“Now what are you going to do?” Whitely delivered a firm, avuncular sort of look. “Normally in cases of disreputable behavior, the alias and department support are removed immediately. But in the case of a well-connected young lady…”
“I can’t leave Town tomorrow.” Peter returned a firm look of his own. “I’m going to marry her.”
Whitely stroked his chin. “Can you manage in a week? I can give you an extra week of Hughes. But marry her with your proper name, mind.”
“Wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.” Peter stretched out his feet, knowing he ought to have said “Yes, my lord.” “I’ll head out of London immediately after the wedding. Disappear for a good long time. By the time we return, folks’ll be confused for a minute, but won’t care less about an unimportant drunk from a long time past.” They’d be far too busy talking about Elinor. “But what about her uncle and brother? I’ve got to write a wedding settlement.”
“You do.” Whitely appeared pleased that Peter was following his advice. “Let’s see. You said she needed help?”
Peter passed a hand over his face. “Have you met that idiot Hargreaves?”
Whitely scoffed his agreement.
“She couldn’t wait another week. And her brother wouldn’t do anything about it.”
“Scoundrel.” Whitely’s face darkened at the mention of Kilairne. “That faction doesn’t understand what an honor it is to be invited to sit in Lords. An honor!”
“Exactly. Kilairne’s a scoundrel.” Peter wasn’t a monarchist, but would press any advantage he could.
“And Hargreaves is a pain in the arse. As your superior, Alcott, your behavior was unacceptable, but man to man, it was understandable. Can’t abandon a good lady to men like that. Given the circumstances, the department can help, ahem, facilitate your departure.”
All Peter needed was for Whitely to facilitate his departure with Jackdaw, but he’d take more if it was offered. “Yes?”
“Thompson and Kilairne. Hm, don’t trust either of them. Just write your contract as usual, everything you would put in it for your own self. I suggest you sign her dowry back to your own children.”
Tense to hear what came next, this time Peter said “Yes, my lord.”
“Tell them your true identity the night before. No, half past eight the morning of your wedding. The department will arrive as backup. I’m confident we can keep both mouths closed; no one else needs to know.”
“Exactly how are you keeping their mouths closed?” Peter was fairly certain the man didn’t mean murder, but it never hurt to check. Not a good way to start a marriage.
“Five hundred apiece.”
Peter blew out his breath slowly, his mind racing. “I can manage Kilairne. Got some information that will keep himquiet.” He wouldn’t want to be associated with Lord Edmund, not when the truth came out. “If you give the whole thousand to Thompson, it’s a deal.”
Whitely shrugged. “For someone who has just been fired, you drive quite the bargain. But it’s all the same to me.” He put out his hand. “A thousand to Thompson, the girl gets the marriage settlement of her dreams, and Hughes leaves town in a week.”
Peter shook, blood fizzing in exultation. Earned an escape from Italy for himself, and more time for Rose and Henrietta. That is, if everything went according to plan. Celia needed to trust him, and Peter never trusted a plan.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It Is Not the Stars that Hold Our Destiny, But Ourselves
When she wokethe next morning, Celia was in the big bedroom and she was not alone. Henrietta curled in a chair beside the bed—Rose’s bed—with her novel and knitting. Henrietta had a pitcher of warm water for the basin, she picked out one of Celia’s favorite, comfortable, pretty dresses, she called for tea. She didn’t say anything unnecessary, but she helped Celia as though she were an invalid. Celia could not remember how young she must have been when someone had done these things for her; supporting her to the privy, pouring her tooth powder, wringing out the sponge and touching her skin like she was precious.
Always prepared, Henrietta assembled salve and bandages, and after Celia was sponged and dried, on Rose’s dressing stool with her towel around her hips, Henrietta examined her scrapes and bruises. Celia hadn’t known until she felt the sting of the salve that her shoulders were raw too, and now she saw a soft purple stain spreading on her stomach and breastbone.
“Where did that even come from?” Celia rubbed the place just above her belly button. “He didn’t touch me there.” She glanced up at Henrietta, frightened. Her words had made the attack more real.
Henrietta stood back, examining Celia with careful scrutiny.
“Your busk,” she announced. “He must have pushed you, and it made your busk dig into your skin.”
“Of course.” Celia took a breath. She remembered that part. She was fine.
She could not feel those big hands seizing her clothes, shaking her. It was over.
“Let’s try the soft breast cups today.” Henrietta handed the loops of fabric to Celia and pulled her hair out of the way. “In a few days you can wear stays again, without the busk.”
