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Chapter 28

28

I was too slow. Too slow . Too slow .

The thought haunted Phoebe , pounding through her head relentlessly during every long hour she spent hovering by Nicholas’s bedside. Silently beseeching him to wake up.

She laced her fingers with his and squeezed, his skin cool beneath her touch, his large hand limp atop the counterpane. The same way it had been for the past four days, ever since the bullet had grazed him and he’d toppled, striking his head against a rock nestled in the grass.

She shuddered, the horrific scene replaying in her mind as clear as the morning it happened. The blast of gunfire ringing in her ears every bit as loudly. If only she’d arrived before Nicholas and Ambrose turned away from each other and began marching to their positions. Or perhaps before they each took a pistol in hand. In truth, she didn’t know the exact moment when fate could have been reversed. Only that her frantic arrival at Primrose Hill , with a Bow Street runner in tow, had proved too late.

Yes , her scream had made them both falter. Had caused Ambrose to clumsily pivot and cast a disoriented glance to where she bounded through the trees. For a fraction of a second, she’d thought there was a chance, that with the help of the runner—who possessed written proof of Sir Ambrose Windham’s illegal intention to duel—the scene could end without bloodshed.

But she’d been wrong. For when she’d let out another desperate scream, Ambrose had fired.

She leaned closer to the bed, resting her cheek against Nicholas’s fingertips. A thousand lifetimes wouldn’t be enough to negate her regret over what happened.

Had the marquess’s path in the field been even marginally different, one might almost label him as lucky. The bullet wound in his shoulder had been stitched and was healing nicely. No sign of inflammation or fever. In the end, it was likely to be naught but another scar, just like the ones upon his hands.

If only the bullet hadn’t knocked him off his feet. If only that small slab of stone hadn’t been buried in the grass where he’d fallen …

“ Miss Windham ?”

She raised her head abruptly, Flynt’s voice pulling her out of the spiral of despair before it could consume her. Over the past days, she and the butler had come to know each other well. Not so much by exchanging words but by simply being in each other’s presence in the painfully still house. A house where Phoebe , in the absence of any Prescotts —for Amelia , while clearly frantic, had remained in Kent with her mother and Emily in hopes she could conceal the accident until there was better news to report—had become a makeshift mistress.

The physician visited daily, of course, as did the Duke of Branscombe . Servants entered the room occasionally to see to the marquess’s care. However , for all the other agonizing, uncertain minutes of the day, Phoebe kept vigil alone. After making it clear that she didn’t want to leave Lord Rockliffe’s bedside—for she needed to be there to drip water across his lips, to bathe his brow when the room grew warm, to examine every flutter of his eyelids and slight twitch of his limbs that gave her hope—she suspected it was Flynt who’d begun ordering trays to be sent up to her. In fact, he sometimes even delivered them himself.

At the moment, though, he was empty-handed, his creased face unreadable. “ There’s someone here who wishes to speak with you.”

With her ? Something in her stomach quivered and then seized. “ Do you know the caller’s name?”

“ Yes . Mr . Adolphus Clare .” Flynt’s brows lifted a shade, betraying the faintest note of curiosity. “ Lord Rockliffe’s former man of business. He said that the marquess had recently brought him back into his employ, and that in Lord Rockliffe’s absence, he urgently needed to see you.”

The morning Nicholas left for London , he mentioned something about his man of business …

Her gaze shot from Flynt back to Nicholas , her grip on his hand tightening. Was this the news she’d so desperately been waiting for—the other matter that occupied her thoughts relentlessly?

From the doorway, Flynt cleared his throat. “ I’ve taken the liberty of sending Mr . Clare to the drawing room. Should you wish to go down, I’ll ensure that Lord Rockliffe has someone to sit with him.”

She took a quick breath, the quiver within her escalating into a whirlwind. She didn’t want to leave Nicholas , not even for a minute. Yet if the purpose of this visit was truly for what she suspected …

“ I’ll return soon,” she whispered, gently releasing her grip on his fingers and straightening the counterpane atop him. Were he awake, she had every confidence he would encourage her. That he would stay by her side and support her no matter what she learned.

She used that knowledge to draw strength as she murmured a few words of thanks to Flynt and exited the bedchamber, alone, with a final glance back.

After all the hours of sitting, her legs felt stiff and ungainly, her footsteps too loud as she headed toward the staircase. Yet by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs and approached the drawing room, the sound of her slippers connecting with floorboards was nothing compared to the rapid heartbeat thundering in her ears.

She paused outside the door, using a tremulous hand to smooth her bedraggled hair and creased skirts. Forced herself to inhale slowly.

