Page 10 of The Thorn and the Rose

Thorn blinked at him, wincing as his furious voice ricocheted about his tender brain. “I did,” he said, frowning.

Larkin’s expression slid from relief to profound irritation before settling into one of deep concern with remarkable speed. “Christ, look at you. You’ve had a time of it, whatever happened so I suppose we can hold off on reproaches. Come in, for heaven’s sake. I’ll send for a doctor and get word to your parents. Good heavens, what a stink you’ve created. You know Pip’s in town?

“He is?” Thorn replied, surprised. “Whatever for?”

“Looking for you, you daft beggar,” Larkin exclaimed, supporting Thorn as he took him through to the private room they kept for themselves. The familiar scent of expensive brandy and cigars, polished wood and leather, wrapped around Thorn and felt profoundly reassuring.

“I sent word, Larkin. A letter addressed here, for you,” he said, disquiet coiling in his guts. Whatever could have gone wrong? Marie had the address correct, he knew, and the club was so close she could have posted it herself, not that it was a place for a respectable lady to be seen. The idea that she had might not have posted it on purpose sent a surge of disappointment lancing through him.

“Well, we never got it. Three weeks you’ve been gone and—”

“What?”

“What?” Larkin said with a frown, lowering him into an armchair.

“It’s not that long. Almost two weeks, perhaps,” he insisted, an odd sensation in his chest as Larkin returned a look of concern.

“It’s the eighth of June.”

Thorn opened and closed his mouth. How? How was that possible? Memories of the past weeks tumbled about in his brain, but he could make no sense of them. He had counted the days since Marie had told him the date and… and had she lied to him? But why? To what end? She had got nothing from him, had refused the money he had offered her. He had caused her nothing but trouble but… He rubbed at his temples, unable to make sense of it.

“I’ll fetch a doctor. Don’t you bloody move,” Larkin instructed fiercely.

“My parents,” Thorn called after him, feeling sick to his stomach as he considered what they must have endured these past weeks.

“Of course. Don’t worry. I’ll see to it.”

And with that, he had to be satisfied.

Chapter 4

To The Right Hon’ble Lord Childe,

I regret the necessity of doing so, but I must bring his lordship’s attention to the outstanding debt which is, as yet, still unpaid.

If payment is not made, I will have no choice but to take steps to recover the sum due.

―Excerpt of a letter to The Right Hon’ble Everett Branagan, Baron Childe from Messrs Fanshaw and Clarke.

8thJune 1845. Montagu House, St James’s, London.

Less than eight hours later, Thorn found himself tucked up in bed in his childhood room at Montagu House as the family doctor gave his diagnosis.

“A severe concussion,” he pronounced gravely. “I am not surprised you have experienced such pain and dizziness. The fatigue, too, is to be expected. There are also two broken ribs and a good number of deep bruises. In my opinion it is quite likely he has been given laudanum at regular intervals, which would have added to his confusion, especially over how much time has passed. However, Lord Thomas is a strong and fit young man and I expect him to make a full recovery, if he takes my advice and keeps to his bed for the next four weeks.”

“Four weeks!” Thorn exclaimed in horror. “Oh, surely not…!”

“Four weeks,” the doctor said, his tone implacable.

“Don’t you dare utter a word of protest,” his mother said.

She stood at the foot of his bed, the relief in her expression obvious. She looked heavy eyed though, and he knew she had been out of her mind with worry.

“But Mother, I need to go to Marie and—”

“I will go to find Marie,” his mother said firmly. “You will not leave that bed, Thomas or you will have me to answer to. You have worried me to death these past weeks and I won’t stand another moment of it. So, you’ll damned well do as the doctor tells you or I shall lock you in your room.”

Thorn’s eyes widened with shock, for his mother rarely swore and she had never locked him in his room before, not even as a boy. Damn. She really meant it. His father stood behind her and shot him a look that silently said do as your mother says or suffer the consequences. Thorn knew when he was beaten.