It took her a moment to decipher his words. “Lady Macbeth? I’m not sure. I’ve never seen her react to anyone like this. Are you here to hurt me?” she asked him.
“Nah.” He held up a paper. “I got somfin fer ye. Sayed it were ’portan.”
Gabby choked up the dog’s lead to keep her from scaring the boy and took the note. “I’m afraid I don’t have any coin on me.”
“Oh.” His dejection had her hiding a smile.
“Come along.” She walked briskly toward the entrance. “I live just across the way. I have something there. Are you hungry?” A rhetorical question based on how thin he was.
His swallow was audible, but she dare not look at him for the sake of his pride. “We’ll go around to the servants’ entrance.” She didn’t wish for Diggs to harm himself when he fainted from shock.
Gabby left the boy in Mrs. Diggs capable hands, told Diggs to give him a shilling and took herself up the stairs to read the “important” missive. Brita was in her chamber when she arrived. “Is there hot water?”
“Yes, miss.”
She opened the note and read. She looked at her maid. “I need something dark and sturdy.”
“Dark and sturdy?”
“Wool, if I have it.”
“Wool…”
“I also require the carriage. Tell Connor. No. I’ll take a horse. No. I’ll take a hackney. Yes, that’s it. I’ll take a hackney. I shouldn’t have trouble getting one at this ungodly hour of the morning.” She was tossing off her clothes and stopped. “Well, don’t just stand there. I must hurry.”
Brita stepped out of the chamber and Gabby realized the adjourning door was still ajar. She crept over and peered inside. Huntley was lying on his back with a palm flat on his chest, still sleeping soundly. There was plenty of time to let him know when she returned. She pulled the door shut without a sound, went to the escritoire, and stashed the note in the drawer.
Brita soon returned, holding a wool frock. “This was the best I could do, my lady.”
“Perfect.” Some of the edges were frayed and there was even a patch or two. “Where on earth did you find it?”
“In my wardrobe.”
“Obviously, I’m falling short of my philanthropic efforts if I can’t keep my own maid decently attired.” She made a mental note to speak with Vella.
Thirty-Three
James started to roll over and fell back, groaning. One more jarring move and his head would explode. He just knew it. Someone scratched at the door, but he didn’t have the ability to open it. What the devil was Potts up to? The man never knocked. Then he whined. Whined?
Not Potts, then.
His head pounded but he forced himself to focus. The scratching sounded again, but it was closer and came from near the floor. Slowly, he turned his head to minimize the pain. The adjoining door was shut but the faint noise was definitely coming from there.
Carefully, James rose to sitting. Holding his head, he slowly put his legs over the bed to the floor and stilled, breathing hard through the agony and fog. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so soused—not quite true, he amended silently, sending another shaft of pain pounding. There was that unfortunate episode on his wedding night. She’s forgiven you for your dunderheaded actions that night. Another wispy picture trickled in, and his chest warmed. An imprint per se. His body curled about his wife’s. He turned slowly, being prudent so as to not jar anything in his head unnecessarily. There was an impression on the pillow, but he wagered that one belonged to Lady Macbeth.
The scratching grew more demanding, and he made his way over and opened the door to an excited pup. She pranced at his feet. “Demanding as your mistress, eh, Your Majesty?” He picked her up and held her to his chest.
A lightness enveloped him. Gabriella had seen fit in leaving her precious queen with him. They truly had turned a corner.
He widened the door, looking for his countess. The bed was made, no clothes were strewn about, highly unusual for his shopping-addicted bride. Her maid appeared from the sitting room on the opposite side of the chamber, explaining the bedchamber’s current condition.
“Oh, my lord. I heard the dog and came to retrieve her before she disturbed you.”
“Lady Macbeth is in good hands, as you can see,” he said. “Where is my lovely wife?”
“Lady Huntley received a note from a lad upon her walk in the gardens this morning and has rushed off to Drury Lane. It sounded quite urgent.”
Unprecedented apprehension speared James. Remaining calm strangled him. “How long ago did she leave?”
