Charlotte fixed him with a glare. “You did at least see to the clergyman?”
“The chaplain arrives just before noon,” he replied shortly.
“You said you knew him from the Peninsula?”
William’s voice sharpened. “He served with the Army. In Spain. He ministered to the wounded and gave last rites under musket fire. When needed, he carried a pistol and used it. I trust him.”
“Will he be carrying a sword to the altar?” Charlotte asked sweetly.
William’s lips curved without any warmth. “Only if provoked.”
Silence returned. Jane turned back to the window, her breath fogging the glass. The city passed unseen—quiet and half-lit, its glow smothered by thick mist. She rode toward a house she had never seen, to conduct a wedding none of them would speak of afterward.
* * *
The house was modest by Mayfair standards, but more than suitable for its intended purpose. Situated on a quiet, tree-lined street in Bloomsbury, it offered privacy without attracting suspicion. The carriage rolled to a halt beneath a flickering gaslamp. William stepped out first, then handed Jane down carefully. Charlotte followed, issuing instructions to the footman with brisk efficiency.
The front door was opened by a stout, apron-clad figure already bustling with energy. “About time,” Mrs. Scott muttered, stepping back to let them in. “I’ve had supper ready for an hour, and if it sits any longer, it’ll go to paste.”
Inside, the warmth of the house wrapped around them at once. The floors were polished, the furniture simple but well-kept. On the ground floor were a drawing room with a faded green settee and a small hearth, a dining room barely large enough for eight, and a narrow study tucked near the back, its tall windows curtained in heavy damask. Upstairs, three bedrooms waited—two small and plainly appointed, and onewith a view of the garden that had been freshly aired for Jane. The attic held two cots for Mary and the cook, and the kitchen in the basement smelled of roast chicken and sage. Not grand, but respectable. Precisely what was required.
“I’ve set the supper in the dining room,” Mrs. Scott called from the hallway. “Don’t let it go cold now. It’s got broth for strength and a bit of poultry for richness—don’t think I’ve forgotten how to feed a proper family.”
“I’ve already eaten,” Jane said gently. “But thank you. I’d prefer to be shown to my room, if I may.”
Charlotte nodded to Mary, who stepped forward without fuss.
“I’ll bring a tray up later,” Mrs. Scott sniffed. “You’ll want something before bed whether you know it or not. You’ve a little one counting on you now. Best not forget that.”
Jane followed Mary up the narrow stairs. The bedroom was modest—certainly smaller than the guest room at Westford House—but clean and bright. A serviceable armoire stood in the corner, and a basin and pitcher were placed on the washstand. The bed had been turned down and warmed with a copper pan. One window had been cracked open, letting in the leaf-mold scent of early March.
“I’ll begin unpacking, miss,” Mary said quietly.
Jane nodded and slipped back down the stairs alone. She stepped into the study—it was hers. She could tell at once. William had chosen it for her—no doubt he’d given instructions. The desk was already stocked with fresh paper and ink, the chair fitted with a needlepoint cushion. A place to work. A place to think.
She returned to the bedroom a short while later. Mary was almost done. Folded chemises, spare stays, a linen nightgown. Among the carefully wrapped items was a single old volume—the only book of her father’s she had kept, its spine worn smooth with age.
Jane picked it up and held it in both hands. If he had not died so suddenly, her life would have been different. She would have stayed in Southampton. Married a vicar or a solicitor. She would not be here, in this house, preparing to marry a man she could neither name in public nor call her own in peace.
Perhaps she would be happier. But then she remembered how William looked at her—when he forgot himself. When his eyes went dark with need, or soft with wonder. That moment in the stillness of the night when he brushed his fingers across her cheek, not knowing she was awake.
She remembered the way he said her name, low and reverent, when he thought they were alone in the world. She could not say she would rather not know what it felt like to be wanted that way.
But still—this was not the wedding she had imagined. No mother to lace her stays. No sisters fussing over her veil. Not even Margaret, whom she had grown to love like her own. Her heart squeezed painfully. The child wouldn’t understand. Might never understand why she hadn’t been allowed to attend her own brother’s wedding.
Mary helped her undress, murmuring kindly as she folded the cloak and bodice away. Jane sat in her nightgown at the edge of the bed, the fine fabric draping over her stomach, one hand resting absently atop it.
Mary smoothed the coverlet. “I’ll be just up the stairs, miss. Ring if you need anything.”
Jane nodded. “Thank you, Mary. Truly.”
When the girl had gone, Jane curled beneath the blankets, but no sleep came. The ceiling was pale with moonlight. Her palm remained on her belly. This was the night before her wedding. To a man she loved. And yet she felt no joy.
The silence stretched on. Then—floorboards creaked outside. One soft footstep, and another.
A hushed voice followed. Charlotte. “Where do you think you’re going, William?”
A pause. Then his voice, low and irritated. “That is none of your concern, Charlotte.”
