“No laudanum.”
“But if it can help your headaches—”
“No,” he snapped.
Sara flushed at the harsh tone of his voice, and even Henri put down his fork and stared at them with a frown.
Sara cleared her throat. “If you won’t take laudanum, then your headaches must not be bad at all.”
“Precisely, madam. They are nothing.” He turned away to talk to Henri about a new banister the workmen had just installed.
Hmmm. There was far more here than she’d realized. Something secretive. Sara waited until the meal had ended and Henri was on his way out for his daily ride before broaching the subject again. “If you don’t take laudanum, what do you take?”
A frown marred his brow. “Leave it, Sara. I’ve told you it was nothing.”
“I know you did, but if the servants think—”
“I don’t care what the servants think and neither should you. They know nothing about it.” He turned and strode toward the terrace doors.
Sara hurried to catch up with him. She grabbed his arm and halted him, pulling him around to face her. “Being your wife gives me the right to interfere in every aspect of your life.”
“Nonsense.”
She crossed her arms and stared at him.
Nick sighed and raked a hand through his hair, wincing at how bright the sun had suddenly become. Though his headaches had greatly decreased when he’d first arrived in England, the last two weeks had seen a gradual increase. Every day a new sign seemed to indicate that his agony was far from over. Nick closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Well?” Sara asked impatiently.
“I begin to perceive that I was a bit naive in believing that our union would be simple.”
She met his gaze steadily. “If you won’t take laudanum, maybe you’d be willing to try an herbal tisane. Aunt Delphi has found chamomile very beneficial.”
Nick had to bite his tongue not to snap at her. His head had ached since morning, a dull throbbing pain that warned him of the severe days he had ahead. Damn it, he’d not wanted Sara to know the true extent of his illness. He remembered the terror with which he’d witnessed his mother’s agony, and he was resolved that Sara would never look at him with the same heartsick pity.
He glanced down at Sara and said slowly, “It’s possible a tisane may help.”
She tilted her head to one side, her dusky curls swinging over one shoulder. “What we need is an herb garden. Perhaps I can plant one come spring.” She stepped onto the lawn. “I saw a book in the library on that very subject. Would you mind if I planted one here, between the roses and the shrubbery?”
“I’ll send the gardener to you.”
“That will be lovely.” She smiled at him. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”
He raised his brows, trying hard not to let any of his pain show in his eyes. “What?”
“That I will expect you to drink my herbal teas every time I make one. Perhaps I will find the one that will cure you!”
“Perhaps,” he said, hope lifting his spirits. If she could find a cure, they could embark on a normal relationship…He shook his head. No. How many times had he seen his mother attempt to find some way other than laudanum numb her pain and how many times had she failed?
His throat tightened. He would never allow Sara to see him fall to such depths. He’d end his life before he’d let that happen—and happen, it would. The thought pained him worse than his head. Even in this short time, Sara had brought him so much pleasure. She deserved better than to be saddled with a man destined to descend into the pits of hell.
Perhaps Pratt could help him determine a way to protect Sara when his ultimate end came. She already had the accounts established for her by Marcus, but Nick wanted her to have more. When the time came that he knew he could no longer endure the pain, he would ensure that Hibberton Hall and all his funds would be hers. In addition, he would safely invest a healthy sum for her future.
She would be truly independent, with a house that was worthy of her spirit and beauty, perfectly maintained by a staff that was trained and ready to serve her.
He tried to imagine Sara living at Hibberton Hall after his demise, but he couldn’t. All he could see was the picture she made now, dressed in a sprigged muslin gown, the sun shining through the window, warming her hair and touching the tip of her nose.
For the first time in his life, he realized all that he was going to miss. The unfairness of it made the blood pound behind his temples. Small white circles skittered at the edge of his vision, and he closed his eyes against the growing pain.
“Nick?”
He could hear Sara’s voice as if she were at the end of a long tunnel, the soft tones echoing. He forced his eyes open and made his mouth curve into a grimace. “I just realized I was to meet Henri in the stables to see his new mount.”
She smiled, her teeth glimmering whitely between her rose-petal lips. It was always this way right before he suffered an attack. Colors and sounds stretched, capturing other senses with them until they drove him mad.
The tang of metal in his mouth made him realize how little time he had. “I will be back in an hour.” Without giving her time to protest, he left, forcing himself to keep his shoulders straight. As soon as he was out of sight, he let the pain go and almost staggered at the impact.
A steady arm gripped him. “Mon ami, you would not listen to Wiggs, would you? You have nearly left it too long.” Henri kept him from sliding to the floor. “Come, I shall call Sara and—”
“No.”
The comte frowned. “But—”
“I don’t want her to know how bad they are. Not yet.” Not ever.
“Mon ami, if you do not tell Sara about your illness, what will she think when she sees you?”
He hadn’t thought that far ahead; the senseless, stupid part of him had held out false hope that this episode might be brief. “I will go away. Maybe the cottage. The worst attacks only last a day or two before they pass; I will just tell Sara I have to go away on business.”
“I am not one to give advice, but I think you are in error. Sara is a strong woman. Why not just tell her—”
“I won’t have her frightened.”
