TWO HOURS LATER, HENRY WAS lingering in the dining room over his after-dinner cigar when Dr. Hartcastle found him. The good doctor took the glass of port Henry offered, confirmed Mrs. Tibbit’s assessment of the broken arm, and lamented that it had taken seven stitches to close the gash at the nape of the girl’s neck. Beyond that, the doctor reported two broken ribs and revealed Eliza’s dizziness was caused by a concussion. Recommending she stay abed for at least a fortnight, he informed Henry he had given Eliza laudanum for the pain. He also left arnica drops to be taken three times daily, to combat any internal injuries.
Henry was assured he would return the next day to check on the girl’s progress. Before he left, the good doctor took it upon himself to tell Henry earnestly that, in his opinion, Henry had saved the young woman’s life.
Dr. Hartcastle said it as if Henry ought to be congratulated, but having noticed her at the side of the road, Henry could not have left her to her fate; and now that she was under his roof, he felt responsible for her. It seemed she had no one else. Henry resolved to find out Eliza’s full story as soon as possible.
ONCE DR. HARTCASTLE LEFT, HENRY climbed the stairs to look in on his guest. He entered the comfortable second-floor bedroom quietly and found Mrs. Tibbit sitting by the fire doing her mending. The bed in this room, although big enough and made of rich, dark cherry wood, had no curtains to be drawn around it. In order not to disturb the girl’s slumber, Mrs. Tibbit had angled her armchair to shade the single candle she had lit so she could work.
She smiled up at Henry. “She’s resting easy now.”
Henry stood next to the bed and gently brushed a dark brown curl out of the girl’s bruised and battered face. “I have seen some truly horrendous things on and off the battlefield in Spain and France, but this somehow seems worse.”
Mrs. Tibbit snorted her disgust. “Ay, there’s no justifying this one. Can’t blame it on war or hate between enemies. The person who was supposed to keep her safe did that.”
Henry nodded and idly fingered a silver locket that had been placed on the nightstand. “Is this hers?” he asked, holding it up.
“Ay, I found it pinned to the inside of her corset. It’s nice work and there’s a lock of hair in it.”
He studied the fine floral motif engraved on both sides of the ornament and opened it to look for an inscription. It was a long shot, since only people who could read and write bothered to inscribe their possessions, but when he lifted out the lock of coarse brown hair, he found a dedication: All my love, Ted and the date 1799.
Had it been a betrothal present? Perhaps Ted was the girl’s father and the locket had belonged to her mother. It seemed likely. When had things started to go so terribly wrong for Eliza?
He placed the locket back on the night stand. The more he found out about the girl, the more curious he became. Turning to Mrs. Tibbit, he instructed softly, “Make sure she knows it’s safe as soon as she wakes up. She obviously went through some trouble to keep it from her despicable stepfather.”
Mrs. Tibbit nodded without bothering to glance up from her stitching as he moved to the door.
“And get one of the girls to sit with her so you can get some rest. Good night, Tibby.”
She smiled at the use of his childhood name for her. “Will do. Good night.”
WHILE ELIZA SLEPT THE NEXT day away in a laudanum haze, Henry caught up on his affairs. The autumn round of his estates had taken him from Brighton in the south, to Berkshire and Lincolnshire, all the way to Norfolk, and back to London. It was no small thing to oversee the running of four prosperous estates, but besides his land, Henry had several financial investments also demanding his attention. In the six weeks of his absence, a veritable mountain of mail had accumulated on his desk, and Henry promised himself he would give it its due attention right after he had completed his duty to the crown.
In that spirit, a summons from his superior to give his report in person was heeded first and without delay. Once the Old Man was satisfied everything had been done to strike yet another suspect off their list, Henry made his bow to his godmother and then paid his man of business a visit to discuss his finances.
The following day, after checking on his houseguest and finding her still deep in slumber, Henry cloistered himself in his library to sort through his mountain of mail. His spectacles on his nose, he worked systematically through the pile, answering queries as needed, and was glad when he reached for the last missive around four in the afternoon. Recognizing his cousin Arthur’s handwriting as well as his ducal coat of arms on the seal, Henry smiled at the thought the missive might contain news of his daughter, Emily. But instead it was an open invitation to dine at his cousin’s residence as soon as Henry returned to London. Henry buried his disappointment and sent a note to the ducal palace on St. James’s Square, informing his cousin of his return. Two hours later, Henry strolled through the now-dark but still bustling streets of Mayfair to join his cousin Arthur, the Duke of Avon, for dinner.
A BLUE-AND SILVER-LIVERIED FOOTMAN ushered Henry into the magnificent marble foyer, illuminated by the refracting light of a chandelier. There he was greeted by the family’s butler, Higgins.
“Good evening, Sir Henry. His Grace awaits you in his study.”
Henry handed his hat, walking stick, and greatcoat to the aging retainer and let his eyes wander over his mother’s ancestors lining the walls. “Thank you, Higgins. No need to announce me, I know my way.”
Higgins bowed. “Of course you do, sir.” But he still preceded Henry down the hall to announce him. “Sir Henry, Your Grace!”
Arthur Redwick rose from behind his desk and strode forward with his hand outstretched in greeting. “Henry, I’m so glad you could join me tonight.”
Henry smiled warmly and shook his cousin’s hand. “Hello, Arthur. How is everyone at Avon?”
The Duke of Avon was a somber man by nature, his countenance perfectly suited to his political aspirations. He was a decade older than Henry, but the years had been good to him. The duke had hazel eyes and was perhaps an inch shorter than Henry, but shared his broad shoulders, sandy hair, and even features.
“Last I heard, everyone was in excellent spirits. Did Emily forget to write again?”
Henry followed his host to the sofa in front of the fire and took the brandy Arthur poured for him. “I had a letter from her in Norfolk, but that was two weeks ago.”
“Ah, my information is only three days old. Your trip seemed rather longer than usual.”
Henry heard the underlying question and contemplated how much to tell his cousin. Arthur was one of the few people who knew what Henry had done during the war, what he still did for the crown, but for everybody’s safety, it was better to keep his own counsel in this instance. “I just had to stop off in Norwich to tie up a few loose ends.”
The duke shot Henry a sharp look but only nodded, and a moment later, Higgins entered to announce dinner was ready to be served.
They shared an excellent meal and pleasant conversation, but never ventured beyond the commonplace, until the dishes had been cleared away and the servants had left them alone with their brandy and a box of fine cigars.
Arthur took a sip of the amber liquid in his glass and lifted his finger. “By the bye, Henry, you may have to write to your Emily again concerning her tendency to outwit her groom. The poor man does his best to keep up with her, but he reported last week that she had gotten away from him three times in the last month. Bertie is usually a willing participant in her adventures, but he is only two years older than she, and at fourteen he is not capable of protecting her, nor himself for that matter.”