Sherry Thomas - His At Night

“I mean, I can see you suffered an injury on your torso. But where is the evidence for the concussion? Who was your attending physician?”

His attending physician had been none other than Needham. But he was not about to tell her that.

“Ah…”

“So it’s your word and your word alone that there was a severe concussion.”

“Why would I lie about something like that?”

“To pass yourself off as a credible idiot if you hadn’t been one before.”

“But I just told you, I suffered no ill effects. I was a brilliant boy then and I am a brilliant man now.”

She cast him a still-incensed look. “Indeed, your brilliance dazzles.”

“Then don’t worry when I tell you not to worry,” he said softly.

She sighed and lifted her hand. Her fingers traced along one scar, her touch burning.

He yawned and walked away. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m falling asleep on my feet.”

Behind him she murmured, “You don’t need me to make it up to you tonight?”

Her words went directly to his privates. He clenched his teeth against the upsurge of desire. “Pardon?”

“Never mind,” she said after a moment. “Good night.”

“Good night, my dear.”

“Do you think, Ellie,” said Aunt Rachel diffidently, “that there might be doctors who will know how to—how to distance me from laudanum?”

It took Elissande a moment to realize her aunt had spoken and another to understand what Aunt Rachel had said. She turned away from the window, where she’d been staring, unseeing, into the garden.

Aunt Rachel was having her breakfast in her bright, lovely room. She still had her meals brought to her bed. But after only a few days away from Highgate Court, she was already feeding herself.

The previous afternoon she’d requested her window be opened to let in a few notes of birdsong. Last night, after her dinner, she’d shyly inquired into the possibility of a tiny piece of chocolate, should such be available in the house. Elissande had had no idea, but Mrs. Dilwyn had been pleased to inform Mrs. Douglas that indeed, his lordship was very fond of French chocolate and there was always a supply on hand. Aunt Rachel’s expression, as she placed the little morsel of chocolate in her mouth, had been one of such pure joy that Elissande had to turn aside to wipe at her eyes.

And this morning, as Elissande entered her bedroom, Aunt Rachel had said, “How pretty you look, my dear.” The last time Aunt Rachel had been well enough to compliment Elissande had been eight years ago, before the snowball fight that fateful Christmas day, before the laudanum.

There was no doubt about it: Aunt Rachel was improving in every way. Too fast. Had she remained inert and unresponsive, perhaps it would not make such a difference. But to let her fall back into Edmund Douglas’s clutches now—

“Ellie? Are you all right, Ellie?”

Elissande swallowed. She advanced to the edge of Aunt Rachel’s bed and sat down. “I might have to hide you.”

Aunt Rachel’s fork fell. “Is it—is your uncle—”

“He’s not here yet, but it’s only a matter of time.” Despite her husband’s reassurance, Elissande had churned all night in her bed. “You are too easy to locate in this house. I’ve chosen a hotel for you. You will be only minutes away and I will come and see you as often as I can.”

Aunt Rachel clutched Elissande hand. “Will you—will you and Lord Vere be all right?”

“We’ll be fine. We are not afraid of him.”

Though she wished her husband would be a little more afraid. It was dangerous to underestimate her uncle.

“When you have dressed, I will take you to a dressmaker’s. We will go in the front and come out the back, take a hack, and then head for the Langham Hotel. I will bring your things by later; first we secure your person. Do you follow me?”

Aunt Rachel nodded hard.

“Good, now—”

There was a knock on the door.

“Yes?” said Elissande.

“Your ladyship, Mrs. Douglas,” said the footman, holding a silver salver before him. “Mrs. Douglas, there is a gentleman by the name of Nevinson calling for you. He asked me to deliver this note to you in person. And he wishes to know whether you are at home to him, mum.”

Aunt Rachel, already too frozen to speak, looked to Elissande.

Elissande took the note and broke the wax seal on the envelope.

Dear Mrs. Douglas,

This is Detective Nevinson of the Metropolitan Police, on urgent business with regard to your husband, Mr. Edmund Douglas. I pray you will receive me promptly.

Your servant,

Nevinson

Elissande clenched her fist. Was it her uncle, sending the law after her aunt?

No, he had no cause for it. A man’s wife was at perfect liberty to travel to London for a week.

