He frowned. What the devil was she doing with his banyan?
Mrs. Kent held the garment as Alicia put her arms into the sleeves. Even from this distance she looked ridiculous, like a child in the court robes of a king.
And so lovely he wanted to weep.
If she turned, she would see him. If she turned, perhaps, she would come to understand. She paused with one foot on the step provided by the coachman.
Please.He prayed.
She lifted herself into the carriage and firmly closed the door. Heaven did not hear prayers from hell.
Loss spread out like a poison vine in every muscle. He leaned forward and hung his head. She’d taken his banyan—the one Cheverley had sent from the Far East. But he couldn’t rouse himself to anger. She could take anything he owned, and he would not protest.
The carriage rattling down the drive carried the last thing that mattered—his heart.
Chapter Twelve
Alicia stared out the rear window of her parlor, gaze fixed on a blackthorn bush. She hadn’t known how to identify the bush whose black branches made a striking contrast against the courtyard’s red brick wall, not until she’d encountered a whole hedgerow of them the night she’d gone to meet his grace.
Throughout the month of February, she felt a kinship to the blackthorn’s twisted branches. She, too, had been prickly and dark, twisted and bare. But the month had turned, and the blackthorn branches had filled with pink buds, heralding the onset of spring.
In old Irish tales, heroes who were being chased could throw a blackthorn branch, and an impenetrable hedge of thick wood would emerge from the ground, saving them from destruction.
She, too, she decided, could be saved. Even without fairy-story magic, the world was wide enough. Refuge could be found. Somewhere. Somehow.
“Alicia!” Aunt Hester’s sharp tone cut through the haze of her reverie.
She hadn’t been listening. Again. In defense, she’d grown tired of the same conversation. Would Simon, when he arrived, be able to sort out the will? Would the Admiralty truly allow the countess to take everything that should be theirs? Outrage had deadened Hester to any other feeling, she survived on stalwart moral superiority alone.
Moral superiority Alicia did not share.
“Pardon,” Alicia said, “I missed the question.”
“I was speaking of the doctor.”
“The doctor?”
“The doctor who is to visit this afternoon,” Hester said with some exasperation.
As if on cue, the bell rang.
Clearly, she’d missed more than just a bit of repetitive complaining. She listened for the butler’s sound in the entry beyond.
“Dr. Wilton,” the servant announced.
Alicia recognized the name from TheHerald. Dr. Wilton was the Royal family’s physician. Even with the most drastic economies, his fees would far exceed their ability to pay.
The doctor entered the rear parlor and introductions were made.
“I am afraid there has been some mistake,” Alicia said.
“Are you not the widow of Admiral Stone?” he asked.
“Yes, but we did not—”
The doctor cleared his throat. “I believe my message was clear.”
Alicia opened and then closed her mouth. “...If you would be so kind as to remind me?”
