“Don’t you start as well,” Grayson warned. “It’s bad enough thathewon’t shut up about it. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking when I confided my dilemma in him.”
“I’ve already told you to marry the chit,” Colin said.
“Hence my intention to set off tomorrow,” Grayson said.
“You mean to propose?” James asked.
“Maybe.” Grayson seemed to mull something over, then added, “For starters I plan on figuring out how she really feels about me.”
“And how do you intend to do that?” James asked, hoping his friend might provide the answer he himself sought.
Grayson met James’s gaze. “By asking her, of course.”
Of course.
How stupidly simple. James wondered why he hadn’t thought to take this approach. No doubt because he’d been too caught up in his own emotional turmoil to think straight.
Well, perhaps it was time he began doing so. He was forty-five years old, for God’s sake – well beyond the age where it made sense for him to wonder what the woman he fancied thought about him. If he really wanted to know, then he should just ask her and be done with it.
Wilhelmina stepped down from the carriage she’d taken to The Swan with Two Heads, collected her bag, and started walking. It would take her a good half hour to reach Cynthia’s house and while she had considered hiring a hackney, she’d decided she could do with the exercise after sitting for several consecutive hours.
With her head held high and her bag gripped firmly in one hand, she made her way to Oxford Street before dusk started to settle. The crowded street, packed with carriages, horses, and wagons at this hour, was noisy. Merchants who lived west of the City were heading home while gentlemen tried to get to their clubs.
Up ahead, a couple of ladies approaching halted their progress. They stared at Wilhelmina, exchanged a few words with each other, and promptly crossed to the other side of the street, weaving their way through oncoming traffic as they went. She shook her head and tried not to let their reaction sting, but it was hard not to when they’d rather risk getting trampled by an oncoming carriage than having to cross paths with her.
She reached the corner of Berner’s Street and turned right. Three streets later she arrived at the front door of Petersen House. Glancing both ways before she approached, Wilhelmina made sure no one saw who had come to call on the widow who resided here and, noting that the coast was clear, quickly went to knock.
Cynthia’s maid of all works, Mrs. Rubins, answered Wilhelmina’s call. Her eyes widened the moment she saw who it was. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here, Mrs. Lawson. Please come in.”
Wilhelmina frowned on account of the maid’s agitation. She stepped into the foyer and began removing her gloves. “Is everything all right?”
“I wish I could say it were, but I have to confess I’m mighty worried about the mistress. She’s been horribly ill for more than a week now – can’t seem to keep anything down.”
Concern rippled across Wilhelmina’s shoulders. Cynthia hadn’t mentioned feeling unwell when she’d written. “I trust she’s upstairs in bed then?”
“Aye, that she is. I’ll show you up right away.”
“No need to trouble yourself with that.” Wilhelmina drew off her bonnet, hung it on a peg, and patted her hair. “If you’re able, I’d rather you make a pot of ginger tea.”
“All right, ma’am. I’ll see to it straight away.”
Wilhelmina thanked her and started up the stairs. She’d visited here many times in the months following Cynthia and Henry’s wedding. The last time she’d come had been the day after Henry’s funeral. She’d stayed away for the solemn occasion itself since she’d already started making headlines and had no wish to make life harder for her daughter or Henry’s family.
Just like then, she was on her way to her daughter’s bedchamber now to see how she was faring. She found the door she sought with ease and gave it a gentle knock.
“Come in.”
Wilhelmina pushed the door open and peered inside the dimly lit room. Her gaze swept to the bed where Cynthia lay, propped against a pile of pillows. A book was in her lap. She shifted her head and glanced at Wilhelmina. “Mama?”
“Mrs. Rubins tells me you’re feeling poorly.” Wilhelmina stepped into the room, closed the door, and approached the bed. She reached for Cynthia’s hand.
“What on earth are you doing here?” Cynthia asked, not addressing Wilhelmina’s comment.
Wilhelmina perched on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her. “Did you honestly think I would stay away after learning of Cloverfield’s outrageous actions against Mr. Dale? I needed to make sure you are all right. That he is as well.” She placed one palm on Cynthia’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”
“I know,” Cynthia groaned.
“What are your symptoms?”