Then it must be a ruse. The detective was an impostor, a Trojan horse sent to breach the defenses of this house when it could not otherwise be stormed.

“First give this note to his lordship and ask him to read it immediately,” she said to the footman. “Then show Mr. Nevinson to the drawing room and make him welcome. We will receive him presently.”

The footman left to do her bidding. Aunt Rachel gripped Elissande’s arm.

“Are you sure?” Aunt Rachel’s voice shook.

“I will receive him. You will enjoy your breakfast. Lord Vere is here and he is not going to let you be abducted from under his nose.”

Or so she prayed. And locked Aunt Rachel’s door just in case.

“Thank you for seeing me, Lady Vere,” said Nevinson.

He was dressed in a smart lounge suit of blue worsted, a man of early middle age, with sharp eyes and efficient movements—very much the competent and trustworthy officer of the law and precisely the sort of quality confidence artist she would have hired had she wanted her aunt stolen.

She pasted on her usual smile. “What may I do for you, Detective?”

“Will Mrs. Douglas be joining us, ma’am, if I may ask?”

“Mrs. Douglas is not at home. But I will be happy to relate your message to her.”

Nevinson hesitated. “Forgive me, ma’am. What I am about to say is of an extraordinarily sensitive nature. Is it at all possible that I may speak to Mrs. Douglas face-to-face?”

“Alas,” said Elissande, still smiling, “I’m afraid it is not possible.”

The man regarded Elissande. “And why is that so, Lady Vere?”

Elissande cleared her throat and exaggeratedly looked about the empty drawing room. Then she said in a stage whisper, “You see, sir, for some time every month, she suffers. Oh, how she suffers. You could even say she is in the veriest of agony.”

Nevinson obviously had not expected this particular answer. He flushed a deep red and struggled to regain his composure.

“In that case, I’d be grateful if you would pass on the message to Mrs. Douglas.” He cleared his throat. “I hate to be the bearer of ill news, but Mr. Douglas has been arrested this morning on suspicion of murder.”

Elissande blinked. “Is this a joke, Detective?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. It is not. We have sufficient evidence to believe that he is responsible for the murder of one Stephen Delaney, a scientist whose unpublished method of diamond synthesis he stole.”

Why would her uncle kill a man for a method of diamond synthesis when he already had access to vast quantities of natural diamonds? The accusation was too ridiculous for words. This had to be a ploy. How long could she keep Nevinson in the drawing room? Could she get a message to her husband that he was to whisk her aunt away this moment?

She was breaking out in a cold sweat. She must not go into a panic. She needed to think clearly and effectively.

What was that? Someone was singing outside the drawing room—a familiar song.

“‘I’ve got a little cat. And I’m very fond of that. But I’d rather have a bow-wow. Wow, wow, wow, wow.’”

She had to conceal a smile as her husband opened the door and stuck his head inside. “Good morning, my dear. How lovely you are, as always,” he warbled.

Thank God! She’d never been so happy to see anyone.

Lord Vere, sloppily dressed, his hair still sleep-mussed, turned toward Elissande’s caller. “And is that you, Detective Netherby?” he exclaimed in a tone of surprise.

“Nevinson, my lord.”

Had she caught a grimace on Nevinson’s face?

“I knew it!” exclaimed Lord Vere, strolling into the room. “I never forget a face or a name. You were the lead detective on the Huntleigh case.”

“The Haysleigh case.”

“That’s what I said. When Lady Haysleigh was discovered to have faked her own death in order to escape a prior marriage and marry Lord Haysleigh—and then she attempted to murder her first husband when he arrived at the Haysleigh estate.”

“That, sir, would be the plot of a Mrs. Braddon novel. Lord Haysleigh’s younger brother, Mr. Hudson, attempted to poison Lady Haysleigh in order to frame Lord Haysleigh for murder so that he himself would come into the title.”

“Really? I always thought that was the plot of a Mrs. Braddon novel.” Lord Vere sat down and accepted a cup of tea from Elissande. “Thank you, my dear. Now, Detective, I’m under the impression the Haysleigh case was settled several years ago.”

“It was, sir.”

“That’s a bit odd to see you here then. I didn’t know we were on calling terms.”

Nevinson clenched his teeth. “Never fear, my lord. I’m here strictly on business.”

“Ah, and what business would that be? I assure you, I have been nowhere near any suspicious activities.”