I heard the rustle of his jacket as he slid them into his pocket, then felt the gentle tug as he led me into the warm sun. We walked into the garden. I wondered how people would react to Adam’s cousin, but a part of me didn’t care.
I had a friend, someone who believed me.
Chapter Thirteen
The Observant Cousin
Wycliff walked with Ruth into the Croomes’ garden.
He thought better of heading straight to the crowded center of the party, but staying close to the house on the stone patio or sitting at the small tables didn’t offer the privacy he wanted. Instead, he steered Ruth to the cobblestone path that edged the garden.
With each step, her nails sank deeper into his jacket. If she became more agitated, she’d push her fingers through his sleeve. That would be a waste of good tailoring.
He stopped as a guest crossed in front of them. Ruth was poised as she introduced him to one person after the other. She could tell who they were without her glasses.
Then why doesn’t she recognize me?
Perhaps he wasn’t giving the observant woman enough clues to his identity. He’d have to do better. Ruth needed to figure out who he was. Wycliff couldn’t risk triggering one of the fits her physicians had described. Lawden’s report on Ruth was heartbreaking and as shocking as the information on the rest of the Croome family and friends.
He tapped his boot and swayed to the enticing rhythm of the fiddler playing near the refreshment table. Wycliff made note of what Lawden had described in his briefing. The Croomes had a controlled lawn that could be observed only by the townhome to the right. The only entrance to the garden was through the Croome house. This place was safe.
Nodding to another guest, he and Ruth started moving. The cobblestone path that circled the grass like a border to an imported silk rug seemed smooth enough for her slippers.
He’d heard of the hidden gardens of Spitalfields but had never seen one. This unexpected oasis of manicured hedges, a sweet stone bench overlooking a glass mosaic birdbath, and a fishpond delighted him.
But did this delight Ruth?
Were these her tastes or her parents’? If it was hers, he’d match it at Blaren House.
He patted her arm and stopped thinking of the future he wanted—her with him in Mayfair, them loving each other again. He’d enjoy this garden today and pay attention to his friend, and protect her from everything fretting that brow.
“This is lovely, Mrs. Wilky.”
Her eyes were shut tight. Her deep-honey complexion had drops of dew along her forehead. It wasn’t raining, but was his love caught in a storm?
He sensed her fear, could hear the rapid changes in her breathing. The echo of throaty hitches stuttered through him.
The panicked fits—was this one?
“You’re suffering in silence, Mrs. Wilky. Not good.”
“Habit.” She brushed at the curls falling to her face. “Ignore me and keep walking.”
“Can’t ignore you. Impossible.”
Ruth wasn’t the same, not the woman he’d married four years ago. He should blacken his other eye for thinking she would be.
Physically, she was the same beauty. Her eyesight was terrible. He’d been close to her face, close enough to kiss that fetching nose—a little wide, a little pointed at the peak, perfect nose.
She no longer had a sense of peace. Wycliff saw glimpses of her spirit and quick wit, but he suspected those moments were few.
Tease her.
He’d tease her to set her at ease. “I’m not a fan of ignoring a beautiful woman. Instead, convince me to be at your beck and call.”
“Make nice with my parents, and then you need not see me again.”
“That was harsh, Mrs. Wilky. Can’t you show your cousin some care?”
