only small, petty things like membership in the Athenaeum. It all seemed ridiculous now. He thought of the mop and bucket in the strangers’ dining room, and how it had fallen over when he’d first lunched with Sir Frederick Catton.
And suddenly Matthew knew he’d never be admitted, would never be a member.
“I am willing,” he answered, heart in his throat.
Never had he felt so exposed, as if his unlucky hand full of low cards was fanned out upon the table for all to see.
“We shall see, then, shan’t we?” she answered, her head turning only slightly.
It was then that he also realized for certain that she would never be content as a London doctor’s wife, raising two middle-class children in Marylebone, managing two or three servants and stitching by the fire with him in the evenings.
But he loved her all the same.
He prayed that he might always remain in her company, in whatever capacity. Even like this.
Begging.
“You may send for me,” he choked out, “at my club.”
“Perhaps,” she said mildly.
