“I don’t know,” Aleida whispered. Over the past few minutes, he’d grown paler, with distress wrinkling his brow. But lively debates usually made him even more animated and excited.
He’d left his coat and hat, and it was raining. Something was amiss.
Louisa nudged her. “Go find out, Aleida.”
“Yes,” Jouveau said. “You’re his girl.”
Aleida whirled to face him. “I’m not his—”
“Go.” Louisa’s eyes flashed green fire. “He hasn’t come back for his coat.”
Something was very amiss. Aleida sprang to her feet, tugged on her coat, and grabbed her belongings and Hugh’s.
Outside, she raised her umbrella and peered into the black, rainy night. Had he gone home? She wasn’t sure where he lived. Somewhere in Mayfair close to Hyde Park.
She broke into a jog so she had some chance of catching him.
Rain pattered her umbrella, and she wrestled her torch outof her coat pocket, not easy with Hugh’s hat in her umbrella-holding hand and his coat draped over that arm.
A door opened across the street, releasing an illegal shaft of golden light, which silhouetted a hatless man.
After Aleida swung her torchlight both ways down the darkened street, she ran across, her shoes slapping the wet pavement.
The man turned right at Oxford Circus, and Aleida followed. “Hugh!”
The man startled and glanced back. His shoulders hunched, and he forged ahead.
Why would he ignore her? She ran up to him. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head and plowed forward. Rain droplets dotted his face. “Go ... home.” No meanness tinged his words, only ... resignation?
“You forgot your hat and coat.” She extended her burdened arm toward him.
He jerked his gaze to her and took his things with only a minor hitch in his step. “Thanks.” But he put on neither hat nor coat.
She’d never seen him like this, avoiding her gaze, breathing hard. “What’s wrong?”
“Leave ... me be.” His voice wasn’t caramel, but thin and crackling. He gripped his chest.
Like an air raid survivor with smoke in his lungs. “Are you having trouble breathing?”
“Please ... go home.” He picked up his pace, but his course wobbled.
With torch in hand, Aleida wound her arm around his to steady him. He tried to shrug her off, but she had no intention of leaving him. Who would call for help if he collapsed?
The fight went out of him, but he kept up his pace, even as wheezes shredded each breath.
As they charged on, Aleida held her umbrella over his headand watched for a first aid post. The cigarette smoke had been bothersome at the pub. Had he inhaled too much? Or did he have asthma?
Like his sister who died. Aleida’s own breath caught.
He turned down a narrower street and mounted the steps of a Regency home. He rang the doorbell over and over, then flung open the door.
Why ring the bell knowing it was unlocked?
Aleida slipped inside behind him.
A middle-aged man with thin dark hair raced down the stairs. “Mr. Collingwood?”
