Chapter Twenty-One

Now the worst of his fears had been assuaged, Nathanial had a few arrangements to make. First was a trip into town to clarify the terms of his will. There was little he could do about his estate, which would pass on to Montague if he died without issue, but he ensured that if he died unexpectedly, Theo would be provided for.

Montague was his next target, and after he finished with his lawyer, he left for his cousin's house. Perhaps it was a stretch to presume Montague had poisoned Theo, but he was capable of far worse things. The only thing that puzzled Nathanial was the means. Poison was not, he fancied, Montague's favoured method of incapacitation.

Still, this visit had been long overdue.

Ignoring the butler's protestations, Nathanial strode through to the well-appointed, if small dining room. Montague sat at the table in an Indian robe and slippers, clearly not expecting guests.

"The Duke of Norfolk, sir," the butler said belatedly, hurrying after Nathanial .

Shock crossed Montague's face, but it soon passed, and he gave a bland smile. "Thank you, Perry. That will be all."

The butler gave Nathanial a look of deep dislike and shut the door behind him with more force than strictly necessary.

"An old retainer," Montague explained. "Took him with me to France."

"I have no interest in your servants, Radcliffe."

"Have you not?" Montague poured some coffee and gestured to a seat opposite him. "I've been expecting you. Come, let's discuss this as gentlemen. You won't call me out, you know."

Nathanial remained standing. "You seem very certain on that point."

"Two reasons. First, as you will soon discover, I had no hand in this, and secondly, you know I have more experience in duelling than you. I have no interest in being injured by a man so preoccupied by his wife's health, he forgets to delope."

Nathanial finally drew out a chair. "You can't think you would kill me."

"Not kill. I have no intention of fleeing London again so soon." He paused in the act of buttering his toast. "How's the Duchess?"

"Dead," Nathanial said bluntly, and watched Montague's face pale. There was nothing victorious about his expression, which for a second appeared almost devastated.

"I am saddened to hear it," Montague said with some effort.

"Are you? Perhaps you are." He paused, watching the way Montague turned away as though hoping to conceal his face and the thoughts that lay behind. "You were assiduous in your attentions, after all."

"It is natural for any married woman to have admirers, and singularly dull of them to cling to their husband's coat." Montague recovered some of his colour and took a bite of his toast. "She flirted with me delightfully, you know. "

Nathanial did know; he had watched plenty of it. Montague had almost always initiated, but his Theo had entered into it with good spirit. No doubt she enjoyed piquing him as much she did the flirtation itself.

"But let us be clear," Montague said, placing down his knife. "You suspect me of having damaged her in some way."

"She was poisoned. And you were last seen with her."

"Poisoned?" Montague's eyes took on an arrested look, as though he were privy to some secret Nathanial was not. "And you think that it was my hand?"

"Let's not pretend you are an innocent man, or that your interest in her was unconnected to me."

"On the contrary," Montague said, though a thin smile acknowledged the hit. "I found her excessively charming."

"I should know better than most how low you rate the charms of young, innocent females."

"Ah, but she's your wife, Norfolk. How innocent is she really?" He eyed the jam with apparent distaste. "But that is not the point at hand. You suspect me purely because I was there at the point of her collapse, but consider that for a moment. If I had contrived her death, I would have made myself scarce long before the poison took effect. I am not a fool. I know where suspicion must fall."

"If not you, then who?"

"Not my problem," Montague said, although Nathanial suspected he had his suspicions—if indeed he was not the culprit. His expression was bland, but he toyed with his knife, twirling it ceaselessly as though he intended to run Nathanial through with it.

Understanding finally hit Nathanial. Montague was not, as Nathanial had presumed, disinterested. He had developed an attachment.

"I don't blame you for being taken with her," Nathanial said after a moment. "She was remarkably pretty. "

"She was."

"You are not alone in finding her charming."

"As her husband, I'm certain you had more chance than I to experience her charms."

Nathanial thought back to that night in Mrs Chichester's gardens, the taste of her that he'd never quite eradicated from his mouth. "She's exquisite."

If Montague noticed his momentary slip into present tense, he showed no sign of it, merely pointing to the door. "I think you've said all you have to say on the matter, and I have no more hospitality to offer."

Nathanial rose and strode to the door, but paused before he passed through. "There's one more thing." He paused, waiting for Montague to glance up. He wanted to see the man's face when he delivered this last piece of news. "I lied before. Theo is alive and recovering. But I warn you—if I suspect you had a hand in this, or any other attempt on her life, you will regret it."

