Eleven
“Mrs.Greystone?”Fernsbysaidfrom the doorway of her laboratory.
“Yes?” Amelia looked up from the worktable where she’d been assembling the items she needed for the experiment at the school. The fact that her butler had interrupted her was unusual, and his grim expression concerning. “What is it?”
She’d enjoyed a light breakfast in the kitchen only an hour ago, as was her habit. She liked the warmth of the room and the conversation among the servants, even if she didn’t always participate in it. Her mood had been particularly light, a continuation since dinner with Henry the night before last.
But now that lightness was fading as Fernsby swallowed. “Pardon the interruption, but Sergeant Fletcher is here and says it’s urgent he speak with you.”
Fletcher?Amelia’s stomach dropped to the floor, her mouth dry. “I see.” But she didn’t. Why would Fletcher call instead of Henry—unless...
With trembling hands, she removed the apron she’d automatically donned and hung it on the peg, only to have it fall to the floor. Fernsby reached for it before she could,hanging it up as Amelia attempted to gather her thoughts before following Fernsby out the door.
“Did he—he say what he wanted?” she asked in an undertone.
“No, madam.” Fernsby didn’t expand as he led the way down the stairs. That alone suggested the sergeant hadn’t come bearing good news.
Amelia paused on the stairs after only a few steps down, gripping the handrail tightly, thoughts reeling. She was no next of kin, and Henry’s parents lived in London—but perhaps he had confided in his friend. Perhaps that was why Fletcher was here.
Oh dear God. She couldn’t bear it if something had happened to Henry. Surely fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to take him from her when they’d just shared their love for one another less than two days before.
Would it?
Yet terrible things happened every day. Life was rarely fair or easy. Happiness was too often fleeting. The lessons were harsh ones that she’d struggled to endure.
Fernsby reached the landing ahead of her, only to turn back with concern when he realized she wasn’t following him. “Madam? Are you quite well?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m coming.” She forced her shaking legs to cooperate and hurried down the rest of the stairs, holding back panic.
Henry might need her, and she was dawdling and giving in to fear. What kind of unofficial assistant allowed her fright to take control?
Fernsby waited at the entrance of the drawing room though he needn’t have bothered. She could see the tall sergeant in his navy blue uniform pacing the room, helmet tucked under one arm.
“Sergeant Fletcher?” She clasped her hands before her, fingers cramping from the tightness of her unconscious grip.
He turned to face her, the distress in his expression causing her to reach for the back of a chair to steady herself. “Mrs. Greystone.” His mouth opened and closed several times as he seemed to search for the right words.
“Not…Henry?” She held back the urge to shake the news out of the man. “Is he...well?” She couldn’t bring herself to suggest anything else. Not when she feared the alternative would upend her entire world yet again.
How many people she loved did she have to bury?
“There was a-an explosion. A bomb.” His chest heaved with the effort of delivering the terrible news. “At the Yard last night. He and young Marcus were caught in the blast.”
Amelia’s entire body shuddered, her breath caught in her throat. Her attention was riveted on the sergeant, a small part of her aware Fernsby guarded the doorway, something for which she was grateful.
“And?” she prompted even as she repeated a silent prayer.Please not Henry. Please not Henry.
“He struck his head on the pavement. Broke a few ribs. Bruised his shoulder.” Fletcher touched his own. “The doctor thinks he’ll recover but...” He gave a small shake of his head as though forcing the thought away. “It will take time to know for certain.”
Amelia tipped her head back and drew a breath, closing her eyes in relief. He was alive, and for the moment, that was all she needed to hear. After another steadying breath, she met the sergeant’s gaze. “And Marcus?”
Henry had told her about the boy, how he’d been helpful with two of his cases. How he was smart as a whip, and twice as clever. That he was trying—for the moment, unsuccessfully—to convince the lad to attend St. Hope’s Charitable School.
“Hurt but well enough to return home after we sorted things out.” He frowned. “Though I’m still not certain he has a home to return to.”
Thank goodness the boy hadn’t been seriously injured—which left only one name ringing in her ears.
“Where is Henry?” She wanted to see him and assess the damage for herself as much as she wanted her next breath.
