With that thought came a feeling of peace. Because his father had died young, Elijah had always felt time at his shoulder. And that drove him to work hard. It allowed him to sometimes intervene before a great injustice was served on the weak and needy.
It even drove him to bring Jemma back from Paris, to give them the indescribable joy they had shared the night before. His father had never found the love that he and Jemma shared.
The late duke had lived in a house full of portraits of beheaded men. Whereas he had lived, if only for a year, in a house graced by Jemma.
He slipped into the darkness, smiling.
Chapter Twenty-two
Elijah was rather surprised to wake up, but not surprised to find Jemma standing at his bedside, her eyes huge in her stricken face.
She said his name on a sob.
“It’s all right,” he said, the words coming with difficulty. “I’m back.”
“I thought the attacks came–I was a fool,” she said, clutching his hand. “I put it out of my mind. Was it because we—”
“No!” he said quickly. “Stibblestich visited this morning.”
She swallowed, and he could see her make a visible effort not to renew her plea that he leave the Parliament. “Give me some time,” he murmured. “I’ll have that potion Vickery doubtless has ready-made, and take a short nap.”
Jemma’s lips were trembling, but she set her mouth and put down his hand. An hour or so later he was up, his headache gone, just the ache of regret in his chest.
He found Jemma in the library, staring at an empty chess board. He didn’t think she was playing a game in her head. He dropped a kiss on her hair. “Would you like to take a walk with me?”
She looked up. Her eyes were glazed with tears. “I’m so sorry,” he said helplessly.
“I’d like a walk, but not here. I don’t want to see Lady Lister next door, or anyone I know.”
“How about the gardens of the Roman bath?” he suggested. “We said we would go back, someday.”
The truth of that stood between them silently. If they didn’t go now, they might never go.
Servants have a way of knowing when it’s the right time to be invisible. Without meeting anyone’s eyes—not Fowle’s, not a footman’s—they were in the carriage. Jemma huddled under his arm like a wounded bird. And then they were at the baths.
It was raining: not hard, just enough to make spring look even greener. Every leaf appeared new, as if its paint was not yet dry, the color still vivid and glossy. Even the light looked green.
The little monk let them in, incurious as ever. He wore his hood over his face so all that could be seen was his nose. The nose nodded when Elijah said they would walk in the gardens, and the man hurried away, disappearing between the broken pillars.
“Who is he?” Elijah asked, breaking the silence. “Do you have any idea why he tends the baths?”
“There are five of them,” Jemma said. Her voice was too controlled. She needed to cry, he guessed. “Caring for the baths is all they do.”
“They certainly don’t bother with the grounds.” The gardens were as dilapidated as the baths themselves. They wandered down a path lined with overgrown shrubs. Flowering vines hung like horse blankets over the low walls, dragging down stones and tumbling them to the pavement.
The tree trunks were shiny black with rain, their leaves reflected in puddles at their feet.
“I believe they spend their time in prayer,” she said, when so much time had passed that he had forgotten the question.
“Prayer to Apollo?”
“The God of Healing.” Her hand curled suddenly around his. “Oh, Elijah, would it be madness to ask them to pray for you?” She started to turn about.
He dropped a kiss on her nose. “Yes, it would. I don’t think people ask Apollo to grant favors. He gave humans the art of medicine, but he didn’t promise to cure Lord Piddleton’s gout.”
“You’re not suffering from a mild case of gout,” she said tensely.
“Well, you can always ask.”
But she was thinking about it now. “The problem is where does one stop? If I ask the monks here, I’d have to ask someone in the church.”
“The archbishop, at least,” Elijah suggested. Against all odds, he was starting to feel oddly happy.
She scowled at him. “How dare you smile at me!”
“I didn’t die today,” he said cheerfully. “I’m walking with you, and you don’t have gloves on, so I am feeling a pleasantly irresponsible wish to kiss your fingers.” Which he did. “And your mouth.” Which he did.
“You have the most lovely mouth, Jemma,” he whispered sometime later. “It’s soft and full. It makes me want to bite you.”