Mrs. Hughes, meanwhile, had noticed the bruises marring Stacie’s alabaster skin. The housekeeper tutted. “Mercy me! That dastardly man! What is the world coming to? I’ve an arnica salve, my lady, which will make those come and go much quicker. Just let me fetch it—the sooner it’s on, the faster they’ll go.”
Frederick waited with what patience he could muster while Mrs. Hughes and Stacie’s maid fussed and applied the ointment to Stacie’s throat, and Hughes and the footmen organized a watch and devised a way to barricade the scullery window until it could be repaired.
Finally, Frederick was able to extricate Stacie. She was plainly still shaken, but had consumed the warm milk she’d come to the kitchen in search of; she rose and, leaning heavily on his arm, thanked the staff for their assistance, then he solicitously ushered her from the kitchen.
In the front hall, at the bottom of the stairs, she paused, drew in a deeper breath, then met his eyes. “Thank God you followed me.”
He clenched his jaw and said nothing, just waved her on, and side by side, they started slowly up the stairs. After a moment, he asked, “Does it hurt to speak?”
“Not as much as it did—the milk helped—and Mrs. Hughes’s salve is working wonders.”
“Good.” He hesitated, then asked, “Did you get any hint as to what the man was after?”
She shook her head. “I think I surprised him. I assume he was a burglar, and he didn’t want me to scream and raise the alarm.” As they reached the gallery, she shot Frederick a glance. “Do you think he was after your new book?”
Frederick’s brows rose. He contemplated the possibility.
“The book did arrive just yesterday, and tonight…” She paused, then asked, “Have you ever had someone break in before?”
“No.” He had to admit the coincidence was striking, yet… “I can’t believe Brougham would send a burglar to steal the book, and he’s the most likely culprit if the book was the man’s target.” After a moment’s hesitation, he asked, “Did you see enough of the man’s face to be able to identify him?”
She shook her head. “He had his hat pulled low and a muffler about his face.” As if remembering, she tilted her head. “That said, I don’t think he was a gentleman of any stripe. Not a laborer, but not much higher.”
Frederick grunted. He was waging an uphill battle to confine his newly risen protective urges within readily explainable—excusable—bounds. The protective possessiveness he’d felt on seeing the blackguard with his hands wrapped about Stacie’s throat had all but blinded him with its ferocity; even now, if he could lay hands on the man…
White-hot fury still burned inside him, yet he had no outlet for it. Suppressing it, pushing it deep, he steered Stacie into their room—his room that they now shared—and guided her to the bed.
Once she was settled beneath the sheets, he joined her.
She seemed exhausted now, as if the energy that had carried her through the ordeal had run out and left her drained. She turned in to his arms and snuggled close, cushioning her head on his shoulder. He held her gently and brushed his lips across her forehead. Soon, her breathing deepened and slowed.
He closed his eyes; a roiling mix of emotions still churned inside him. Considering them, their power, and the effect they were having on him, he realized that love had changed that, too. Apparently, loving didn’t only create a gaping emotional vulnerability, it also catapulted all associated emotions onto an entirely new level of intensity.
He lay listening to Stacie’s slumberous breathing while his heightened emotions kept him wide-awake.
I should have had a glass of warm milk, too.
The day passed without any further sightings or clues as to the man who had broken into the Hall and left its mistress with a necklace of bruises around her throat.
Frederick dispatched grooms to inquire at the local inns, including those at Guildford, but none had played host to an unknown man the previous night, only their regulars. Given the proximity to London, it was possible, even likely, that the man hadn’t dallied but had ridden down, then ridden straight back, leaving no trail to be followed.
Stymied on that front, Frederick told himself the man could have been a would-be burglar who had imagined the newly-wed couple would be off somewhere on a wedding trip, leaving the Hall with a skeleton staff. He’d heard tales of such burglaries, apparently triggered by the wedding announcement in the news shee
ts.
Regardless, with nothing more to be done, he allowed himself to fall back into what was fast becoming his much-desired married life.
On Sunday afternoon, after lunching with Frederick, Stacie left him in his study and, after chatting with the head gardener, Storrocks, about the tree he was planting to replace the now-removed elm, made her way to the stables and asked the head stableman, Bristow, for the gray mare she favored to be harnessed to the gig.
While she enjoyed riding, she’d discovered that for visiting the estate’s cottages and the tenant farmers’ families, tooling herself around in the gig was preferable; once on the ground, she didn’t need to worry about how to get back into her saddle.
After her first round of visits, when Frederick had accompanied her to introduce his workers and explain what each family did, what acres they farmed or what service they performed for the estate, she’d taken to calling at the various cottages on a three-week roster. That didn’t seem too intrusive, and she continued to learn a great deal about how the estate functioned, and the people seemed to genuinely welcome her interest. She also hoped that knowing she would visit every third week meant people—the farmwives especially—would have an avenue to alert her to any looming problem. According to Mary, who ran a similar watching brief at Raventhorne Abbey, becoming a conduit for information was one very real way in which to assist one’s husband.
While she waited for the gig to be readied, she leaned against the stable yard fence and tilted her face up to the gentle sun. Eyes closed, she smiled; she was increasingly grateful that Frederick had suggested and argued for their marriage. Even had she tried to imagine her perfect life—the one that would best and most deeply satisfy and fulfill her—she could never have designed a position that suited her better than being his marchioness.
When she’d accepted his offer, she hadn’t fully appreciated all the benefits, but the past weeks had opened her eyes to what truly mattered to her—having a sense of place, of belonging, of having a role that others looked to her to fill. Having a purpose beyond herself, a larger role that contributed to so many, in so many different ways and on many different planes, and was significantly broader in scope than her desire to advance the cause of worthy English musicians.
Not even the recent incident with the burglar—who surely had to have been just some man trying his luck—could dampen her appreciation. Mrs. Hughes’s salve had worked miracles, and the bruises were already fading; she’d concealed the blotchy marks by looping a gauzy scarf about her throat.