She worked at his scalp, using the pads of her fingers to stimulate his skin, then, after rinsing his hair, moved to unknit the tight muscles along his neck and shoulders. Using the heelsof her hands, she got the tight knots out and slid her fingers up the back of his neck again—only to find William was half-asleep.
“William,” she stirred him. “Please tell me you have the strength to get out of this tub because I do not have the strength to lift you out.”
He laughed, “I’ll be up.”
Gently, he stood and stepped out of the tub, dried off in a towel before donning a silk banyan, then fell into her bed. She believed he was off to sleep before his head even hit the pillow.
She brushed a damp curl off his forehead, then kissed his cheek, and when her touch failed to rouse him, she left him to sleep and went to tidy up the bathroom. By midnight, she disrobed and joined him, happy that he had won, but happier that he was there by her side.
William was still slumbering peacefully when Bridget left for breakfast and Lucy was pouring her tea when Lane entered the room, bearing the tray for the sideboards with a newspaper tucked under his arm.
“Good morning, Your Grace. Are you having a good morning?” He asked, rather jovially. “And is His Grace doing well?”
“He is, just exhausted and sore,” Bridget replied, her eyes dropping to the paper under his arm. “If that paper has a headline with the words Duke Arlington is a Gentleman Prizefighter, or anything along those lines, please burn it.”
Lane casually tossed the paper into the fireplace and dusted his hands off while a footman came to the door. “Your Grace, there is a Baron Howell who seeks your attendance. Should I let him up?”
She nodded, “Please.”
While Lane fixed the sideboard, Adam came into the room and bowed. “Your Grace,” he said, lips twisting. “I feel so strange addressing you as that. All this time I have held you as my younger sister.”
“In every sense of the word, I am,” Bridget hugged him. “I’m surprised you are still in town.”
“Something you said last night got me thinking,” he chimed back. “…And there is something I need to show you, which I fear cannot wait any longer. It is not far, so would you please consider taking a few dozen minutes out of your day to accompany me?”
Unsure, Bridget looked over her shoulder, as if asking Lane his permission, but the manservant was impassive, so Bridget decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Lucy, will you join me, please? I’ll go with you, Adam, just give me a few minutes.”
She returned to her room and gazed at William, laying on his side, as he slumbered on. Deciding not to disturb him, she drew on a coat, a leghorn hat, slipped a few coins into her reticule, and then headed out. Lucy was waiting at the door, her dark coat the same shade as her maids dress, and together, they mounted the carriage Adam had waiting.
“Where are we going, Adam?”
“If you don’t mind, I believe it would be more… proper to show you,” he replied, his eyes flickering to her maid. “Please, indulge me.”
The buildings of the city passed by as the countryside took over. The more they traveled, the more worry and concern grew in her heart. What was Adam going to show her, and more importantly—where?
The cemetery was the last place she expected.
“Please, follow me,” he inhaled sharply before stepping out. He took her and Lucy’s arms and they headed off down the main lane, heading into the denser part of the cemetery, where the pauper graves were pushed tight together.
He stopped at one, a simple grave, the dirt mound not even pressed tight yet, and motioned to the simple wooden cross stuck in it.
With a furrowed brow, she slowly followed his line of gesture to the engraved name on the carved stone—Frederick Wycliffe—and collapsed.
Adam grasped her inches before she hit the ground, but her piercing scream shattered the morning quiet. Disbelief and agony wracked through her and she grabbed at Adam, her nails biting into his skin.
“No—no—” she choked, “No! Pl-please God no!” Tears flooded her eyes and were rivers down her face as she looked where her brother lay. Chest burning and vision blurry from tears, she collapsed in on herself.
Her chest was hollow with grief and sorrow, her limbs numb and fragile. Her mind flooded in and out of conscience.
“I am so sorry, Bridget, I am so sorry you had to find out this way but if I had told you, I know you wouldn’t have believed me.”
Chest heaving, she pressed her face into his neck and held on to his shoulder, the sobs now dry but still as aggrieved as the moment she’d laid eyes on the grave.
“H-how…” her throat was rough. “How did he die?”
“Bridget, I don’t want to—”
“Tell me!”