The colour rushed back into Montague's cheeks, and he was silent for a few seconds before giving a languid smile that seemed marginally strained. "You must learn to give better threats, Norfolk. You have no idea of what I might regret."

"I have an idea of what you value," Nathanial said, earning himself a swift, unsettled look. He rewarded it with a cold smile. "It was a mistake to care for her, Radcliffe."

Montague's black brows drew together, but Nathanial left the room before he could say anything further.

It took a further two weeks for Theo to recover enough to contemplate travelling. The Season had not yet ended, but she and Nathanial had agreed that a sojourn from Town was the best policy, and they had settled on Lord Stapleton's invitation as an excuse. That way they could remove from London without raising suspicion.

"Are you perfectly sure you're well enough to travel?" Nathanial said—again—at breakfast. In Theo's two weeks' recovery, he had been nothing but a dedicated husband. He read to her, played piquet and chess and whist, and cancelled an obscene number of social engagements so he could be at her side. The ton marvelled at his devotion.

Theo knew it was because he suspected her of being in danger. Although they had not spoken about it since that first night, the very fact he remained in her room, even going so far as to sleep beside her on the bed while she tossed and turned, proved beyond doubt that he feared another attempt on her life.

Still, she liked this new Nathanial. She liked the sensation of waking up in the morning and hearing his soft, regular breathing and feeling his overpowering warmth. How he contrived to be so warm, she did not know, but she did not mind.

What she did not like was his endless fussing .

"Yes," she said calmly, sipping at her tea. "More than well enough."

He touched a curl that framed her face. "I doubt that."

"Why?"

"Because you are still too pale."

Theo frowned. She had thought, when she'd looked at her reflection that morning, that she had looked better. Almost entirely well, in fact. Perhaps her cheeks were a little more hollowed than usual, her eyes a little too large in her face, but she was already putting on weight again.

"Never fear," he said, leaning past her and flicking her nose as he reached for the jam. "You are still exceedingly pretty."

Her blush sent any accusations of being too pale to the grave. His lip quivered as though he was trying to hold himself back from laughing, and when she fumbled an answer—really, why had her wits left her then ?—he chuckled.

"We should be ready to leave in an hour. Do you think you can manage that?"

Theo gave him her best withering look. "Of the two of us, I am not the one likely to delay our journey."

As it transpired, she was correct: Nathanial got distracted by going over some last-minute documents in his study, and when they at last set off, they were around half an hour late.

The journey took around six hours. Theo did her best to read a book, make idle conversation, or observe the scenery, but somehow, the mere act of travelling sapped her energy; she spent the last two hours asleep against Nathanial's shoulder. He woke her gently, and she wiped her mouth, dismayed to find she had drooled all over his coat.

If she had ever harboured any hope of romance, it was long gone.

He rolled his shoulder before flashing her a smile and handing her out of the carriage to greet their hosts.

Lord Stapleton was a florid man in his forties, with a rounded stomach and expression of perpetual joviality. His wife, in contrast, was a thin husk of a woman draped in shawls and a scowl. They vied over one another to see who could greet their guests first, without seeming to acknowledge each other at all.

Dinner had already been served, so Nathanial and Theo ate alone before joining the other guests in the drawing room. With the Season coming to an end, a shooting party was a welcome reprieve, and the room was full.

To Theo's dismay, Tabitha appeared from nowhere and made a beeline for her. "Duchess!" she said, taking Theo's arm possessively and forcing Nathanial to let go. "I'm so glad you could make it. Was not the journey horrid?"

Theo glanced at Nathanial and bit her lip at his smile. "Terrible," she agreed .

"But now you are here! Things have been so dull in Town now. So many left for the country." She gave Theo a sly look. "Sir Montague remains in London, however. And he has been paying me particular attention."

It took Theo a moment to find her voice, dismissing the malice in Tabitha's words. If she was hoping for Sir Montague to offer her marriage, she would be very sorely disappointed. "Oh," she said. Nathanial's jaw ticked, although he was ostensibly in conversation with Lord Stapleton. "Then I suppose I am happy for you."

"Oh, to be sure, I could do better than him , although he is known to be your husband's heir. Not, of course, that he's likely to inherit." Tabitha cast a meaningful glance at Theo's stomach. Usually, six months into a marriage, a wife had something to show for it.

She imagined rumours were going wild, speculating whether she was barren. No one would ever consider the true nature of the arrangement she shared with Nathanial.