And then, she burst into the room, where a middle-aged gentleman was perched in an armchair near the back window, his head turned to the garden beyond. Even from this angle, she could see that his thinning hair was windblown, his apparel rumpled and dust-stained. As if he’d just come in from a long journey.

She let out the breath she’d been holding, willing her voice not to shake. “ Mr . Clare ?”

He whirled around and pushed to his feet, surveying her from beneath a pair of sharp graying brows. “ Miss Windham .” He gestured to the chair beside him, his face devoid of any warmth—although there was no malice in it, either. Rather , he looked like he took the business part of his title seriously and wished to waste no time. “ Do you know why I’m here?”

She rushed forward to take the seat, although she had little hope of sitting still. She didn’t want to skirt around the subject, either, but with a matter such as this, there was no easy way to begin. “ I …”

“ Lord Rockliffe asked me to travel to Suffolk and investigate the whereabouts of a child born to you seven years prior,” Mr . Clare supplied without preamble.

Hearing the truth spoken aloud so bluntly, after all the years it had been concealed, was enough to steal the air from her lungs. But at the same time, there was comfort in not having to prevaricate any longer.

She managed a small motion with her chin. “ Yes .”

He nodded in return, his green-gray eyes fixing on her with resolve. “ The parish register in Redgrave , ten miles west from where you made your home, has record of a baptism that took place on the second of June , 1799. Mother , Phoebe Cole , deceased. Father , unknown.”

She’d promised herself she would remain stoic until Mr . Clare revealed every part of the story, but the information came at her so fast that she couldn’t stop the gasp before it escaped her lips. Phoebe Cole —the false name Eugenia had attached to her in Suffolk . The name she’d used until, at the earliest possible moment, Eugenia had insisted they flee, pretending their months in the lonesome cottage had never happened. Leaving behind nothing of themselves but a fabrication.

“ The infant was called Mary Anne ,” he continued in his matter-of-fact way. “ Sent to live with a childless couple, as I discerned in my travels. A Henry and Judith Miller .”

Mary Anne . Her daughter’s name was Mary Anne . Had the Millers chosen it for her? Had they cared for her since that day? Did they love her like their own? Phoebe had no greater wish.

Well … no greater wish than that she’d been the one allowed those privileges. That the heart-wrenching lie hadn’t been told, that the separation had never happened.

She clung to the edge of the armchair, fighting against the burning sensation in her eyes and throat. The past couldn’t be changed. All she could do was find a way to endure it and look to the future. Which first meant she had to be very clear she understood.

She opened her mouth to let a few shaky words emerge. “ So she’s … she’s been with a family in Suffolk all this time?”

He shifted in his chair, giving his head a quick shake. “ No , not any longer. Three winters ago, the Miller family contracted fever.”

Suddenly , the room whirled before her, and she clamped her eyes shut as a searing ache twisted her heart. No . That couldn’t be where the story ended. Not after they’d come this far, after she’d dared to summon hope. How was she to accept having it so soundly dashed? Having her heart shatter all over again.

“ Forgive me, Miss Windham . Perhaps I’ve led you to misunderstand.” For the first time, Mr . Clare spoke with a note of hesitancy, and when she wrenched open her eyes, he was running a hand over his travel-weary brow. “ Burial dates were recorded for Henry and Judith Miller . Not Mary Anne . After making some additional inquiries, I discovered that she was sent to a school for young ladies in Bury St Edmunds .”

A … a school? Which meant … she’d survived?

She’d survived .

Phoebe stared, openmouthed, unsure whether she wanted to yell at the man or wrap him in an embrace. The tight knots in her chest began unraveling, making her body looser, lighter, and she was aware that her limbs were quaking. However , she wouldn’t get ahead of herself this time. Wouldn’t assume a single thing until confirmation came from Adolphus Clare’s lips.

She clasped her trembling hands in her lap, trying not to let hope flicker. “ And does she remain there now?”

“ Yes .”

Yes . The best word on earth. Her palm flew to her mouth, and whether she was about to weep or laugh, she couldn’t entirely say.

“ A respectable and well-managed establishment, from what I could determine,” he rushed to add, clearly not one to waste time in silence—especially if silence ran the risk of giving way to tears. “ Her fees, it seems, are paid yearly by an anonymous benefactor. In my haste, I didn’t stay to uncover further details. Should you wish for clarity regarding the person’s identity, I can make another journey north. Although perhaps that’s unnecessary?”

Eugenia . It had to be. Mr . Clare’s mild expression suggested that he believed so, too.