Henri’s brow creased in confusion. “What’s there to be frightened of?”
Nick turned away. Even Henri did not understand. Nick never wanted Sara to see him so desperate, so wracked with pain and terror that he didn’t know where or who he was. Like his mother had been, the night she died, so crazed that she hadn’t known her own son.
It took all of Nick’s strength and Henri’s assistance, but he made it to the gatekeeper’s cottage. There he collapsed into bed and let the pain take its course.
Chapter 17
“My lady, you asked for me?” Wiggs said, standing uneasily inside the morning room.
Sara had been nervously pacing the carpet, wondering where her elusive husband had disappeared. “Yes, Wiggs. Just where is the earl?”
Wiggs hesitated, his watery blue gaze slipping past her to the front door. “Where is who, madam?”
Sara plopped her fists on her hips. “His Lordship. The tall, handsome blond man who owns this house.”
Wiggs shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sure I don’t know. His Lordship was here yesterday.”
“I realize that. I ate luncheon with him, remember? But today he is nowhere to be found.”
“I believe he left you a message, my lady.”
“Saying that he would be back this morning.” She gestured to the late-afternoon sun that was swiftly sinking. “Does it look like morning to you?”
Wiggs’s gaze drifted to the window over her shoulder, his expression carefully blank. “No, my lady.”
It was obvious Wiggs was not going to give an inch. But she’d been on tenterhooks all morning, her imagination running wild. “Surely you know something!”
Wiggs stared stoically ahead, like a prisoner facing a firing squad.
“His Lordship rarely takes me into his confidence.”
“He may not have told you precisely where he was going, but you at least know when he left.” Sara took a step closer to the butler. “You did see him, didn’t you?”
His gaze grew wild, but he didn’t move. “I-uhm, I believe I might have.”
“And when was that? Midnight? One o’clock? Two?”
“Your Ladyship, I’m not sure I should—”
“Let me make this easy for you. If you don’t tell me when you saw his Lordship last, I shall lie on the floor and have a fit.”
He blinked. “A…fit, my lady?”
“A complete, unstoppable fit of hysterics. Mrs. Kibble has already twice suggested that I should lie down, in case I was feeling dizzy.”
The butler’s thin mouth twitched in a smile that was quickly suppressed. He looked at her for a long moment, then said carefully, “My lady, I assure you I would tell you if I were able. But I cannot.”
Sara’s jaw tightened. So Nick had forbidden his servants to betray his whereabouts, had he? She could only think of one reason he would go to such lengths. The black ooze of betrayal made her stomach sicken.
Damn his soul, she was not about to be made a fool again. But first she had to find the bastard. Taking her emotions firmly in control, Sara sat down in a chair and removed her slippers.
Wiggs’s eyes widened. “My lady! What are you doing?”
Sara dropped her shoes onto the carpet beside her. “I am preparing to go into hysterics. I cannot abide women who drum the heels of their slippers while screaming. The one sound drowns out the other, so it is a completely wasted effort.”
“My lady, surely it is not necessary—”
“Will you tell me where His Lordship is?”
“No. I cannot.”
She sat on the floor and neatly arranged her skirts about her legs. “You’ll forgive me if I seem unpracticed in this. I haven’t been treated as a child in years, and it is difficult to remember all the nuances of such a performance.”
Wiggs wrung his hands. “My lady, I cannot tell you where…he expressly forbade me…” The butler’s voice was growing progressively weaker, his Adam’s apple bobbing in an alarming fashion. “My lady, please reconsider—”
“As soon as you tell me when you last saw His Lordship.”
The determination in her eyes made him sigh, and his shoulders sagged in defeat. “Very well, my lady. Please do get up from the floor.”
Sara accepted his hand as she climbed to her feet. “Excellent, Wiggs. It was going to be very difficult to revive me.”
A reluctant smile touched his weathered lips. “Thank you for not forcing me to such lengths, my lady.”
Sara grinned, pushing her feet back into her slippers. “So, Wiggs. I understand you cannot tell me exactly where His Lordship went. You are honor-bound to do as the earl requests, and if he expressly told you not to tell me about certain aspects of last night, then you cannot do so. However, it will not hurt you to impart what information he didn’t order you not to pass on.”
Wiggs looked impressed. “That is quite true, madam.”
“Then let us begin. Where is His Lordship?”
Wiggs looked at the ceiling.
“I see. Well, then, at what time did you last see His Lordship?”
“Shortly after lunch, madam.”
“Where did he go?”
Again the butler stared at the ornate ceiling.
Sara sighed, her brow furrowed in thought. “I assume he was ready to leave when you saw him?”
The butler nodded.
“Hm. Did he receive a billet of some type, a message that sent him out?”
“No, madam.”
Sara frowned. “Did he seem distressed?”
Wiggs leaned forward eagerly. “If I may venture to mention it, my lady, His Lordship did not look well. In fact, someone had to help him to his carriage.”
He’d been ill and he hadn’t told her. Suddenly, the conversation they’d had yesterday took on a more ominous meaning. “Who helped him into the carriage?”
The butler’s rheumy gaze lifted toward the ceiling once again.
