“And my best friend,” he said swiftly. “He’s a good chap, our George. He is cleverer than I am, better at his studies and things. He is quite popular too. People always like him,” he added with a wistful look. I felt a rush of sympathy for this kindly young man, sandwiched as he was between a dynamic father and an outgoing younger brother.
“People don’t always see me, you know. Not really. They see the Prince of Wales’ son, the future king. Most people don’t see Eddy.”
“I do,” I assured him.
“Yes, well, we are locked up together, so it makes it rather easy,” he returned with a self-deprecating little grin. He sobered again. “If they do mean to kill me, I hope you will tell the family that I faced it like a gentleman,” he said.
“Eddy—”
“I mean it,” he told me, seizing my hand in his. His palm was warm and broad, the fingers long and graceful where they curved over mine. “I have made no mark on the world, Veronica. If I die, how I face it will be the only story I have. I will endeavor to make it a good one.”
I gripped his hand in reply. “We will not permit that to happen, Eddy. You have my word.”
CHAPTER
16
Some hours later, the door opened and Quiet Dan and his compatriot returned, an unconscious Stoker slung between them. They dropped him to the floor and carried in a tray of food.
I went to where Stoker lay bleeding. He was breathing evenly, but there was a nasty lump on his head and the stitches on his arm had torn further asunder. I rounded on them in fury. “You might at least bring some water and bandages, you wretches,” I said in icy tones.
Quiet Dan had the grace to look abashed, and although he left, he returned quickly with a pitcher of water. He drew a nasty-looking handkerchief from his pocket and offered it.
“Thank you, but I would rather not give him septicemia,” I replied. “Go away now.”
He did as he was bade, shuffling away and locking the door behind him as Eddy stared at me in disbelief.
“He did what you told him,” he said in awed tones.
“A woman who knows her mind is a surprise to a certain type of man. They do not know how to react to it, so they generally obey,” I said in some distraction as I examined Stoker for further injuries.
“If this is your idea of seduction, I am doomed,” he murmured.
“You are conscious, then?” I asked, nearly light-headed from relief.
“I am unlikely to be anything else with your ham-fisted poking,” he complained. “I would have enjoyed a few more minutes of senselessness, you know.”
“I know,” I said, my eyes suddenly awash. I had time to dash away the unshed tears and compose myself before he looked at me.
Eddy crept near. “Do you require anything, Templeton-Vane?”
“A bit of morphia and a nice single malt would be just the thing,” Stoker replied. “And some cake.”
My laugh was mirthless and brittle. “Well, we haven’t any of those, but once we are out of here, I promise you a plateful of cakes, the best Julien d’Orlande can bake.”
“I shall hold you to that,” he said, slipping away again.
“Stoker,” I called softly.
He opened his good eye and held my gaze with visible effort.
“What have you discovered? Is escape possible through the rest of the warehouse?”
He shook his head slowly and gave a low growl of pain. “No. At least four locked doors between us and the street. Find another way.”
He gave a deep groan and rolled onto all fours and was lavishly sick. I put out my hand for the cloak Stoker had given Eddy and he handed it over without a word.
“Empty the food from one of the bowls and bring it here,” I instructed. Eddy obeyed with alacrity, and it occurred to me that, for all his lofty position, he was accustomed to following orders. Grandmother, father, tutors, commanding officers in army and navy—all would have dictated to him.