Phoebe would never think warmly of the woman after her atrocious deceit, but if nothing else, Eugenia had at least seen that Mary Anne was provided for. That she hadn’t been cast out into the world with nothing.

“ You can think on it first, of course,” he said. “ For the time being, I’ve written down the pertinent information should you plan to travel there yourself.” He reached into his coat pocket to retrieve a folded sheet of paper, and she nearly tripped over her feet in her haste to accept it from him.

She skimmed the page, quickly taking in the name of the school. Proof it was real. A place where she did intend to travel. Where , perhaps, horrible wrongs could be made right.

“ Thank you.” Her voice came out low and unsteady, and she didn’t trust herself to add anything else. Indeed , how could mere words express the depth of her gratitude?

He put a hand up, sparing her the need to make an attempt. “ Merely doing my duty.” Then , he pushed himself from his chair and came to stand beside her, although his gaze had shifted toward the doorway. “ If there’s nothing else you require at present, I’ll take my leave.”

She had too many questions to count—had he seen Mary Anne himself? Had she smiled? What was her hair color? Did she enjoy her lessons?—but she let them go, setting them aside for a day, very soon, when she hoped to call him back and plan the next steps. When , God willing, she would be free to travel with nothing else weighing heavy on her mind. For now, though, Mr . Clare looked in need of a washbasin and bed after his travels, and she wasn’t in a position to linger, either.

They said a brief farewell, although as for the exact words they exchanged, she wasn’t entirely cognizant. Her mind had already traveled back upstairs, and as soon as Mr . Clare stepped into the entrance hall to be escorted out by a footman, her feet followed, going to the staircase and taking the steps two at a time.

When she arrived back in the marquess’s bedchamber, the person sitting in the bedside chair was none other than Flynt himself, although he rose when he spotted her, his ever-staid expression revealing that nothing had changed in her absence.

She thanked him quietly for keeping watch and turned down his offer of a tray, assuring him that she needed nothing and was quite well to sit with Lord Rockliffe for the rest of the afternoon. In truth, a large lump was rising in her throat, and she didn’t know how much longer she could contain it. Didn’t want an audience when it emerged.

Her knees shook beneath her skirts, but she held herself stiffly as he took his leave, waiting until his footfalls faded down the corridor and then vanished.

Leaving her alone with Nicholas once more, the bedside chair ready so she could resume her position. However , she didn’t stop at the chair this time but went right to the edge of the bed, dropping onto the counterpane beside him.

“ He found her,” she murmured, reaching to connect their hands again, scarcely able to believe she was uttering the words aloud. That they were true.

“ He found her,” she repeated, cementing the fact within her heart. “ He found her.”

A droplet of water fell upon the counterpane. Then another. She pressed a fingertip to her cheek, only to find it wet. It seemed she was crying, tears running down her cheeks like tiny rivers.

With that, a wave crashed through her body, inundating her with every bottled emotion at once, and she collapsed upon his pillow, the lump in her throat bursting out as a sob.

She stretched out alongside him, allowing the fervent mixture of sorrow and joy, regret and relief, to course through her veins until her tears ran dry. Was there any chance he knew she was there? That he could hear her? She had no way of knowing. Nonetheless , there was something she needed to say to him.

“ Thank you.” She pressed down on his fingers, then raised her palm to rest over his beating heart. “ Thank you . You arranged this for me. You gave me the most precious gift. I owe you a debt I can never repay.”

She peered at him, envisioning the intensity of his blue eyes that was now masked behind closed lids. “ And yet, I’m not finished asking favors of you.”

She huddled closer to his motionless body, positioning her mouth so her breath caressed his ear. “ I need you to wake up. To be well again. In fact, I must insist upon it. For if you do not …”

She bit down on her lip, her ensuing exhale coming out ragged. If you do not, my heart will never recover .

Her mind flashed back to the day, all those summers ago, when she’d first spotted him galloping down the road. When , as a girl of eighteen, she’d become instantly captivated. The allure hadn’t faded a full eight years later when, against all odds, she’d been thrown into his household as a governess. On the contrary, the passion had intensified, grown, and although she should have known better, she just couldn’t bring herself to deny it. Instead , she’d given in to her desire, and he’d taken it beyond her wildest dreams. She cherished every kiss, every touch, every murmured, heated word they’d shared.

But that was only part of it. What she’d come to feel for him went so much deeper than surface-level attraction.

Because yes, he was grumbly and impatient and infuriatingly stubborn. Yet beneath it all, there was vulnerability. A deep-rooted hurt that he’d trusted her enough to share, that she understood, that had forged a connection between them too profound to be severed.

