Guy woke andgroaned. He felt as if he’d been trampled underfoot by a herd of cattle. Then the night’s disastrous dealings came back to him, along with the pain in his side. The wound appeared to be deeper than he’d first thought and bled in the night.
After breakfast, he visited a physician who put in several stitches and bandaged the wound again, warning him to rest. “You were lucky, sir, an inch deeper…” He shook his head.
Guy shrugged painfully into his coat. A knife wound didn’t bother him overmuch, but he shuddered when he recalled how close Hetty came to being thrown into the Thames. And his sister, too, who behaved with such bravery he wasn’t sure whether to scold her or embrace her. He would call on her later this afternoon. With all that had been going on since she’d arrived in London, he’d had very little time to enjoy having her with him again. She was his one connection to that happy time in France before everything came to such a brutal end.
On the way to King Street, he reflected soberly on the whirlwind months since he’d come to England. Vincent’s reappearance and subsequent death left him bitter with disappointment and sadness. Eustace’s distrust of him rankled, and he’d been bailed up by footpads, shot at by highwaymen, and thrown into a den of mad conspirators, escaping by the skin of his teeth. Any desire for excitement had vanished, and at this moment, it seemed entirely possible it would never return.
His nerves stretched thin, he longed for a quiet life at Rosecroft Hall. There was so much there he looked forward to getting started with, and he didn’t wish to spend another season in London anytime soon. The grouse shoot and some hunting would provide ample excitement.
He wasn’t sure how much Hetty’s father and Aunt Emily knew. If they’d been told, they would be justifiably angry having put their trust in him. It would require great diplomacy to put things to rights.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hetty was slumpedin the chair toying with a piece of toast and strawberry jam when her aunt entered the breakfast room. “Try to eat a little more, Hetty. Cook says you sent back the buttered eggs untouched.”
Hetty shook her head. “I won’t, thank you, Aunt. I seem to have lost my appetite. Are you angry with me, too?”
“I’m dismayed, my dear. I have not been vigilant enough. And I believe your ardent nature has led you astray.”
“I hope Guy is all right,” Hetty whispered. “It was dreadful, Aunt.”
“Your father told me very little about what happened last night. I’m not sure I wish to learn the whole.”
Hetty firmed her lips. It wasn’t fair to draw her aunt into this when all she wanted was a quiet life. It occurred to Hetty that Aunt Emily would never have fought for her lover. Her aunt had a gentle nature evident in her contemplative poems, which lacked the spontaneity of Burns or the passion of Byron. Nor did she suffer Hetty’s impatience, which right now made her want to hire a hackney and go to Guy.
Eustace arrived before luncheon. He hurried in with a worried expression and gave Hetty a reassuring hug before her father ushered him, along with her aunt, into the small room she called her bookroom. The three of them had been closeted there for half an hour when Genevieve appeared at the door, her eyes wide with distress. “Those men sent me home. What happened?”
“Have you heard from Guy?” Hetty asked.
“Non!”
With an eye on the bookroom door, Hetty drew the duchess into the parlor. She gave Genevieve a potted version of the evening’s events, leaving out any mention of the pistol shot she’d heard.
Perhaps her voice had given her away, for Genevieve pursed her lips and frowned. “ButGee…Is he all right?”
“I hope so.” Hetty cast her eyes down. “Father is taking me back to the country in a few hours. I doubt I’ll be allowed to visit London again for years.”
“You are betrothed toGee,are you not?” A look of horror tightened the duchess’s features. “Your father blames him for this?”
“No. Father is furious with me.”
“Pourquoi?”
“He saw how I was dressed. I had to tell him.”
“Oh. Then I am sorry.”
“It cannot be helped.” Hetty eyed her carefully. “Those men spoke of a Baroness Fortescue who lives in Paris.”
She looked puzzled. “Maman died many years ago.”
“No, Guy’s wife.”
Genevieve’s eyebrows rose. “ButGeehas no wife.”
Hope took root in Hetty’s breast. “Might he have married and not told you?”
Genevieve glowered. “Non!”
