Simon relaxed. Not Walker.
He’d spent the past few days since he’d received the threatening letter searching everywhere for the last man in the group that had killed Ethan. Christian may have followed him to the gaming halls at night, but the younger man hadn’t seen Simon during the day at the coffeehouses, at horse auctions, or roaming the tailor shops and other establishments for gentlemen. Walker was nowhere to be seen. And yet, he hadn’t gone to ground at his estate in Yorkshire either. Simon had paid ears in that vicinity, and there’d been no reports of Lord Walker. He could, of course, have fled to another county or even overseas, but Simon didn’t think so. Walker’s family was still in his town house.
On stage, an overlarge Ophelia sang her despair at the desertion of her lover. God, he hated this play. He shifted in his chair. If he could just get it over with. Duel Walker, kill him, put the man in his grave, and let his brother rest at last. Maybe then he could look Lucy in the eye without seeing accusation—imaginary or real. Maybe then he could sleep without fear that he’d wake to the destruction of all his hopes. Because he couldn’t sleep now. He knew he woke Lucy at night with his movements, but there seemed no help for it. His dreams, both waking and sleeping, were filled with images of Lucy. Lucy in danger, or injured or—God!—dead. Lucy finding out his secrets and turning from him in disgust. Lucy leaving him. And when he had respite from those nightmares, there were the older ones to haunt him. Ethan imploring. Ethan needing. Ethan dying. He fingered the place where the Iddesleigh signet ring should have lain. He’d lost it. Another failure.
The crowd erupted in shouts. Simon looked up and was just in time to see the final bloodbath that ended the play. Laertes’s sword work was particularly egregious. Then the audience applauded—and jeered.
Simon got up to hold Lucy’s cloak for her.
“Are you all right?” she asked him under cover of the noise.
“Yes.” He smiled for her. “I hope you enjoyed the theater.”
“You know I did.” She squeezed his hand, a secret wifely touch that made the entire tedious evening worth it. “Thank you for bringing me.”
“It was my pleasure.” He lifted her palm to his lips. “I shall take you to every one of the bard’s plays.”
“You’re so extravagant.”
“For you.”
Her eyes grew round and liquid, and she seemed to search his face. Didn’t she know the lengths he would go to for her?
“I never know what to make of Hamlet,” Christian said behind them.
Lucy glanced away. “I adore Shakespeare. But Hamlet . . .” She shivered. “It’s so dark at the end. And I never think he fully realizes the hurt he’s done poor Ophelia.”
“That business when he jumps into the grave with Laertes.” Rosalind shook her head. “I think he felt the most pity for himself.”
“Perhaps men never do comprehend the wrongs they’ve done to the women in their lives,” Simon murmured.
Lucy touched her hand to his arm, and then they were moving with the crowd toward the doors. The cold air smacked him in the face as they made the entrance. Gentlemen stood on the wide theater steps, shouting as they ordered footmen to fetch their carriages. Everyone was leaving at once, and naturally there weren’t enough runners to go around. Lucy shivered in the winter wind, her skirts whipping against her legs.
Simon frowned. She’d catch a chill if she stayed outside much longer. “Stay here with the ladies,” he told Christian. “I’ll fetch the carriage myself.”
Christian nodded.
Simon shoved through the milling crowd, making slow progress. It wasn’t until he’d reached the street that he remembered he shouldn’t leave Lucy. His heart jumped painfully at the thought. He glanced back. Christian stood between Rosalind and Lucy at the top of the stairs. The younger man was saying something that made Lucy laugh. They looked fine. Still. Best to be cautious. Simon started back.
Which was when Lucy suddenly disappeared.
LUCY STARED AFTER SIMON as he made his way through the crowd in front of the theater. Something was bothering him, she could tell.
Rosalind shivered on the other side of Mr. Fletcher. “Oh, I do hate these crushes after the theater lets out.”
The young man smiled down at her. “Simon will be back soon. He’ll be faster than waiting for one of the footmen to get the carriage.”
Around them the crowd surged and flowed like the sea. A lady bumped Lucy from behind and muttered an apology. Lucy nodded in reply, still staring after her husband. Simon had disappeared the last couple of nights and had returned late. When she tried to question him, he’d joked, and if she questioned him more, he’d made love to her. Urgently. Relentlessly. As if it was the last time every time.
And tonight during the play he’d been muttering with Mr. Fletcher. She hadn’t caught the words, but his face had been grim. Why wouldn’t he confide in her? Surely that was part of marriage, for the wife to be a helpmeet to her husband and take some of his cares onto her own shoulders. To provide relief from his worries. She thought when they’d married that she and Simon would become closer. That they would attain that state of harmony that she’d glimpsed in some older couples. Instead they seemed to be growing ever further apart, and she wasn’t sure what to do. How to bridge the gap, or was it even bridgeable? Perhaps her marriage ideal was merely the naive dream of a maiden. Perhaps this distance between them was the reality of marriage.
Mr. Fletcher leaned down. “Should have tipped Simon better.”