She loved him for those reasons, not in spite of them.

I love him .

The feeling twisted in her chest, providing an acute pang of clarity. She thought of sparkling lake water, illicit books, strawberry preserves, whispers in her ear. Envisioned a strong body pinning her to the wall, climbing the attic ladder, moving inside her, picking her up when grief made her fall.

And she knew, without a doubt. I love him .

“ Please , Nicholas .” She increased the pressure of her fingertips, his heartbeat a steady thrum beneath them. The rest of him still unmoving.

She’d suddenly been granted a chance at a future that had long seemed impossible: one involving her daughter. A chance for the missing piece of her—the hole in her heart—to mend. There could be no greater joy.

Except … his absence, too, would leave a hole. A gaping, unfillable chasm.

She remained with her head on the pillow beside him, watching the sunrays that streaked through the window and illuminated the bronze in his hair. How many minutes passed, she didn’t know, only that the light gradually retreated as the sun’s angle shifted. Other than that, nothing in the room changed.

Eventually , footsteps echoed in the corridor once more, which came as no surprise. Flynt didn’t like waiting too long between visits to the marquess’s bedchamber in case either of them needed anything. However , something about the footfalls didn’t sound like the butler’s measured, heavy gait.

She pushed herself up on an elbow, tilting her head toward the doorway. These footsteps were lighter, hurried, and mixed with a distinctive sort of thumping. Too cacophonous to come from just one pair of shoes.

She slid from the bed, futilely smoothing the old gray skirt that she’d already wrinkled beyond repair. The physician and the duke had both paid their calls for the day. The housemaids would never dare run in such a fashion. Which could only mean?—

An intricately carved walking stick crossed the threshold of the bedchamber, putting an end to her speculation. For bursting in alongside it was the unmistakable figure of the Dowager Marchioness of Rockliffe , her blue eyes flashing like an ice storm.

And the dowager wasn’t alone. Behind her, a full head taller, came Amelia with her unmistakable cropped copper-gold hair, and behind the duchess came a flash of a smaller, familiar white skirt. Emily . Accompanied by Marigold , who slunk into the room with the brisk but noiseless strides of one with a purpose.

They were all here, crowding into the room, taking in the terrible truth that, until this moment, had only existed to them from afar: Nicholas was unconscious.

After a beat of silence, the dowager began speaking, her tone clipped and censorious, although there was no mistaking the apprehension behind it. However , Phoebe didn’t hear the exact words. Her attention focused in on Emily , and she ran forward, wrapping the girl in a tight hug. She’d missed her terribly and worried for her beyond measure. Yet at the same time, she wished so much that Emily wasn’t here. That she didn’t have to see her father like this.

“ I’m sorry.” Amelia rushed over to Phoebe , bending close to her ear so she could speak in an indistinct murmur. “ Mother found out, and there was no stopping her from coming. Emily overheard our argument, and there was no dissuading her, either. I didn’t know what else to do. I was hoping we might arrive to find some improvement in Nicholas’s condition.”

Phoebe pressed her lips together, giving her head a slight shake. But as she did, Emily jerked within her arms, pointing wide-eyed toward the bed. “ Look ! Papa’s trying to speak.”

Phoebe whipped her head around, her gaze flashing back to Nicholas’s sleeping form. But while Marigold had jumped onto the bed and was sniffing him with alacrity— oh, he really wouldn’t like that — Nicholas himself remained stationary.

She took a moment to clear the tightness in her throat. It would no doubt be jarring for Emily to experience what had become Phoebe’s new normal over the past few days. The way Nicholas stirred in bed, almost like he was going to open his eyes and be back to his old self, only for deep sleep to drag him under once more. How was she to find the right words to explain that to a twelve-year-old child? To ensure they came out as gently as possible.

“ Look .” Emily let out an exasperated huff, tugging on Phoebe’s arm to drag her back to the bedside and gesturing emphatically toward her father.

Nicholas’s hands twitched. Just a little at first, a motion that was barely there. But then, it happened again, his fingers stretching across the brocade counterpane. His feet shifting beneath it.

Phoebe had experienced enough false alarms that she should have known better than to anticipate, but even so, she froze, not daring to make even the slightest movement. Her eyes, though, traveled up his body, racing past his broad chest and stubbled throat to rest upon his face.

The breath she’d been holding shot out as a shuddering exhale. Her heart seized and then soared.

His mouth moved as if forming silent words, and his eyelids came open. And this time, they didn’t close again.

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