she had attended one and found it a crushing bore. But other than an occasional supper at the home of some friend, Papa preferred for Mama and her to stay home in the evenings, saying the night was for the devil and his dark deeds. Never mind that much of London’s social life occurred after sunset or that many political compromises were made over a fine supper. This very evening, from Billings House across Grosvenor Square, soft sounds of party merriment reached through Marianne’s slightly open window.
She yawned and snuggled into her wrap to ward off the night chill. Perhaps she was being foolish. But after going to bed she had lain awake for well over an hour, at last rising to light a candle and find comfort in the Scriptures. Her eyes fell on Psalm 27:1. “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” Whether or not Robert sought God’s protection, Jamie would, and in the coal-black streets of London, the Lord would be his light.
Her eyelids grew heavy, and she rested her head against a pillow on the windowsill. A cold breeze sent images of ships floating through her mind, and she dreamed of standing beside Jamie aboard his Fair Winds while the sails filled with wind and carried them to faraway shores.
Sitting up with a jolt, she realized that noise no longer came from the party across the Square, and silence ruled the night. But, no, distant sounds drew nearer. The muted thuds of a horse’s hooves on the dirt street, the rattle of carriage wheels. Hurried whispers. Jamie’s deep voice. And John the footman, who had kept vigil at the front door at Marianne’s request. She shoved the window farther open and leaned out to see a hired hackney driving away and forms disappearing through the front door beneath her.
She dashed from her room and downstairs to meet them in the front entry.
“Milady, ’tis Mr. Moberly.” John’s bushy eyebrows met in a frown as he and Jamie struggled to half carry, half drag Robert into the light of a single candle illuminating the hall.
“Go back to bed, Marianne.” Jamie jerked his head toward the stairway as he knelt and let Robert slump against his chest. “We can manage.”
Jamie’s breath came in deep gasps. Robert lay silent.
“Let me help.” Marianne knelt in front of her brother, whose forehead bore a bloody lump. “What happened?” Did Jamie realize he had not used her title?
“Go upstairs.” Jamie used a stern tone, one that must cause his sailors to quake, but only made her cross.
“I will not. John, take Mr. Moberly into Papa’s library. We can tend him there.” She could see the footman’s hesitation. “Do as I say.”
“Yes, milady.” John sent Jamie an apologetic look.
Still working to catch his breath, Jamie shook his head. “To his bedchamber.”
“No,” Marianne said. “We would have to pass Papa’s door, and he might hear us.”
Now Jamie leaned toward her, and she could see the raw emotion in his eyes. “Madam, it may turn out that Lord Bennington would actually want to have some final words with his son.”
Marianne drew in a sharp breath. She stared down the length of Robert’s drooping form and saw a scarlet stain oozing through a slash on the left side of his yellow waistcoat. “Oh, Robert—” She clamped down on her emotions. Tears would not help him.
Jamie glanced up the wide front staircase and released a weary sigh. “You’re right. To the library, John.”
While Marianne took charge of the candle, the men carried Robert down the dark hallway beside the staircase to Papa’s library. Inside, she pointed. “On the settee.”
“Milady, the blood,” John said.
“Never mind. Mama is planning to redo this room.” Perhaps not soon, but she did redecorate often.
With Robert on the long settee, Jamie fell to his knees beside him, still breathing heavily.
“John, fetch clean rags and water.” Marianne hurried to the hearth for more
She yawned and snuggled into her wrap to ward off the night chill. Perhaps she was being foolish. But after going to bed she had lain awake for well over an hour, at last rising to light a candle and find comfort in the Scriptures. Her eyes fell on Psalm 27:1. “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” Whether or not Robert sought God’s protection, Jamie would, and in the coal-black streets of London, the Lord would be his light.
Her eyelids grew heavy, and she rested her head against a pillow on the windowsill. A cold breeze sent images of ships floating through her mind, and she dreamed of standing beside Jamie aboard his Fair Winds while the sails filled with wind and carried them to faraway shores.
Sitting up with a jolt, she realized that noise no longer came from the party across the Square, and silence ruled the night. But, no, distant sounds drew nearer. The muted thuds of a horse’s hooves on the dirt street, the rattle of carriage wheels. Hurried whispers. Jamie’s deep voice. And John the footman, who had kept vigil at the front door at Marianne’s request. She shoved the window farther open and leaned out to see a hired hackney driving away and forms disappearing through the front door beneath her.
She dashed from her room and downstairs to meet them in the front entry.
“Milady, ’tis Mr. Moberly.” John’s bushy eyebrows met in a frown as he and Jamie struggled to half carry, half drag Robert into the light of a single candle illuminating the hall.
“Go back to bed, Marianne.” Jamie jerked his head toward the stairway as he knelt and let Robert slump against his chest. “We can manage.”
Jamie’s breath came in deep gasps. Robert lay silent.
“Let me help.” Marianne knelt in front of her brother, whose forehead bore a bloody lump. “What happened?” Did Jamie realize he had not used her title?
“Go upstairs.” Jamie used a stern tone, one that must cause his sailors to quake, but only made her cross.
“I will not. John, take Mr. Moberly into Papa’s library. We can tend him there.” She could see the footman’s hesitation. “Do as I say.”
“Yes, milady.” John sent Jamie an apologetic look.
Still working to catch his breath, Jamie shook his head. “To his bedchamber.”
“No,” Marianne said. “We would have to pass Papa’s door, and he might hear us.”
Now Jamie leaned toward her, and she could see the raw emotion in his eyes. “Madam, it may turn out that Lord Bennington would actually want to have some final words with his son.”
Marianne drew in a sharp breath. She stared down the length of Robert’s drooping form and saw a scarlet stain oozing through a slash on the left side of his yellow waistcoat. “Oh, Robert—” She clamped down on her emotions. Tears would not help him.
Jamie glanced up the wide front staircase and released a weary sigh. “You’re right. To the library, John.”
While Marianne took charge of the candle, the men carried Robert down the dark hallway beside the staircase to Papa’s library. Inside, she pointed. “On the settee.”
“Milady, the blood,” John said.
“Never mind. Mama is planning to redo this room.” Perhaps not soon, but she did redecorate often.
With Robert on the long settee, Jamie fell to his knees beside him, still breathing heavily.
“John, fetch clean rags and water.” Marianne hurried to the hearth for more
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