A thud followed by a sharp cry sounded above. Annabel raced upstairs and burst into the bedchamber. Rupert lay on the floor, his scrunched face red as a beet and his tiny fists clenched tight.
Annabel covered her mouth to stop her cry.
“I dropped him.” Mrs. Taylor shook her head in apparent disbelief. But she didn’t move to pick him up. She seemed frozen, unable to do anything but shake her head.
Rupert let out a high-pitched wail as if protesting his mama’s inaction.
Annabel raced forward and scooped Rupert up in her arms.
Mrs. Taylor made a feeble effort to stand.
“Don’t worry; he’ll be fine.” Annabel dipped Rupert’s rag in the cup of sugar water Mrs. Taylor had at the ready, wrapped it around her finger, and stuck it in the child’s mouth. She’d watched Mrs. Taylor do this many times when Rupert needed calming. He sucked greedily on her wrapped finger, extracting what little comfort he could from the sugar. Annabel rocked him and made soothing noises until his exhaustion overcame his pain, and he could no longer keep his eyes open.
“He’s asleep.” Annabel glanced at Mrs. Taylor. The seamstress lay slumped in her rocking chair with her eyes closed.
The hairs on the back of Annabel’s neck stood at attention. She stooped, still cradling Rupert, and took Mrs. Taylor’s hand, concerned by the red splotches spreading across the woman’s cheeks. Her hand was warm to the touch. She reached up and lightly brushed Mrs. Taylor’s cheek, then withdrew it instantly. Mrs. Taylor’s skin burned with an obvious fever.
Annabel stepped back and gripped Rupert close to her chest. She looked from Mrs. Taylor to Rupert and then back to the fevered woman.
Heaven help me! What am I to do now?
*
Henry opened hiseyes and welcomed the daylight filtering into his bedchamber. He’d slept peacefully for the first time in two years and awoke refreshed. What miraculous transformation had taken place? A smile played on his lips as a picture of Anne Crawford formed in his mind. Spending time with her made him feel alive again. It wasn’t simply her lovely green eyes or bright smile that captivated him. She possessed an energy and vitality about her that made his concerns seem small. He admired how she’d taken control of her own life after tragedy—something he’d failed to do. But something dark plagued her too, and when her gloved hand sought his in the darkness of the theater, he’d felt guilt.
He should not have taken her to see such a disturbing play—not because he attributed her reaction to an overactive feminine imagination—he was not so narrow-minded—but because he’d sensed her vulnerability. Her reaction had been visceral rather than overblown, and it made him wonder what her husband had been like. How had he treated her? He hated the thought that something or someone in her past had made her suffer.
With that realization, he threw back his covers and stepped out of bed, stretching once more and embracing the day with his whole body. Then he froze.
He was not alone.
Bastin sat on the tufted red velvet chair in the corner of the room.
“What the devil is happening?” Henry peered at Bastin. “Why are you sitting there like the Red Death?”
“Not a bad analogy,” Bastin said, pushing himself out of the chair, “seeing that I have come to warn you of your inevitable demise.”
“My demise?” Henry picked up his robe and slipped it on. “Have you adopted the personae of one of your characters?”
“No, I’m afraid I’ve come as myself.” His voice was devoid of playfulness.
“Come for what, exactly?”
“Answers.” Bastin slipped his hands into his pockets. “Where were you yesterday? Ottilie was worried sick when you failed to arrive for supper.”
“Oh, yes.” Henry put a hand to his forehead. “I forgot all about supper. I lost track of time. I’m sorry about keeping your carriage out so late. Did you have need of it?”
“I don’t give a damn about the carriage. But I do care when you lie to me. I knowexactlywhat you were getting up to last night. I lived that life myself not too long ago.”
“I recall only too well,” Henry said dryly. “Yet now you see fit to judge me.”
“I am not judging you; I’m holding you accountable for upsetting my wife—your cousin—who is with child, remember?”
Henry hung his head. The last person he wanted to hurt was Ottilie. “I wasn’t out drinking, gambling, or whoring last night. I promise you. I had a few things to take care of, had a bite to eat, and then went to the theater on a whim—a very fine production ofOthelloat the Theatre Royal.” Henry said, keeping silent about Anne and the time he’d spent kissing her after the play. He’d been so elated after they’d parted that he’d taken a long walk before heading back to the old coaching inn where he’d sent Bastin’s driver to wait for him earlier that day.
Bastin folded his arms.Othello.Well, that ought to have cheered you up,” he teased.
“In a way, it did. The actors did a splendid job. I always enjoy a good Shakespearian tragedy.”
