Chapter Thirty

W ithout hesitating, beating both senior members of the staff as well as the maids who had come along after them, Clarity ran down the hall and through the open library doorway.

It was dark, but a man was groaning.

As a scream welled in her throat, light flooded the room.

Alex was beside the reading table, having leaned over to light the lamp. As he straightened, she saw blood staining the front of his amber-colored dressing gown. Giving in to the impulse, she shrieked, despite him staring back at her with clear, alert eyes, and despite another person on the wool rug at his feet.

"I'm not bleeding," her husband reassured her, and she relaxed, although still lightheaded from the initial terror.

"Send for a doctor and a constable," Alex ordered his butler.

Mr. Berard rushed from the room, and the rest of them gave their attention to the man on the floor, dressed in coarse clothing, with a bloom of blood on the front of his shirt.

Clarity recognized him at once. "Mr. Chimes?"

"You know this man?" Alex asked, shocked.

"He is one of the Mr. Crace's workmen."

"Is he?" Alex asked. He went to the sash window casement. "He must have broken the latch before he left to allow himself easy access."

Then she saw the long, wicked knife where it had fallen from his grasp.

"You fought with him?"

"I did," Alex said. "Mrs. Rigley, perhaps you have something we can press against the man's wound, although I—" He stopped speaking, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. The housekeeper vanished as quickly as the butler had.

"Go back to bed," Clarity ordered the two maids who were staring at their master and the felled intruder. "At once."

They did as she said. Then she turned to him, now crouched beside the robber.

"Tell me what happened."

"I don't think he will live," Alex said. "I had to shoot him. He came at me in the dark like a fool. I felt his blade."

"What do you mean you felt it? Alex, stand up!"

When he did nothing, she yanked at his arm. He hissed in pain, but he stood. On his left sleeve, blood was seeping through, and without doubt, it was her husband's.

"He cut you," she insisted, starting to shake. "You are bleeding!"

"I suppose I am," he agreed as Mrs. Rigley returned.

Quickly, Clarity grabbed one of the cloths from the housekeeper's hand.

"The robber may not live," she said over her shoulder, "but we will need that doctor. Mrs. Rigley, will you press a cloth to the man's side?"

Meanwhile, she wrapped the one she held tightly around Alex's arm over the blood stain, tying the ends in a knot.

"No point, my lady," she heard from behind her. Mrs. Rigley's voice was trembling. "He's not breathing no more."

Clarity and Alex locked eyes. Alex groaned, whether from pain or from hearing he'd killed someone, she didn't know.

"Sit," she ordered and practically pushed him backward into the comfy wingback chair. "And stay. There's nothing more you can do."

Alex wondered how a delightful evening at the theater could end with him finally getting back to bed, bandaged, in pain, and having killed a man in his home.

The constable had arrived and taken the dead man away to the morgue. The capable staff had already rolled up the Persian rug. Whether Mrs. Rigley would clean it or throw it away, he didn't particularly care.

But Clarity had disobeyed him, and it stung. She had come directly downstairs and entered the library right behind him, seconds after the fight.

What if she'd come in before he'd shot the man? The robber might have run for the door and stabbed her.

He shuddered. How could he keep her safe if she wouldn't obey him?

At that moment, she slept deeply beside him, which was a wonder in itself, considering all that had happened. She'd made sure he was comfortable after his doctor had cleaned and dressed the superficial gash, and then she'd yawned so broadly, it looked as if she would split her face. In seconds, she was asleep.

Lately, as his baby grew inside her, she was exhausted by bedtime and usually drifted off as soon as he put out the lamp. And then she snored as she was doing then, something he didn't recall from when they were newly married. He could only conclude it had something to do with her pregnancy.

That made him smile in the darkness. His ever-larger wife, growing rounder in face as well as belly, snuffling and snoring beside him. He went to put his arms around her, knowing it wouldn't awaken her as she was such a sound sleeper, but he winced upon moving, having already forgotten his wound.

