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Gage proved to be correct about at least one thing.

After taking the laudanum, he slept for nearly sixteen hours.

So deep was his slumber that a number of times I held a mirror beneath his nose, waiting for it to fog with his exhalations just to ensure he was still breathing sufficiently.

After all, there were plenty of instances of people taking too large a dose of an opiate—especially one as seemingly mundane as laudanum—and never awakening.

I, on the other hand, slept rather fitfully.

No doubt because of my worry for my husband, but also because of my own aches and pains.

I might have taken a dose of laudanum as well, but I thought at least one of us should remain cognizant enough to be roused.

I was also still nursing Emma three times a day, and I was uncertain how it might affect her.

However, Gage seemed none the worse for his dose. In truth, he looked much improved. Gone were the dark circles around his eyes and brackets of pain, and his laceration seemed to be knitting nicely.

These were things I could be grateful for while still envying his restfulness as I sat at the breakfast table cradling a cup of coffee rather than my normal cup of warm chocolate and listened to him read from the Caledonian Mercury .

Just as I could be glad of the article’s contents even as I resented Gage’s cheeriness at being correct.

It stated plainly that the incident at the auction had been a calamitous accident, before describing in great detail the events preceding, during, and following the floor collapse.

It reported that some eighty to one hundred people had fallen when the floor gave way and listed some of those present, as well as a number of those injured, and of course, Mr. Smith’s death.

The reporters at the Caledonian Mercury had even gone so far as to state what they believed to be the cause—a joist with a knot in it extending nearly through its entirety just three or four feet from where it was inserted into the wall.

As it had been the lone joist holding up that portion of the floor, when it had given way under the pressure, there had been nothing to prevent the collapse.

Clearly this was an oversight on the builders’ part.

Not only should the beam have been constructed of better materials, but there also should have been a second joist.

Gage seemed to believe this was confirmation that the collapse had, indeed, been an accident.

And it undoubtedly was. But I also couldn’t help but note that just because this was what the newspapers were reporting, didn’t make it the truth.

After all, when the scandal had broken at the discovery that I had assisted Sir Anthony with his medical research, some of the newspapers and broadsheets had not bothered to ascertain any of the facts, preferring instead to trade in gossip and innuendo and spread atrocious lies about me—whatever would sell the most papers.

Even in regard to our most recent brush with the press here in Edinburgh concerning the publication of the book and subsequent play about Bonnie Brock, several of the newspapers had skirted very near the edge of libel concerning my and Gage’s involvement.

However, I didn’t point this out to Gage.

Nor did I remind him that Bonnie Brock had said the police and officials were eager to keep the truth concealed.

Because despite the skepticism I still harbored, I wanted the Caledonian Mercury ’s report to be true.

I wanted the collapse to be the fault of poor materials and building practices.

And I was too cross to debate the matter with any sort of equitable temper.

I had planned to spend the day in my studio, but I found I was still too sore and out of sorts. This meant I was falling behind on the completion date I’d set for myself, but it could not be helped. Not when my very bones ached from the jarring they’d taken two days prior.

So instead, I settled in the corner of one of the sofas with pistachio green upholstery set before the hearth in our library, which Gage also used as his study.

He’d confessed he’d had some correspondence and other estate matters to see to, so I’d elected to join him there.

I might have decided to lie back down, but the idea of spending any more time tossing and turning in discomfort in our bed held no appeal.

The sofa cushions being plush, I was comfortable enough, though I read very little from the book resting in my lap that I’d pulled from one of the oak shelves covering nearly three entire walls of the chamber.

I was too preoccupied by everything that had happened, my thoughts seeming to drift.

Periodically, Gage would direct his concerned gaze my way, but I pretended not to see.

Just as I pretended not to notice when occasionally he rolled his shoulder, testing the tenderness of the joint.

A gentle rain was falling outside the tall windows, and between that and the soft crackle of the fire, I was soon lulled into a sort of stupor.

