Chapter Nineteen

A man with a clear conscience slept as soundly as a corpse—or so Ned had told him on the journey back to Brackens Hill.

Which means that sleep will elude me for the coming weeks.

Lawrence hadn’t intended to sleep tonight anyway, with Lady Arabella in the house.

No—not Lady Arabella. She was Bella Baxter, and she’d already begun to believe that. Why else had she called him husband earlier?

But if he’d been concerned that his conscience would plague him too much, those concerns were lessened every time she opened that foul mouth of hers.

Vile creature indeed!

She could insult him as often as she liked, but woe betide those who insulted his children. Little Jonathan—with his sensitive nature—took every admonishment to heart.

Poor soul—though Elizabeth’s passing had been nobody’s fault, the boy didn’t deserve to suffer from the knowledge that his entry into the world had brought about her demise. He needed a mother more than the twins.

Lawrence sighed, and the candle flickered in the air before calming.

There was always so much to be done! More so now his precious documents had been destroyed—courtesy of Miss High-and-Mighty. Some sketches and notes he could recall, but others were lost. Perhaps over time the memories might resurface to be committed to paper—tiny fragments to piece together.

Was that what it was like for her? Would her memory return in pieces, or all at once? Dr. Carter had said that memory loss in such cases—when a person had been on the brink of death—was often permanent. He’d said that her only hope was for Lawrence to present her with something familiar—a treasured personal possession or shared memory.

A personal possession like…

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out its contents—a torn petticoat, a necklace with a pearl pendant, and a ruby brooch.

The petticoat he’d give her tomorrow for mending—add it to her list of chores. The necklace, a delicate gold chain, looked thin enough to snap. The pendant—though its value was likely far in excess of anything he could afford—seemed too small for a woman of her rank. Perhaps it had sentimental value.

Then he snorted. For an object to have sentimental value, its owner needed to be in possession of a heart. But, nevertheless, he’d return it to her tomorrow also. He wasn’t entirely cruel, after all.

The brooch was different. The ruby was enormous—he’d never seen the like. Any fool could tell it was a fine piece—valuable enough to attract attention and unwanted questions.

Ned might know someone who could sell it discreetly on his behalf—all manner of travelers must visit the inn. And it’d fetch a pretty sum—think of the tools and books he could buy!

It would be stealing.

His damned conscience again!

He turned the brooch over, running his thumb over the delicate filigree work surrounding the jewel. The back was plain and smooth, save for a gold clasp in the center and the initials A.P. engraved at the bottom.

Arabella Ponsford.

He pulled open a drawer in his desk, dropped the brooch inside, then closed it. Then he opened the notebook on the desk and flicked through it until he reached the sketch he’d been working on for the garden of a big house in the next county that a wine merchant—Trelawney, his name was—had recently moved into. It was an opportunity to undertake a large design project, and Lawrence’s work in redesigning Dunton’s garden would have demonstrated his experience and capabilities and shown his suitability for the project—had she not had him dismissed and destroyed his notes.

Curse her!

He picked up a pencil and added a path to the sketch, together with a row of rosebushes and an armillary sphere. Then he held the sketch at arm’s length to admire it.

Clichéd and unimaginative—shrubs placed in a symmetrical pattern with a focal point in the center. Just like every other bloody garden in the world. He might as well have drawn a pile of horseshit.

He ripped out the page, crumpled it up, then tossed it over his shoulder.

He needed inspiration—but he’d been otherwise occupied with Miss High-and-Mighty.

Then he sighed. He really needed to stop calling her that. Bella. Her name was Bella. At least now she was here, she could mind the children while he was out. Poor Ned and his niece were reaching the limits of their endurance.

The thought of Bella enduring a day with those rascals lifted his spirits, and he flipped the pages of his notebook until he came to a blank page and began his sketch again. This time he placed the features at irregular intervals, moving the focal point to one side to draw the eye away from the center.

Much better. Any piece of art needed to contain an element of surprise—hidden corners and pathways that were unnoticeable at first glance. Something to provide interest for its inhabitants—particularly ladies who were so easily bored.

A muffled cry came from outside the study. Roberta tormenting her twin again, no doubt. Last week she’d hidden a spider among his underclothes. Smiling to himself, he continued.

Then the cry came again—a low wail of anguish.

Little buggers.

He rose and exited the study as another cry came.

But it came from downstairs.

Spoiled madam —perhaps the blanket was too scratchy, or the sofa too hard.

“No! leave me alone—please!”

His skin tightened at the fear in her voice, and he descended the stairs and pushed open the parlor door.

She lay on the sofa, the blanket on the floor—she must have thrown it off. Then she cried out, her breath misting in the air.

“Burning! It’s burning!”

Perhaps her conscience visited her in her sleep, and she was reliving the moment she’d burned his possessions.

“The fire!”

He placed a hand on her forehead. Her skin was cold. Then he took her hand, and she snatched it free.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried.

“Bella, you’re freezing.” He reached for her again, and she thrust out her arm to fend him off.

“No, I beg you have mercy, Your Grace!”

“Bella!” he cried, giving her a shake. Her eyes snapped open, at first unfocused, then they cleared and focused on him.

“Wh-who are you?” she asked. “Y-you’re not…” She shuddered, and her gaze darted about the room, as if she were searching for her tormentor. At length, she stilled, and he drew her into his arms.

“Who was it?” he asked. “Who did you see?”

“I saw…” Her brow furrowed in concentration. “He…” Then she shook her head.

“What did he look like?”

“A-a man. A lord. It was so vivid! B-but I can’t remember. I try to picture him, but it’s slipping away.”

“Did you know him?”

“I-I thought I did.”

“Do you know me ?”

Sapphire eyes glazed with tears focused on him. Then she nodded.

“You’re my husband. Lord save me—you’re my husband.”

She pulled free from his grasp, and his gut twisted at the disgust in her voice. He reached for the blanket, but before he could wrap it around her, she snatched it off him.

“Did you try to touch me?”

“No,” he bit out.

“Good. Now leave me.” She wrapped the blanket around herself, then settled on the sofa once more, turning her back to him. “Close the door on your way out.”

Insufferable, haughty creature—dismissing him as if he were a servant!

But perhaps he should be thankful for her vile disposition. It helped to assuage his guilt.