Lucy smiled at his silly jest. She turned to reply and felt a shove from her right. She fell to her knees on the hard marble steps, her palms stinging even through the leather of her kid gloves. Someone grabbed her hair and pulled her head back painfully. Shouts. She couldn’t see. Her vision was composed of skirts and the dirty marble beneath her palms. A kick landed on her ribs. She gasped and then her hair was released. Mr. Fletcher was grappling with another man directly over her. She shielded her head as best she could, fearful of being trampled or worse. Rosalind screamed. Another blow to Lucy’s bottom and a weight shoved against her back.
Then Simon was there. She could hear his furious shouts even from beneath the pile. The weight left her back, and he pulled her up.
“Are you all right?” His face looked as pale as death.
She tried to nod, but he was lifting her into his arms, carrying her down the steps.
“Did you see where he went?” Mr. Fletcher panted beside them.
“Simon, he meant to kill her!” Rosalind sounded shocked.
Lucy was shivering, her teeth chattering together uncontrollably. Someone had tried to kill her. She’d just been standing on the theater steps and someone had tried to kill her. She clutched at Simon’s shoulders, trying to still the violent shaking of her hands.
“I know,” Simon said grimly. His hands flexed against her back and legs. “Christian, will you escort Rosalind home? I must take Lucy to a doctor.”
“Of course.” The young man nodded, his freckles standing out starkly in his face. “Whatever I can do.”
“Good.” Simon stared intently at the younger man. “And, Christian?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.” Simon spoke low. “You saved her life.”
Lucy watched over Simon’s shoulder as Mr. Fletcher’s eyes widened, and a shy smile lit his face before he turned away with Rosalind. She wondered if Simon knew how much the younger man admired him.
“I don’t need a doctor,” she tried to protest. Her voice wheezed, which certainly didn’t help her case.
Simon ignored her. He strode down the steps, shouldering through the mass of people with impatient arrogance. The crowd thinned when they reached the street.
“Simon.”
He quickened his pace.
“Simon, you can put me down now. I can walk.”
“Hush.”
“But you needn’t carry me.”
He glanced at her, and she saw to her horror that his eyes were shining. “Yes, I do need.”
She subsided then. He kept up the pace across several streets until they reached the carriage. Simon bundled her inside and rapped on the roof. The carriage jolted forward.
He held her across his lap and undid her hat. “Should’ve had Christian direct the doctor to the town house.” He swept off her cloak. “I’ll have to summon him when we get back.” He turned her just enough to reach her back and began unbuttoning her bodice.
Surely he didn’t mean to undress her in a moving carriage? But his face was so serious, so grave, that she asked the question gently. “What are you doing?”
“Finding where you’re hurt.”
“I told you,” she said softly. “I’m all right.”
He didn’t answer but simply continued working on the buttons. He drew the dress off her shoulders, opened her stays, then stilled, looking at her side. Lucy followed his eyes. A thin line of blood stained her chemise just beside her breast. There was a corresponding tear in the fabric of her dress. Gently, Simon loosened the chemise’s tie and pulled it away. A cut lay underneath. Now that she saw it, Lucy suddenly felt the burn. Somehow in all the confusion, she hadn’t noticed the pain before. She’d been stabbed, but not deeply.
“He nearly had you.” Simon traced underneath the cut. “A few inches farther in and he’d have hit your heart.” His voice was calm, but Lucy didn’t like the way his nostrils had flared, making white dents beside his nose.
“Simon.”
“If his aim hadn’t been off . . .”
“Simon—”
“If Christian hadn’t been there . . .”
“It’s not your fault.”
His eyes finally met hers, and she saw that the tears had overwhelmed him. Two trailed unchecked down his cheek. He didn’t seem to be aware of them. “Yes, it is. It’s my fault. I nearly got you killed tonight.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
She’d supposed her assailant to be some kind of pickpocket or other thief. Perhaps a madman. But Simon was implying that the attacker had been after her specifically. That he’d wanted to kill her. Simon smoothed his thumb over her lips and tenderly kissed her. Even as she accepted his tongue into her mouth and tasted the salt of his tears, she realized that he hadn’t answered her question. And that scared her more than anything else had that night.
HE KNEW HE SHOULDN’T.
Even as he swept Lucy into his arms and carried her into the house, Simon knew he shouldn’t. He shouldered aside Newton, who exclaimed in concern, and bore her up the stairs like a Roman plundering a Sabine maiden. He’d pulled Lucy’s chemise and gown up without fully hooking the back and had thrown her wrap about her to carry her in. She’d convinced him in the carriage that she really didn’t need a physician. The cut over her ribs was the only wound, besides bruising, he could find. Nevertheless, someone had tried to kill her. She was shaken and hurt. Only a cad would demand the rights of a husband now.
Ergo, he was a cad.
Simon kicked open the door to his bedroom, bore her across the silver and black carpet, and deposited her on the bed. She lay on his cobalt-blue cover like an offering. Her hair had loosened and was spread over the silk.
“Simon—”
“Hush.”
She gazed up at him with calm topaz eyes as he threw off his coat. “We need to discuss what happened.”
He toed off his shoes and nearly ripped the buttons from his waistcoat. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I need you too much right now.”
“Does what I feel not matter?”
“At the moment?” He tore off his shirt. “Frankly, no.”
God, couldn’t he stop talking? He seemed to have completely lost the art of prevarication. All his finesse, all his elegant words were gone, and what remained was primitive and essential.