Though initially not one deep enough that I couldn’t appreciate how I must mirror the portrait I’d painted of my niece Philipa that now hung above the fireplace.

In it, she was curled up in a chair fast asleep, a book opened in her lap and her head pillowed on Earl Grey—my former gray cat, whom I’d gifted to my nieces and nephews upon my marriage to Gage and departure from their home.

The mouser gazed out of the painting like a prince humoring his subjects.

However, as my torpor deepened, I briefly wondered if Bree had mixed something else into the willow-bark tea she’d insisted on bringing me for my aches—something sedating or at least calming.

Because of it, I wasn’t sure how long I’d dozed, or if I’d fallen asleep at all, when Jeffers rapped on the library door.

Gage quietly bade him enter.

Jeffers took in the scene at one glance, lowering his voice so that I could barely hear him. “Sergeant Maclean is at the door. He requests a moment of your and her ladyship’s time.”

At this pronouncement, I straightened to alertness, noting the lingering surprise that had transformed my husband’s features. However, when he glanced at me, I knew what answer he was going to give. “Perhaps another time…,” he began at the same time I urged, “Show him up.”

Gage’s mouth creased with doubt. “Are you certain, darling? You were just resting quite peacefully.”

“Yes,” I replied adamantly, swinging my legs over the side of the sofa so that I was seated more properly.

“Perhaps you can stifle your curiosity, but I can’t.

” When he still looked as if he might argue, I added, “I’m afraid it’s quite hopeless.

I won’t be able to sleep a wink until it’s satisfied.

So we might as well discover what he wants. ”

I couldn’t be confident, but I thought I detected a flicker of amusement in Jeffers’s dark eyes.

Gage’s reaction was more skeptical, but he nodded to our butler. “Show him up.”

He bowed his head and departed, closing the door behind him.

“Are you sure about this?” my husband asked as he rose from his chair and rounded his oak desk.

“Yes.” I didn’t bother to conceal my aggravation. “Sergeant Maclean hasn’t called on us since Emma was born. I’d like to know what spurred him to change his mind.” I arched my eyebrows. “And you would, too.”

He frowned but didn’t deny it. “It might not be what you think,” he cautioned.

“Of course,” I conceded, having already told myself not to jump to conclusions.

It wasn’t hard, because I could already think of half a dozen reasons other than the floor collapse Maclean was paying us a visit, and I was certain there were at least half a dozen more.

“But we won’t know that until we speak with him. ”

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Gage turned toward the door, a flicker of apprehension passing over his features.

Though I could hardly credit it, for my husband was normally so self-assured and confident, I began to wonder if he might be anxious about seeing Maclean again.

Perhaps that had been part of the reason behind his hesitation, not just his protectiveness of me.

Before I could ask him about it or even offer him reassurance, the door opened to admit Jeffers and then Sergeant Maclean.

The police sergeant was as brawny and imposing as ever, filling the entrance with the breadth of his shoulders.

He bore the traces of his former career as a pugilist in his crooked nose and scabbed and scarred knuckles, the joints perpetually swollen from past—and present—scuffles.

He moved with great care, conscious of the amount of space he took up, surveying us and the room in one swift look as Gage greeted him.

“Good morning, Sergeant. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

He stepped forward, lifting his arm to reveal two garments draped over it. “These were left behind at Lord Eldin’s residence. I believe they’re yours.”

“Why, yes,” Gage replied, moving to take his greatcoat and my mantle from him. “We left a number of things behind. As I’ve heard, many people did,” he added with a glance at Maclean.

“Aye.” The single word was heavy with implied meaning, though he didn’t elaborate.

“Shall I take those for you, sir?” Jeffers offered.

Gage passed the garments to him while continuing to address our guest. “Was that all?”

“Um, er, nay.” Maclean cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels. “I also wondered if I might have a moment o’ yer time.”

My husband turned toward me as if to ask for permission, even though he already knew my answer.

“Tea, please,” I told Jeffers, who nodded and retreated from the room, closing the door behind him.