Page 37

“That was her first suggestion,” Freddy admitted. “She asked whether we ought to delay the gathering at Gresham Park. I told her I would seek your preference.” He hesitated. “The country air might do more good than darkened rooms in Town.”

Joy’s brows lifted. “I will not be the cause of overturning half a dozen invitations. Besides, Westwood speaks of Taywards in Surrey—close enough for others to visit.”

“My mother proposed Heartsfield Grange as a compromise,” Freddy said slowly. “It is in Kent—nearer than Derbyshire—and we could repair there in two short stages.” He managed a crooked grin. “And you could advise me on the dovecote-to-library scheme.”

Her lashes cast shadows on the bruised cheekbone.

“Unless you prefer pigeons to books.”

“A difficult choice,” she murmured, then grew thoughtful. “Kent would spare Westwood any objections. You are sure Lady Gresham would not object to an invalid among her guests?”

“Mother’s precise words were: ‘If Miss Whitford consents, I shall consider her presence a blessing.”

Joy laughed—just a breathy catch of sound, but bright. “I would like to see Heartsfield above all things. Now to convince Dr. Harvey and Westwood.”

He reached to cover her hand where it lay atop the coverlet.

She did not draw away. “I will speak to Westwood this afternoon. If he agrees, we could travel down early next week—slow stages, plenty of cushions.” He paused before lowering his voice.

“Joy, you will not be pushed if your strength fails. One word, and the plan changes.”

Her fingers curled around his in silent answer. For a moment neither spoke. The ticking bracket clock served as a heartbeat for them both.

Presently she said, softer still, “St. John was here five minutes ago. He asked for my hand.”

Freddy schooled his features. “And how did you answer?”

“I declined his offer.” She turned her head towards the muted window. “I still wish I knew if he even liked me or only my dowry.”

Freddy’s pulse drummed. “Must one be separate from the other?”

She smiled at that, releasing his hand.

“Shall I read Evalina or Cecilia today?”

“ Cecilia I think,” she decided, closing her good eye.

Freddy opened the book, his voice steady, his heart anything but. If fortune favoured him, Kent would offer more than orchards and fresh air.

Once Joy was resting, Patience relieved him, and Freddy slipped downstairs. Westwood saw him walk past and hailed him into his study.

Mr. Hamble, the Bow Street Runner had called.

Freddy had not hoped for much from Mr. Hamble after his last report, but he and two additional Bow Street men had ventured back into the fetid lanes of St. Giles.

Already, four days had slipped past when the butler announced the Runner once more, and Westwood had sent for all of them to attend.

Hamble, cap in hand, began without preface.

“We have the fellow, sir—name of Silva. Took him at the Cock and Bull in High Holborn, late last night.”

Freddy motioned him to a chair. “Has he confessed to doings with St. John?”

“Aye. As soon as he realized he was trapped, his courage collapsed. His story’s as queer as any Minerva Press plot.” Hamble produced a crumpled paper. “Written deposition, witnessed by me and Sergeant Leigh.”

Westwood scanned the first lines, brows lifting.

“He admits blackmail?”

“Aye. In so many words. He says Colonel Edward St. John owes him support for ‘a wife and two children’ in Portugal. Silva’s sister, Maria, was landlady to British officers during the war.

He claims St. John married her, and she bore a son and a daughter two years later.

St. John has not been heard of in two years.

The wife is dying, and St. John has not responded to pleas for help.

Silva came to London to remind him of his duty?—”

“—and found the Colonel dangling after a possible heiress,” Westwood finished, his knuckles whitening on the paper.

Hamble nodded. “Silva began threatening St. John with exposure, and thought to milk him for enough to take care of his family. He says he hurled stones to alarm St. John’s chestnut—meant only to force the Colonel’s hand. Never aimed for her head, he says.”

Westwood’s jaw tightened. “Intent and outcome know little difference, Hamble.”

“’Twas also my thinking, my lord. He seems shaken by the miss’s injury—that part, I judge, was not contrived.”

“Where is Silva now?”

“Clerkenwell. He will stand before the magistrate on Friday.”

Freddy paced back and forth. “And the Colonel?”

“We ’ave kept watch on his lodgings. Word is he took leave from the Guards, and rides out for Portsmouth tomorrow—passage booked on a packet bound for Lisbon.”

Stuart read the missive, then rapped the parchment on the desk. “Blackmail and a secret family—yet none of it meets open court unless we haul it there. What is our object?”

Westwood’s face hardened. “Joy’s future. If the fact that he was married becomes public, she is ruined. If they remain discreet and the Colonel departs, she is spared scandal.”

“St. John must face us first,” Freddy said. “And Joy must hear nothing of this. At least until her health is equal to it.”

Carew frowned. “We summon him now. He has much to answer for.”

Stuart reached for quill and ink. “I shall draft the letter.”

Colonel St. John presented himself at Westwood House that same evening. Freddy stood by the mantel; Stuart beside the desk; Westwood, Rotham, and Carew formed a silent tribunal in chairs. The Colonel entered with outward composure yet an undeniable pallor.

“You asked for me urgently, gentlemen.”

Westwood inclined his head and spoke first. “We have detained a man named Silva.”

St. John’s gloved hands tightened around his riding whip. “On what charge?”

“Assault,” Stuart answered, holding out the deposition. “He has confessed to throwing the object that hit Miss Whitford?—”

“Indeed!”

“—an act intended to warn you and secure funds for an unacknowledged family in Portugal. Your family.”

The Colonel swallowed, colour draining from his face. “Silva talks for his liberty.”

Freddy stepped forward. “Do you deny your flesh and blood?”

Silence boomed. At last St. John exhaled, his shoulders sagging.

“I do not deny it. Maria—Miss Silva—was dear to me. I have sent what I could. My debts swallowed the rent of the estate. The inheritance I expected will never materialize thanks to poor investments.” He met Westwood’s eyes.

“Your Miss Whitford stood to bring fortune enough to settle everything—my children, my estate. I am quite fond of her.” His voice cracked.

“When you were already married. Were you waiting for your wife to die?” St. John opened his mouth to deny it, but Westwood stayed him with a hand. “You risked Joy’s life to salvage yours.”

“No!” St. John’s denial rang with desperation. “I have never sanctioned violence, nor guessed she would come to harm. When I saw her fall I—” He faltered. “—I knew I must resolve the situation at once.”

Westwood’s lips thinned. “You still sought a betrothal only this morning.”

“And are now set to remove to Portugal,” Freddy scoffed.

Rotham folded his arms, granite-eyed. “Distance is precisely what you will keep. You will sail to Lisbon, and you will formalize a settlement upon Mrs. St. John, something signed before you leave, or you will never be able to show your face in England again.”

“I shall leave England at first light. I wish Miss Whitford every happiness. Pray tell her—tell her I regret?—”

Freddy’s glare stilled him. “We shall tell her whatever spares her distress.”

Stuart and Rotham oversaw St. John’s writ of promise to care for his family, then St. John bowed, turned on his heel and was gone, his boots echoing down the marble corridor.

When the door’s last echo died, Freddy’s relief mingled with anger, pity with triumph.

Westwood clapped his shoulder. “Joy shall never learn the darker details.”

Freddy nodded grimly. “Nor should Society. Let the rumours fade.”

Carew, ever pragmatic, produced a brandy. “To Joy’s speedy recovery—and to more honest suitors.”

They drank to her health, but Freddy did not mention his intentions towards Joy. Even as the spirits warmed Freddy’s throat, a new anxiety unfurled. He was now, unequivocally, free to declare himself. Would Joy accept?