“Shall I eat yars, then?”
“Please do.”
Margaret hurried up the passage, pausing to glance into the stillroom. Finding it empty, she continued on her way upstairs and across the hall to the sickroom.
She quietly inched open the door, slowly revealing the library—fire crackling in the hearth, oil lamp burning low on the side table beside the flowers she’d brought, Lewis’s prone figure on the bed, and Connor standing over him. It was as she thought, he was missing his supper to check on his master.
The door creaked.
Connor whirled, dropping something from his hand. “Dash it, Nora, you startled me.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to. I only wanted to check on you.”
“Check on me?”
“When you didn’t come down for supper, I grew worried. I thought perhaps Mr. Upchurch had taken a turn for the worse.”
The valet lifted his chin in understanding, then turned to regard Lewis. “He does seem a bit worse to me. I was worried myself. That’s why I came to sit with him.”
“Where is Mrs. Welch?”
“She excused herself to use the necessary.”
“Oh.”
“It was good of you to check on me, Nora. But why don’t you return to your supper?”
“I’ve already eaten. The others are finishing their pudding. If you hurry, I imagine Hester and Jenny will put together a plate for you.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Both stood awkwardly, looking down at Lewis Upchurch. His color seemed a little better to her, though she was no judge.
Margaret said, “It is kind of you to be so concerned for him, Connor. But you should eat something.”
Connor shrugged. “He is my responsibility, isn’t he?”
His ragged tone tugged at her heart. Had she ever inspired such loyalty in a servant? Would she? Gently, she said, “I’ll ask Hester to save your supper on the stillroom stove, shall I?”
“Thank you.”
Margaret turned to go, but then hesitated. “I think I made you drop something when I came in and startled you. Shall I help you find it?”
Connor looked about him. “Did I? Perhaps something from the toilet case. I’ll take a look after you leave.”
“I don’t mind helping.”
“Thank you. But I don’t think you want me lifting Mr. Upchurch’s bedclothes to search for it in your presence.”
Her neck heated at the thought. “You’re right. Well, see you later.”
Nathaniel stood in his bedchamber, eyeing his bed with longing. He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to undress, climb under the bedclothes, and sleep for hours. But his spirit was troubled. He felt drawn to pray at his brother’s bedside first. Leaving his room, he quietly descended the stairs.
At the half landing, he paused. A figure stood in the shadows, just outside the sickroom door. For a moment, panic seized him. Had Saxby or Preston come to finish the job? But then he realized the figure was feminine. A girl in an apron. Mobcap askew atop dark curls. Margaret—keeping a nighttime vigil. Such devotion. His heart ached to see it. She’d declared she no longer had feelings for Lewis, and he wanted to believe her.
If only he could ignore the evidence of his eyes.
They formed a small investigative unit named the
Bow Street Runners. These were private citizens not paid
by public funds but rather permitted to accept rewards.
—John S. Dempsey, “Introduction to Private Security”
Chapter 28
Dr. Drummond called again the next day. He seemed perplexed as to why Lewis had yet to regain his senses. But he did say he was pleased with how well the wound was healing. The physician gave credit to the surgeon, even though Mr. White had seemed certain Lewis would not survive the first night. Apparently he had taken the time to do his best work anyway. Nathaniel decided he would send the surgeon his gratitude and perhaps a gratuity as soon as he had opportunity.
When the physician had taken his leave, Robert Hudson entered the library.
“Sir? A man was here while you were busy with Dr. Drummond. A Mr. Tompkins. He was asking questions about the shooting.”
“Did the sheriff of Kent send him?”
“That was my first guess. But he isn’t a local man. He’s from London.”
“London? Why would a London man stray so far?”
“He’s a runner, sir. Engaged to look into the matter.”
“Engaged by whom?”
“He would not say, beyond ‘a private citizen.’ Someone acquainted with your brother, I gather, who wants to see justice done.”
Nathaniel frowned. “I want that more than anyone. Still, I find it irksome that someone should be investigating the matter without involving me.”
