John stretched out his legs and sighed. “An excellent idea.”
Knowing Hetty was safe, Guy enjoyed being back in the luxurious surroundings of John’s home. He lay back in the bath in his chamber and let the warm water soothe his tight muscles. Might this business be at an end? They must capture the French count, but even if they failed, he was now alone, his web of spies in prison awaiting trial. While Hobson fussed around him, Guy’s thoughts returned to Hetty. He admired her spirit and her quick thinking, but her rashness worried him. Once married, it seemed his life would continue its unpredictable course. He was more than ready for a quiet life. She had only leapt to his defense. And though he loved her, he worried that he might not be able to give her the life she craved. He didn’t want to crush her spirit. She had been unhappy in Digswell. Water mixed with blood as he stepped from the bath into the towel his valet held for him.
Hobson peered at him. “Why, my lord, you have a fresh wound in your side.”
“It’s just a scratch, Hobson. But you may dress it for me.”
When he and Smith had grappled for the pistol, it fired. The bullet struck Smith in the shoulder. Guy had attempted to staunch the flow of blood gushing from Smith’s wound with his handkerchief. Unfortunately, the big bounder had pulled a knife and slashed clean through Guy’s waistcoat and shirt, the blade finding his ribs.
Hobson shook his head. “Might need a couple of stitches, my lord.”
“I doubt it, Hobson. It’s not deep. Please wrap a bandage around it. Then I’m for bed.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The next morning,she dressed carefully in a white muslin morning gown and entered the breakfast room, heavy-eyed from little sleep. She resisted rubbing her eyes and seated herself at the table. Her father put down the newspaper. “I intend to return home after luncheon.”
She straightened and eyed him cautiously. “Oh, will you? I’m sorry your visit has been so brief and so—”
His chest swelled with indignation. “You are to return to Digswell with me, Horatia. I have no intention of leaving you here. London is a den of iniquity. It is a miracle you were not hurt or worse. I shall not trust to luck that you’ll remain so.”
His tone softened when he saw tears gather at the corners of her eyes. “My concern is for your safety, my dear. I could not endure it if you died before me.”
“Guy and I planned to wed soon. If he’s…” She fought a fervent desire to dissolve into hysterics.
“I also need to think about your wedding, Horatia. I was pleased when the baron offered for you. But now I see there was some ulterior motive. That you have been supporting him in some dangerous endeavor.”
“Yes, but all that has changed. We love each another, Papa.” She wished she was able to inject some enthusiasm into her voice, but she wasn’t entirely sure that Guy still felt the same way, and the mention of a wife still hovered in her mind. She needed him to come and reassure her that it wasn’t true, and nothing had changed.
“I’ve sent a note off to Eustace. I wish to discuss this matter with him.”
Her hands clenched in her lap. “Yes, Papa.”
It appeared that, at this moment, Eustace was the only ally she had, and she hoped he might persuade her father to allow her to remain here. She would not leave until she’d heard from Guy. Was he hurt? Was there already a baroness in France? So many unanswered questions filled her mind, she feared it was in danger of exploding.
“And there’s this matter of a Truesdale being buried in a rather rushed manner in the Fortescue crypt. I wasn’t aware that the baron had any relatives living in England.”
“It was Guy’s twin brother, Vincent. He’d just arrived from France when he had an accident. He fell down the stairs at Rosecroft Hall.”
“How tragic! Everyone was speaking of it in the village.”
It was fortunate that Lady Kemble was away from Digswell, for she would have made it her business to uncover the truth.
“So, Guy is now in mourning, poor fellow, and may not wish to marry so soon.” He pushed back his chair. “You need to eat a good breakfast, Hetty. Everything will seem brighter on a full stomach.”
Left alone at the table, Hetty pushed buttered eggs around her plate. She couldn’t eat it if her life depended on it.
“Perhaps some toast, Miss Hetty?” Sarah asked as she poured Hetty another cup of tea.
“Yes, thank you Sarah. And thank you for doing my hair so nicely.”
“It’s my pleasure. Such lovely hair you have.”
Hetty nodded with a vague smile. That awful villain called her a carroty-patted harridan, last night, when she feared for her life. The milkman’s son had once told her that witches had red hair. “If a witch puts a spell on you,” he went on to explain, “the only way to remove it is to take an item of clothing which is worn close to the witch’s skin and burn it in the place where she was born.” He annoyed her so much Hetty threatened to put a spell on him.
The color of her hair would never concern her again. She sniffed. As long as Guy liked it. Guy! A tremor passed through her. She would not relax until she saw his dear face again and knew that he was all right.
*