There was no question of her going to Twickenham. He didn't think he could let her out of his sight, not until after the baby had arrived. And he knew it was going to cause an argument. Closing his eyes, he prayed for dreamless sleep, providing him the strength to stand up to a willful Clarity.

In the morning, as expected, they went toe-to-toe.

"Are you actually telling me I cannot go to Marble Hill?" She was fuming over her morning cup of chocolate, which was not a good sign. "You do realize even the queen herself has had assassination attempts that did not keep her from going out."

"I am telling you," Alex said with as much patience as he could muster, "I would like you to wait until I can accompany you."

"Which will be when?" she asked. "And while you look at reports of cattle sales and the price of grain, I am to do what precisely?"

"If you hadn't pushed aside my aunt's offers of assistance in learning the ways of Hollidge House, then you would have plenty to keep yourself busy."

It was a sore spot, but as far as he could tell, Aunt Elizabeth still ran everything. And the one thing Clarity had done recently, hiring workmen, had brought a thief into their midst.

"And each time you cause problems with Aunt Elizabeth —"

" I cause problems?" Clarity echoed, setting down her cup. "You have that the other way around, I assure you."

He hated to gainsay her. Mostly, he didn't want to upset his expectant wife, but facts were facts.

"We had no issues in this house before your arrival. Certainly no nighttime robbers, nor people refusing to come to dinner." He had heard from his aunt that one of the couples from the previous party had refused a repeat performance.

"Of course you had no issues," Clarity insisted. "You lived like a lifeless ghost or a tamed lion with Lady Aston as your overbearing keeper."

"You must grow up," he told her, ignoring the insults. "How are the preparations for St. George's Day?"

"It seems early to worry about that," Clarity protested. "We only recently celebrated the Hocktide and Easter."

He waved away her words. "My parents used to host at least a party a month, especially for the traditional festival days, and I expect you to take up the tradition."

"I am well aware of that. But your aunt said she —"

"You cannot expect her to do it all. You are the viscountess."

"I know but she —"

"Clarity, please stop arguing with everything I say. I married you, trusting that you would become mature enough —"

"What are you saying?" She rose to her feet from the small table in the salon where they took their morning meal. Thus, he did the same.

"On the day we married, we were blissfully in love," she continued, resting her clasped hands upon her burgeoning stomach. "You said nothing about wanting me to change. How can you be such a beast?"

A beast! What an odd thing to call him. After all, he was trying to protect her. Indeed, he'd shot a man for her.

"I don't want you to change," he said, but he didn't sound convinced, even to his own ears. "Merely do not be so..." He halted abruptly.

"So much myself," she finished, her tone flat.

Or maybe that was finally the sound of his wife speaking reasonably. If she were more like his aunt, there would be no drama. If she had handled all her duties with aplomb, then Aunt Elizabeth wouldn't have had to step in and try to fix things, bringing it to Alex's attention, rubbing his nose in the fact that he'd chosen a wife with his heart instead of his head.

"I understand what you're saying, Alex."

He almost snapped at her to call him "my lord" before realizing what an ass that would make him. In fact, he loved hearing her say his name. He loved her beyond reason, which was why he wanted everything to go smoothly.

If one tempted fate, then the wheel of that mythical lady Fortuna might spin dizzyingly around and send their happy life into one of wretchedness and turmoil.

"I'm glad you understand," he said. "Let me finish what I'm working on, and we'll go to Gunter's for ice cream this afternoon."

She shook her head. "You don't want ice cream. You probably consider it a childish thing to eat."

"I don't," he protested. "I love ice cream."

"How often did you go there before we were married?"

"Never," he admitted.

"You see," she said softly. "Another compromise in your orderly life that you made on my account."

"Ice cream isn't a compromise," he said.

"In any case, I don't want any, and I no longer want breakfast, either," she proclaimed.

The red devils had got hold of her, whipping her up until her eyes were flashing and her cheeks deeply flushed.

"I shall leave you to eat hurriedly and then get on with your work."

