Page 57 of Unending Joy
Hamble cleared his throat. “We can set four men at the Rookery lanes, but t’would be better to take him where streets are broader and the watch within whistle.”
“Do what you must,” Stuart ordered. “I fear we will not get answers without questioning him.”
“Aye, sir.” The Runner made a bow and left.
“Perhaps Silva serves as go-between for gentlemen too wary to approach the public hells. There may be someone else he does the dirty work for,” Rotham prophesied.
Freddy’s gaze drifted to the half-open door at the far end of the hall—the staircase lay beyond, up which Joy slept. A wave of fierce protectiveness surged within him. “Regardless of St. John’s motives, Joy shall not see him again.”
If anyone was surprised by Freddy’s cold claim, no one mentioned it.
Carew offered a practical amendment. “We might persuade Maeve to insist that Joy accompany her to Thornhill Place—fresh air and a duke’s security in the country—until this spectre is laid.”
Westwood approved. “An admirable retreat—provided the journey is slow.”
“My mother intends to hold a small gathering of close acquaintances at Gresham Park. I had intended to invite you all there. It might be more restful for Joy.” Freddy did not mention he’d like very much for Joy to visit his home as his intended.
“Very likely. We will put the question to Joy when she feels more the thing,” Westwood agreed, then clapped Freddy’s shoulder. “Ashley and I will confront the Colonel after breakfast. If he means honourably, he will speak plainly with explanation. If not—” He let the threat hang. “—we shall know how to protect Joy.”
Freddy inclined his head, his voice rough when he spoke. “Thank you, Dom.”
Rotham and Montford gathered their wives and took their leave. Stuart lingered only long enough to scribble fresh instructions on thin paper before departing into the night, a shadow among shadows, every inch the army’s old intelligence chief.
Freddy wanted to ask to see Joy if only to put his mind at ease. A week of rest, Hartley had said. Freddy vowed Joy would not know a moment’s distress—whatever cost it laid upon his own conscience. Tomorrow, St. John would have to answer forhis part in this. The debt, the danger, and the truth would be dragged into the daylight.
He reached the stairs as Grace descended.
“She sleeps,” Grace whispered. “Faith and Patience keep vigil.”
Freddy exhaled, relief sharp. “Thank you. I shall call in the morning.”
Grace paused two steps above him, candlelight gilding her calm features. “She asked, before the laudanum took hold, whether you were still below. I told her you would remain until all was safe.”
A lump rose in his throat, but he swallowed it.
She placed a knowing hand on his arm. “I will reassure her.”
He nodded, knowing he should leave, though it was the last thing he wished to do. But as nothing was yet settled, he did not have the right. “Good night, then.”
“Good night, Freddy.”
CHAPTER 18
Joy’s first clear memory after the tumble that had tilted her orderly world into murky half-shadow, was the scent of lavender and the faint purr of a feline kneading its paws upon her coverlet. She could not, at first, decide whether it was night or day. The room lay muffled in drab greys, its familiar contours melted, but someone—a sister—sat in a chair near the shuttered window, murmuring soft assurances that Dr. Harvey would come presently with laudanum and that no one, most particularly Joy, was to stir so much as a finger.
When next consciousness claimed her, the physician himself stood by the bed, spectacles glinting as he lifted the bandage at her brow. “A concussion, yes. Bruising of the optic nerve, temporary, I hope. The left eye retains parts of its faculty. The right—well, we must bid it rest until the swelling abates. No strong light, no reading, only rest.”
“For how long?” she murmured, bristling at his brusque sentences.
“Miss Whitford, you must cultivate patience.”
Joy could have sworn Patience snorted at that instruction. The curtains remained half-drawn thereafter and Joy submitted to her unaccustomed blindness with as much grace as could besummoned from aching limbs and a headache that pulsed like a drum.
Her sisters divided the first night’s vigil. Grace brought barley water and bathed her neck with cool cloths. Faith read in a voice so gentle it lulled her to sleep. Hope silently re-plaited Joy’s unruly curls, and Patience smuggled in an orange and laughed when Camilla swatted at the peel. Only Maeve could not sit long, but she darted in and promised country air at Thornhill Place once Joy might travel.
Yet it was Freddy who lifted her spirits most. He arrived in the morning with uncharacteristic punctuality, armed with Joy’s favourite novels—includingThe Mysteries of Udolpho—Byron’s poems, and a stack of daily papers. Lord Orville invariably abandoned the bedpost to sprawl across Freddy’s lap as if claiming precedence.
“You must tell me the instant this tires you or vexes your head,” he cautioned, openingThe Morning Chronicle.Notably, he did not read to her what was said about her incident, though she knew it had been remarked upon.
