Not one to root for such things, but he didn’t exactly mind his posthumous prospects. Felton pounded his skull. His thoughts were scattered. Is that what love did, make one insane?
Jane sang. Her sweet, high-pitched voice barely covered the errant notes her fingers had jumbled. Younger by ten years, she was the baby of the Lance family, and its brightest musician. She typically was quite a tolerable one, except when trying to catch the eye of a gentleman. Their cousin Jeremiah Gladstone had brought many of his old university friends, a few wealthy shippers, and a couple of widowed peers.
Where was Gladstone now?
Cecilia said he’d been to Demerara earlier in the year. He must be involved in smuggling. Visiting Demerara—wouldn’t he know the Thomas family? Maybe he had some news of Helena that would set Cecilia at ease.
Now that he’d quit the Department of War and the Colonies, could he maybe seek out Tramel’s or Gladstone’s contacts to get Helena out of Demerara? Felton could no longer count on any help from his former colleagues.
He searched the room, noting things like always: where people stood, who they talked with, how close they were to an exit.
Gladstone appeared to be missing. That meant he was in Felton’s study smoking a cigar, away from the eye of Aunt Nelly, the man’s mother.
Jane plinked the keys again, wrongly. Her notes often became showy, out of kilter, or simply flat. She had no right to criticize Cecilia. His wife’s Roman soldier piece was outstanding.
Perhaps a good but gentle talk would help Jane understand that changes were to be made. Cecilia was his wife. She was mistress of this house. It was time for Felton to assert her position.
Looking again toward the door, he felt his face fall when it was another woman, not Cecilia, entering.
How did one tell their wife they’d fallen madly in love with them? A direct address? A quiet whisper over dinner? Perhaps he’d pose for her. Maybe he’d swallow his pride and go fully Roman, the sheet and all. She seemed unbothered by his scars.
Clapping.
Jane must be done.
No.
She started a new song.
He’d pounce like a jaguarete at the next opportunity to leave the room to find Cecilia.
Footsteps too heavy for a gifted dancer sounded in the hall.
His cousin Jeremiah Gladstone entered and sat beside him. With sandy-brown hair and an athletic build, the man looked sweaty and disheveled. The knot of his cravat was mangled like someone had tried to strangle him.
“Gladstone?” Felton forced his voice to lower to not upset Jane’s music. “What’s the matter? You look like someone threatened your life.”
Jeremiah turned beet red everywhere, from his long nose to his five-finger forehead. His mouth opened then closed. Nothing came out. None of his famous excuses of why the world was against him.
Felton clasped his cousin’s arm. “Are you ill, man?”
Eyes big and bulging, Jeremiah looked nervous or guilty or both.
Felton grasped the man’s cravat and tugged him near. “Have you seen my wife?”
Again, his cousin’s mouth opened, but no explanation uttered.
As he let go, Felton had blood on his hands. “You’ve been attacked.”
Gladstone pulled at the cloth and exposed a small slash on his throat. “Goodness, I’m bleeding.”
Felton dragged the man into the hall. “Who did this?”
“I told Tramel and Lady Gantry I wouldn’t tell.” Gladstone tore away. “Say nothing, cousin. It’s for the best. You saw nothing.”
The man fled.
It took a moment for the shock to wear away.