Hudson cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind my saying, sir, I deduced from the man’s questions that you are one of his chief suspects.”
“Me?”
“Did not many people witness the fight between you and your brother at that London ball?”
Nathaniel groaned.
“Perhaps whoever hired the runner fears justice will not be done if you are overseeing the inquiry—or if local officials are in the pocket of the influential Upchurch family.”
In one sense that was true. Because Helen had urged him not to involve the local magistrates, Nathaniel had gone to see the current sheriff of Kent privately to inform him of the matter. The sheriff was an appointed official with affairs of his own to manage. He was not likely to spend much time looking into the situation, especially when the family was not urging him to do so. He was also an old friend of their father’s and understood Nathaniel’s request to keep the duel quiet, so as not to endanger Lewis should he recover. Should Lewis die, then that would be another matter entirely.
A thought struck Nathaniel. “Might the man who shot Lewis have hired the runner to keep abreast of Lewis’s condition—to discover if we know his identity so he might flee if necessary to avoid arrest?”
Hudson screwed up his face in thought. “It’s possible, I suppose. But I wouldn’t think he’d want to link himself to the duel for fear of drawing suspicion to himself.”
“Unless he means to divert suspicion by assuming the role of avenger.” Nathaniel ran an agitated hand through his hair. “In any case, we need to find out who is paying this runner.”
“Shall I take it on, sir?” Hudson asked, eyes alight.
Nathaniel studied him. “So eager for any assignment that relieves you of your house steward duties?”
He tucked his chin. “You know me too well.”
Margaret couldn’t sleep. Tired of tossing and turning, she pulled on her wrapper and shawl and tucked her hair into her mobcap, just in case. She walked downstairs and out onto the balcony, but it was empty, as was the arcade below. Restless, she took herself down to the main level and across the dark, echoing hall.
She entered the sickroom on the pretense of seeing if the nurse needed anything, only to find Mrs. Welch asleep. Margaret sat in a chair near the door, oddly comforted by Lewis’s regular breathing and even by the elderly nurse’s soft snoring from the settee across the room. An oil lamp burned atop the mantel. Embers glowed in the hearth. This room was warmer than her own, and Margaret felt comfortable in her nightclothes and shawl. She didn’t expect to see anyone at this hour except Mrs. Welch, who wouldn’t mind her state of dress—especially as she slept on, undisturbed by her presence.
The tall case clock struck midnight, but sleep felt far away. Margaret’s spirit was troubled. For Lewis’s sake, for Helen’s, for Nathaniel’s, even for her own, she thanked God Lewis still lived. But something wasn’t right, beyond the fact that Lewis Upchurch had been shot in the first place. It had been three days and he had yet to wake.
Margaret found herself thinking of all those nights her dear papa had been called away—or had gone on his own initiative—to sit at the bedside of an ailing or dying parishioner. She felt somehow closer to her father, keeping vigil in Lewis Upchurch’s sickroom.
A creaking door startled her.
A man whispered, “How devoted she is, sitting by his bedside like a loyal hound.”
“Mr. Upchurch . . .” she breathed, rising to her feet. Nathaniel lounged against the doorjamb fully dressed, arms crossed. He did not look pleased to see her there.
She tiptoed to stand near him. She spoke in an accent, and a whisper to avoid waking Mrs. Welch. “I had only come to check on him.”
“And where is the nurse? Or are you assuming that role as well?”
“Of course not.” She gestured toward the settee, where the woman lay on her side, a lap rug over her middle. “I couldn’t sleep, while Mrs. Welch clearly does not share that problem.”
She tentatively grinned, but he did not return the gesture.
“I hope, Nora, that you do not cherish any . . . romantic notions about my brother.”
Margaret frowned in surprise. “Why would you say that, sir?” As Nora, she had not knowingly flirted with anyone. Yet Nathaniel had seen them together at the servants’ ball. . . .
“You would not be the first to do so, nor the last. . . .” He winced. “God willing, not the last.”
“You needn’t worry, sir. I don’t think of him that way.”