Suddenly, viciously, she wished he had never proposed it.

Before either of them could say any more, Nathanial rose and seated himself beside Theo with his customary careless grace. "Lady Tabitha," he said. "You're looking well."

Tabitha snapped open her fan, which Theo now viewed as a lethal weapon. "Oh, you are too kind, sir. Did you notice I chose my yellow muslin today? I thought perhaps the colour washed me out, but you have quite convinced me to wear it again."

Theo watched in amusement as Lady Tabitha, clearly unwilling to waste this opportunity (even if the Duke was married), did her best to charm Nathanial. And Nathanial, with no intention of being charmed, rebuffed her advances with polite civility .

Eventually, Tabitha was called to a game of loo, and Nathanial stretched out comfortably beside her. Theo glanced about the room.

"It was cruel of Lord Stapleton to invite so many unattached young men," Nathanial said with a laugh in his voice, nodding to where Lady Stapleton sat beside a gentleman sat bolt upright and petrified.

"She does appear to be remarkably persistent. Has she forgotten she is married?"

This time, Nathanial really did chuckle, and he leant in so close his breath brushed her ear. "Lord Stapleton does his best to forget, I think."

Theo laughed and rested her head against his shoulder. After the carriage, it felt as though she fit there perfectly.

"Would you like me to carry you to bed?" Nathanial's words were soft, but they sank deep into her. "Or would you prefer to walk?"

"I—"

"I'm afraid the ‘bed' part is non-negotiable."

Theo's laugh became a sigh. Leaving the company truly did sound delightful. "I can walk."

"Are you certain? It would cause a delightful scene if I scooped you into my arms right here."

She decided she liked that idea a little too much. Walking was safer. "I still have legs, Nate. I can do it."

"I will make your excuses, then, and see you upstairs." When he leant away, his grey eyes were gentle, and he stroked a finger along the back of her hand. Just once, but her entire body tingled, lighting like a spark set to paper.

"There's no need to—"

"On the contrary. There is every need to." His tone was firm, and she knew she would get nowhere by arguing. Reluctantly, she left the cloying warmth of the room, hurrying through the unfamiliar house until she reached the rooms she shared with Nathanial. Barely a minute later, he joined her, and locked the door carefully behind them.

"I know you think I'm being over-zealous," he said, pinching her chin and moving to the bed, stretching across the covers as though he belonged there. Theo's wretched heart gave a pang. "But this is for the best, I promise."

She perched by the pillows. "Are you really so concerned for my safety?"

"Ought I not be? You were poisoned. Is that not enough reason to be concerned?"

Her lips pinched as she thought. "It's quite possible no one intended to poison anyone."

He was so close now, and his hand brushed the sheets by her leg, as though he was tempted to run his fingers across her bent knee the way he did against the soft silk. "Theo," he said, caressing her name with such tenderness, she almost forgot what they were discussing. "I have the utmost respect for your whole-hearted and dim-witted belief in other people's goodness, but on this occasion you must allow me to be right."

"You believe it was deliberate?" He nodded once, curtly. "And," she continued in a whisper, "you believe I was the intended recipient?"

"I think there is no other explanation." The corner of his mouth kicked up. "Unless, of course, someone had intended on poisoning Lady Tabitha."

"Don't be so cruel," Theo said, giggling despite herself. "She is not so bad."

"If you are not an unmarried gentleman, perhaps." His smile faded as she looked down at him, and she was arrested, suddenly, by the shape of his face, all hard lines and edges and unexpected softness. Her fingers tingled with the urge to touch him, and she linked them together firmly in her lap.

"Do you know who did it?" she asked, steering her thoughts back to safer ground .

He hesitated. "No."

"But you suspect Sir Montague?" The words were out before she could stop them, staining the air. Nathanial sat up, on the other side of the bed now, his face a blank mask.

"Does that displease you?" he asked at last.

She reached over to catch his hand before he could retreat any further. "I just want to know why you dislike him so much. I want to understand ."

He sighed, but his fingers loosened a little under her grasp, turning so they almost—almost—held hands. "It isn't a short story. Perhaps—"

"No! I am not going to wait for another time. Tonight, Nate. Please?"

"Very well, but you should get yourself ready for bed first. I'll visit you shortly."

She clung to him even more tightly. "Do you promise?"

"Yes, you wretch." He brought her hand to his mouth and gave it a swift kiss. "I'll be back soon." And with that, with a lingering glance at her, he left the room.