“Ah,” Sara said. “The comte.”
Wiggs bowed. “Very good, madam.”
“And is the good Henri here now?”
“He returned just this morning. I believe he is in the breakfast room.”
Gratitude warmed her heart, and Sara placed her hand on the butler’s thin arm. “Thank you, Wiggs. If the earl is ill, I need to know about it. Some men let their pride do their thinking, and it can be very damaging.”
He smiled in such a fatherly way that Sara was tempted to rest her head on his shoulder.
She found Henri facing a plate of ham and eggs, his usually cheerful mien gone. As soon as he saw Sara, he flashed a brilliant smile and stood. “Ah, chère! There you are!”
“Here I am indeed.” She crossed the room and took the chair by his side, turning it to face him. “Henri, I am not a woman given to dissembling.”
Henri’s smile froze as he resumed his seat, eyeing her warily. “No?”
“No. I’m much more likely to demand an explanation forthwith.”
Henri sighed. “I warned him how it would be, but he would not listen.”
“He is ill, isn’t he?”
“The headaches, they plague him. He did not wish to frighten you.”
Frighten her? “How bad are they?”
“There are days when he does not leave his bed.” Henri began to say something else, but stopped and shrugged. “It is a family illness. You should ask him.”
“I will if I can find him. Where is he?”
“The gatekeeper’s cottage.”
“Is he alone?”
“No. There is a manservant who will stay with him, should he need anything. I, too, planned on returning after—”
“After you had convinced me that he had left on a matter of business.”
The door opened, and Sara was surprised when Aunt Delphi traipsed in. The older woman halted when she saw the comte, bright pink touching her cheeks. Sara absently noted the blush as a thought occurred to her. “Aunt Delphi, do you have the recipe for that tisane you made when your head pained you so last year?”
Delphi blinked. “I think I remember it. Why? Do you have the headache, dear?”
“No, no. It’s not for me.” Sara jumped up and grabbed Delphi’s hand, pulling her from the room. “Henri, I will be back shortly.”
“Very well, ma chère,” he called, waving her away, though his gaze was fixed on Delphi’s retreating figure. “I will escort you to the cottage when you are ready.”
Sara bustled Delphi into the library and set the elderly lady to the task of writing her tisane recipe while Sara quickly packed. She returned to the library just as Delphi was folding the recipe into a neat square.
Sara grabbed the paper and handed it to Wiggs. “Have Mrs. Kibble find these ingredients and bring them to the gatekeeper’s cottage.”
“Yes, madam,” he said, beaming with importance. He immediately hobbled off.
Henri entered the room. “Are we ready to go, then?”
“Almost. Aunt Delphi gave me the recipe for her tisane.”
“He won’t take it. He does not like medicine, you know.”
Sara straightened her shoulders. Nick would drink it if she had to pour it down his throat.
“Sara, what of our shopping?” Delphi asked, pulling her gloves back on.
“Shopping?” Sara turned a confused gaze on her aunt.
“We were going to look for a hat to go with my new pelisse of Brussels green. You sent me a note just yesterday saying that you would be here and had nothing to do, and—”
“Oh, yes. I had forgotten.” She couldn’t go anywhere now; Nick needed her. “I’m afraid something has come up this morning, and I cannot come with you.”
“But I—”
“Fortunately,” Sara interjected smoothly, “the comte has
agreed to escort you to town.”
“Mon Dieu!” the comte burst out, though he quelled his outburst when Sara turned a minatory stare on him. “I—”
“Would be pleased to escort Her Grace,” Sara finished inexorably. “Don’t worry about Nick. I’ll tend to him myself.”
Sara didn’t wait to see them off. Her portmanteau neatly strapped on the back of the curricle, a basket of food at her feet, she was soon on her way to find her foolish husband.
Chapter 18
Sara found the cottage curtains drawn, the door tightly closed and locked. She knocked repeatedly, pounding until her fists felt bruised. Finally, just as she was considering climbing in a window, the door opened. Sara recognized the servant as one of the new footmen. He bowed low, an unmistakable flash of relief in his eyes as he informed her that His Lordship was in his chamber.
Ordering the man to see to her portmanteau and the basket, she dashed up the stairs. Once she stood outside the door, she faltered, suddenly unsure. What if Nick refused to see her? She almost knocked, then thought better of it. Thankfully, the knob turned easily in her hand.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn, and the air heavy with the scent of the beeswax candles that guttered on a low table. Sara could just make out Nick’s dark form across the room in a chair. Girding herself, she walked closer and could see his head resting on the high chair back, his eyes closed, his hair in disarray. There was a tenseness to his face, a sign of the pain that raged through his head and the fight he made to maintain his pride.
Sara quietly stood at the edge of the rug. His pride would hate her being here, but hers wouldn’t let her retreat.
He opened his eyes and turned his face toward her; her hands fisted at her sides when she saw the torment in his gaze.
“What do you want?” His voice sounded as if the pain had scraped the edges of it raw.
She took a step toward him. “I came to help. Can I get you—”
“No. Just leave me alone.” Eyes closed, he turned his face away. The faint light touched the length of his lashes and played along the hard line of his mouth.