She rose and offered her hand.
Pringle came forward to take it. “Just a deep cut. Nothing that won’t mend soon enough, as long as he doesn’t aggravate the injury.”
That last was said with a quizzical look at Jack.
Who met it blankly.
She thanked the doctor. Jack shook hands with him, and Pringle left.
“Now”—Clarice hitched her evening cloak over her shoulders, and picked up her reticule—“it’s time we headed back to Benedict’s.” So she could share her thoughts, her emotions, with him.
To her surprise, Jack frowned; he made no move toward the door. “Rather a lot of people saw us together tonight. Again. After last night, and tonight, perhaps it would be better if I remain here. I probably won’t sleep all that well, and Gasthorpe’s an excellent nurse.”
She fixed her eyes on his, drew in a deep breath, and managed, just, to keep her temper, to keep her swelling emotions in check. “My dear Lord Warnefleet, please understand this—there is no way on earth I am letting you out of my sight. Not tonight, not for the foreseeable future. Furthermore”—she drew in another huge breath—“regardless of Gasthorpe’s efficiency, I defy him to be better able to nurse you than I, and as for you suffering from any difficulty sleeping, I’m quite sure I’ll be able to find something to distract you from the pain in your shoulder, to exhaust you enough for you to fall asleep.”
Her voice had gained, not in volume but emphasis; to her horror, it threatened to quaver. She had to draw in another breath and hold it for an instant before she could ask, pointedly, “Are you ready to leave now?”
Jack blinked, studied her, and realized she was almost quivering, that a species of fine tension was thrumming through her. That she was seriously, deeply upset. “Yes. Of course. If you’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
She may be sure, but he wasn’t, not at all sure just what she was so upset about. It could be simple reaction, even compounded reaction to the events of the last two evenings. In what he suspected was typical Clarice fashion, she might have been bottling it all up inside, trying to be her usual tower of strength for everyone else.
In the front hall, he slung his coat over his shoulders, called a farewell to Gasthorpe, then took Clarice’s arm and guided her outside. In the street, he helped her into the carriage, then joined her, easing back against the squabs, aware of her watching him closely.
“It’s only painful if I press on it, or lift my arm above the shoulder.”
The wound truly wasn’t bad, more a nuisance, and none of the rest of him was injured in any way. However, as they rattled around to Benedict’s, he did wonder what the rest of the night might have in store for him.
As they turned into Piccadilly, he recalled Dalziel’s visit and mentioned it; without being asked, he related all Dalziel had said.
They passed close by a street flare as the carriage turned a corner; in its glare, he saw she was frowning.
Suddenly, she looked up at him, her face clearing. “Royce.”
He frowned. “Royce who?”
Her frown returned. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I ever did know. But that’s Dalziel’s Christian name, the one he goes by—Royce.”
Jack considered; after a moment, he shook his head. “Tracing one of the nobility on the basis of one Christian name is simply too hard.”
But he made a mental note to tell the others. One day they’d learn the truth, the whole truth, about Dalziel. Now, however, he had another, more immediate, equally difficult member of the nobility to deal with.
By the time Clarice had succeeded in bullying him up to her sitting room—directly, with no detour via the secondary stairs—he’d decided how to deal with her.
Directly, as direct as she usually was. In the instant he’d seen their late adversary poised to hurl a knife into her heart, he’d had a revelation sharp enough to qualify as Cupid’s dart.
In contrast, the impact of the knife had been rather anticlimactic.
Life was too shor
t not to reach for love, not to seize it. If she’d changed her mind and decided to remain in London…she’d simply have to change it back.
In the carriage, he’d recalled her advice to Alton. People giving such advice usually spoke from their own perspectives.
So be it. He’d thought showing her how much he loved her would be enough, but…perhaps not. And if not, then…unfortunately, it was one thing to show her, another entirely to tell her. To say the words aloud. Doing so might well qualify as the hardest task he’d ever faced, but he would do it.
He had to; he had no choice.