“Do you have enough salve? Do I need to order more?”
“Yes, dear, that would be nice. I could use a fresh jar.” Trudy picked up a folded newspaper from next to her plate and slid it across the table. “You might be interested to read the scandal page today.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow. She picked up the paper. ThePiccadilly Presswas Trudy’s favorite of all the scandal rags. She claimed it was not all gossip but that it also contained insightful articles. But Lucy didn’t believe her for a minute. Trudy lived for the gossip. Glancing over the gossip page, she immediately saw Fitzwilliam’s name in bold print.
Last night at the Jackson’s ball, Lord Fitzwilliam was seen hobbling in from the gardens quite disheveled, according to one witness, a bruise blooming across his chin. This author would like to know who he was fighting with. And who won said scuffle? My bet is on the other fellow, as no one else was reported to look worse for wear. Unless you consider the perpetual unkemptness of Lord Wentsforth when he is in his cups…
The article continued a running diatribe of comments on the appearances of guests at last night’s event. Lucy looked across at Trudy with a grin. Nobody had seen her! And Fitzwilliam would be mortified at the press.
Trudy took a sip of her tea, her eyes serious. “You shouldn’t be smiling. His pride wounded, Lord Fitzwilliam will be looking for retribution. What did you do to him last night?”
“Just what my father taught me. He gave my mother and I both lessons in defending ourselves against those who were bigger and stronger. Life can be hard for a woman when your husband is always at sea.” Lucy tried to wipe the grin from her face, but her lips still twitched as she remembered his groan of pain when she had kicked him in his manhood. “Fitzwilliam is a bully and a brute.”
“No doubt. And I am glad you are safe. But he will not be easy to shake off. Especially with wounded pride at stake.”
Lucy’s glee drained away. Trudy was right. Lord Fitzwilliam had been hunting her all season. She had politely turned down his offer of marriage. But he was persistent, even after she had refused his invitations to the opera and to the races. She had avoided him at social functions, hoping someone else would catch his eye. Instead of his attention being flattering, his persistence made her skin crawl. Last night’s behavior confirmed what her instincts had been telling her about the man.
Trudy picked up a cream-colored card and waved it back and forth. “Luckily, I know just who can help you. He’s back.”
“Who’s back?”
“Hartwick, of course.”
Lucy set her cup down with a clatter. Hart was back in town? “How long? Is that from him?”
Trudy shook her head. “I left instructions to the staff to inform me of his whereabouts. He arrived in London two nights ago.”
Hart was back in London. Her heart beat an unsteady rhythm in her chest. What had brought him out of his self-imposed exile? Would he come to see them?Don’t be foolish.
“Doesn’t matter. He won’t help. He made it very clear that he wanted to be left alone when he threw us out of Belstoke Manor last summer.”
“He was wounded and lashing out. He didn’t mean the things he said, my dear. I’m sure he regrets what happened.”
Lucy stared down at her half-empty cup of tea. Did he? She doubted it. “If he did regret his words, then we wouldn’t have to hear of his return to town through the servants.”
Trudy would never fully understand the pain he had caused Lucy by ejecting them so abruptly from his life. Not one word from him for the last ten months. No responses to her letters, which she had filled with news and tidbits of her life, her attempt to entertain and distract him from his melancholy. And he had shut out not just her and Trudy, but all his friends. Even his closest confidants like Lucius Grisham, had written to her concerned about Hart’s worrying silence.
She stood. “Please excuse me. I think I will go work with my quarterstaff.”
Lucy stalked down the corridor to the music room. She shut the door with a snap. Crossing the empty room, she pulled open the instrument closet and retrieved her quarterstaff. The weight of the carved oak staff provided an immediate balm to her jumbled emotions. Lucy toed off her slippers and headed to the opposite end of the long room. The windows had a view of the back gardens. Shaded by the large oak trees outside, this room was always cool in the spring and summer months.
Neither she nor Trudy were at all musical. So, Lucy had turned this room into a training room when they returned from Italy last year. Unorthodox perhaps, but Lucy had no use for the vapid pastimes of a gentlewoman. Stitching bored her to tears, and she had no talent for painting or music. She did love to read and often read aloud to Trudy in the evenings. But when she was upset, like now, what she really liked to do was fight.
A large, heavy, sand-filled bag hung down from the ceiling in the far corner. Nearby, under the window, a long chaise stretched out, its turquoise velvet a cheery focal point in the largely empty room. Lucy leaned her staff against the wall and swiftly undid the small pearl buttons on the front of her dress. She stepped out of the simple cotton day dress with its tight-fitting sleeves and carefully laid it across the chaise. Stretching her arms above her head, she twisted her torso gently from left to right, her chemise swirling around her knees. Next, she rolled her shoulders. Lastly, she tipped her head to the left to stretch her neck, then repeated the movement to the right. Usually calming, this morning the simple stretching routine did nothing to soothe her. Lucy snatched up her staff.
She placed her feet wide and used her staff to strike the bag with a satisfying thump. Twisting, she landed another blow with the opposite end of the staff. She let out a long breath as her memories from last summer flooded back. On the awful night of the attack, she had paced the hallway outside his room. Not allowed inside, she had relied on Trudy to tell her the extent of his injuries. The surgeon, Mr. Madewell, had stayed for days to supervise his care. Staving off infection had been his top priority.
Trudy reported that large ribbons of skin had been burned across Hart’s shoulder and along his right side, leaving the skin there waxy and pink. Over the first few days, blisters had formed and then burst. Burns also snaked down his right arm, singing off the dark hair that had covered his forearm. But the worst injury had been to his eye. Shards of crockery from the homemade bomb had lacerated the right side of his handsome face. The surgeon had carefully removed one of the slivers from the corner of his right eye.
They’d had to keep him dosed with laudanum the first fortnight lest the pain had him thrashing and moaning. After the first week passed with no fever, she and Trudy had made the decision to move him to Belstoke Manor, the ducal country seat, to remove him from the grime and disease of the city.
Lucy had spent two months watching and waiting for him to surface out of the worst of the pain. It hadn’t helped that three weeks into being at Belstoke, Townson informed her that Hart refused to take any more laudanum. Stubborn fool. Lucy had taken to distracting him from his discomfort by reading Shakespeare, acting all the parts with different voices. She started withAs You Like Itand moved on toA Midsummer Night’s Dream, thinking that comedy was what he needed. But one day, he had asked her to read fromHamlet, saying it matched his mood much better.
Lucy beat against the bag in a familiar rhythm.Thump, thump, twist, thump.She increased her pace, taking her frustration out on the heavy bag. Often, she would picture it as someone specific. Today, it should have been Lord Fitzwilliam, but all she could see was Hart. His cold expression and rigid posture when she had confessed how much she cared for him. That day, at the manor, she’d walked into his bedroom to find him pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. Agitation stamped across his face.
She had hurried over. “Hart, what’s the matter?”
His gaze swung to her in surprise. “Nothing.” He came to a stop. Then he ran a hand through his hair; his lips pulled down into a grimace. “What am I going to do with myself now?”
