“Yes, milady,” Mary said, signaling the footman to retrieve the packages.
Inside the coach, Bella leaned back into the soft grey squabs and closed her eyes. Lord Slade Drake’s face drifted before her eyes. Content, she exhaled a contented sigh and allowed herself to dream.
She felt the coach turn off the main road onto a graveled one, lined with magnolias and black oak trees, signaling they had arrived at Rothmore Manor. A low hedge of greenery ran along each side of the road. Mama called them daylilies, often remarking they were a favorite. The yellow and pink lilies they sprouted were always a glorious welcome home. As soon as the coach’s wheels hit the crunchier base of oyster shells her grandmother had started many years ago, she knew the journey was at an end.
A moment later they stopped in front of her parents’ three-storied grey-bricked manor. Window boxes sat below the tall leaded-glass windows, with long strands of ivy framing potted violets. She admired her mother’s direction in gardening. She frequently found Mama planting alongside the gardener. Large purple swaths of wisteria grew against the south-side bricks of the house. As the carriage stopped, the door opened, and a footman came down to welcome them home.
“My lady, welcome home,” Gordon said, opening the door and extending his hand.
Four
Slade handed the reins of his horse to a young ostler as he pulled up in front of the door and was met by Cain. “Can you see my horse is fed and watered?”
“Yes, my lord,” the footman returned.
Taking the steps to his home two at a time, he opened the door before Norman could do so.
“My lord, welcome home,” the tall greying butler said, accepting Slade’s caped coat with white-gloved hands. “His Grace wishes to see you, my lord. And there was a missive delivered for you an hour ago.”
“A missive?” Slade wondered if it was from Latham.
“Yes, my lord.” The older man picked up a silver salver from a hall table and held it out for Slade.
Slade glanced at the sealed note before tucking it into this waistcoat pocket and proceeding up the stairs. “Are my mother and sister at home?”
“They are, my lord. I believe they are enjoying tea in the solarium.”
“Thank you, Norman.”
As he reached his brother’s apartments, he realized that Graham had not moved his things to Father’s rooms yet. He knocked on the door.
“Come in.” His brother’s voice was weaker than normal. Slade was grateful he was awake. He might not have woken him otherwise.
“Slade, it is great to have you home, brother,” Graham said, sitting up and trying to fix his pillow behind him.
“Your Grace, allow me,” his valet said. The man fluffed up the pillow and removed the tray of soup and toast Graham had just finished.
“Did I interrupt your midday meal?” Slade asked.
“No, as you can see. It held limited appeal. Bone broth and toasted bread. I needed to eat, or I would not have bothered myself. You know I hate soup.”
“I do,” Slade said slowly. He studied his brother, his forehead furrowed with worry at his brother’s weak appearance. When Graham lifted his hand, Slade noticed it was with great effort. “I have only met with Wortle, and the man is not exactly forthcoming with any actual information. I am afraid I exacted my temper on him.” He turned to his brother’s valet, who was anxiously wringing his hands. “That will be all, Conners. I will ring you when I leave.”
“Very good, my lord.” The man picked up the tray of food scraps and departed the room, closing the room gently behind him.
“Conners is worried about me,” Graham said, as the door closed. “He fears my injuries are great. The man is fussier about my health than I would want to credit him. He can exhaust me,” he said with a slow exhale.
Slade recognized frustration and fatigue on his brother’s face. Conners had been with him for years. “How do you feel?”
His brother turned and looked at the drape-covered windows for a minute.” Honestly, I have never felt this bad in my life. The surgeon removed a piece of metal that had pierced my gut.” He motioned towards his stomach. “I cannot recall much.”
Slade’s heart lurched. Stomach wounds were always dangerous. Graham looked very banged up. “Are you running a fever?”
“I cannot seem to get beyond one. At night it is worse.” The duke fidgeted with the edge of his covers as he spoke. “Have you spoken to Mother?”
“I have. She misses Father and is anxious about you. I was glad to hear she and Tabetha were taking tea in the solarium. That’s a good sign.” Worried about his mother’s ability to accept the death of a son on the heels of her much-adored husband, Slade struggled with how to approach the discussion with Graham. “She looks frail.” After a moment of silence, Slade cleared his throat, determined to discuss what Graham wanted to avoid. “Wortle showed you intend to fake your death.” He narrowed his gaze. “Mother may not be able to handle that. What has you convinced it is the only way to draw out the killer?”
Graham’s face paled. “I worry about Mother, as well. But we must convince the cutthroat I am gone. My gut tells me Father was targeted, although he had no enemies of which I am aware. Outside of our household, no one knew I would be in that coach,” Graham rasped.