"I hope you change your mind about Gunter's," Alex said when she reached the doorway.

"Another thing to change," she muttered and stormed out.

As it turned out, Alex didn't finish until it was nearly the dinner hour and already growing dark. Sticking his head into the drawing room, he searched for Clarity. She wasn't there, nor in the library, nor in the informal salon, which was the scene of their morning altercation. At that moment, he couldn't even remember how or why it had escalated so quickly into the worst argument they'd had since getting married.

Upstairs, she wasn't in either of their bedrooms. He even opened the door to the nursery, but the curtains were drawn closed. It was dark and empty, giving him an unsettled feeling.

Wandering back downstairs again, he looked in the dining room before going down another flight of steps to the kitchen, knowing how Clarity loved to snack. Cook gave him one look and shook her head.

What on earth? Alex should have asked Mr. Berard directly. Against his wishes, his wife had gone out, but his butler would know the when and where of it.

Retreating to the front of the cellar, he tapped on Mr. Berard's sitting-room door.

"Yes," the man said, sounding aggravated. Alex figured that was probably how he sounded when the butler interrupted him in his study.

Pushing the door open, he caused his butler to jump to his feet and spill his cup of tea.

"My lord?" Mr. Berard queried, looking and sounding shocked at this breach of the servants' quarters.

"I didn't mean to disturb your break," Alex began. "I am looking for Her Ladyship."

The man nodded. "Lady Aston is—"

"Not that lady," he snapped, annoyed the first woman his head of household thought of was his aunt. Annoyance was swiftly followed by a blanket of guilt. Alex hadn't done enough to make sure they understood Clarity was in the superior position as lady of the house. That was his fault.

"Where is Lady Hollidge ?" he asked again.

"I don't know, my lord. As far as I know, Lady Hollidge is within as I've had no indication she was going out, nor did she call for the carriage."

"Is Mrs. Rigley above stairs?" Perhaps he should have started with her. The women tended to stick together, from the lowest scullery maid all the way up to his capable housekeeper, knowing everything that went on at Grosvenor Square. If Clarity had gone out on foot, she would have taken her lady's maid, and Mrs. Rigley kept a careful eye upon all the maids.

"I believe Mrs. Rigley is in the pantry, my lord. I shall ask her at once about Lady Hollidge," Mr. Berard began.

"Never mind," Alex snapped. "I'll speak to her myself." Luckily, as he turned, he spied the housekeeper coming along the passage.

"Mrs. Rigley," he hailed her. "I was on my way to see you."

"And I, you, my lord. I've been looking all over for you. Lady Hollidge has left."

"Left?" Alex repeated, his mind going blank on the meaning of it.

"Yes, my lord. She has left us," Mrs. Rigley confirmed, her voice sounding thick with emotion, which served to alarm him further.

"Left for where?"

"I don't know, my lord. But her lady's maid spoke to the maid-of-all-work, asking her to give me a letter."

"Let me see it," he commanded.

Nodding, Mrs. Rigley drew a paper from her apron pocket, which he snatched with impatience. The handwriting was barely legible.

"Lady Hollidge wrote this?" he asked, continuing to scan it for its intent.

"No, my lord. Winnie, her lady's maid did. It says they've gone away because ... because ..." But the woman broke down crying. "I did so want to see the little 'un."

Alex's gut twisted as if she knew somehow that he would never see his babe. Glancing again at the unreadable missive, he gave up.

"The devil! I can barely read it, and what I can make out is all slum and slang. Am I correct in interpreting they have gone to Lady Hollidge's parents' home?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Dammit!" he swore. "Berard, get my horse. On second thought, see if there's a hackney outside." After all, he couldn't bring Clarity home on horseback, not in her condition.

The butler hurried to the front door.

"Why did she leave us, my lord?" Mrs. Rigley asked, her face entirely forlorn.

He didn't answer as he knew in his gut it was their heated discussion over breakfast. He had caused his pregnant wife to run away.