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She regarded him calmly, searching his face as if trying to see if there was truth in his words. Oliver felt a surge of anger. She shouldn’t be judging him. He’d done nothing wrong. He hadn’t run off with their son without any explanation.
He stood, needing to put some space between them, and busied himself adjusting the clock on the mantelpiece. The seconds ticked past in silence as Oliver struggled to regain control of himself. Outwardly nothing in his expression or stance changed, but inwardly he had felt a tight coil of frustration and anger ready to explode. Now, breathing deeply, he forced himself to remain calm. Nothing would be gained from showing his estranged wife how much she had hurt him, how much her betrayal still affected every aspect of his life.
‘Then what happened?’ he asked, returning to his seat, motioning for Lucy to continue.
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes,’ he barked sharply. ‘It matters to me. What happened next?’
‘I had a little money so I made my way to London. I knew I couldn’t seek refuge with anyone I knew. I had to go where no one knew me.’
She was making it sound as though she’d been running from a monster, when in truth he didn’t think he’d ever raised his voice towards her or spoken a single word in anger.
‘I ended up in St Giles.’ Lucy grimaced. ‘The first few days were not easy, but then Mary found me. She helps to run a home for women and children and she took us in.’
‘David was still alive?’ It sounded strange to be saying his son’s name after so long of not even knowing what Lucy had called their child. The words almost caught in his throat, but he managed to force them out, gripping the back of his chair for physical support as he said them.
Lucy nodded, pressing her lips together. ‘He seemed healthy enough the first couple of weeks, thriving and growing, but then he deteriorated quickly.’ Her voice quivered, but she managed to go on. ‘I’m told it is quite common in those born with similar conditions to our son to have problems with their hearts and chests. David became unwell and although we saw doctors, they could do nothing. He died when he was three weeks old.’
He watched as she suppressed a sob, swallowing a couple of times and taking a deep breath to compose herself.
‘Where is he buried?’ Oliver asked bluntly.
Looking up at him with wide eyes, Lucy shook her head before answering.
‘He did get a proper burial?’ Oliver interrupted, his heart sinking at the thought of his only child being consigned to a pauper’s grave.
‘I used the last of my money. He’s buried in the churchyard of St Giles in the Fields.’
He nodded grimly. Not a peaceful resting place for an innocent young boy, among the plague victims and the executed criminals, but at least he’d had a proper burial.
‘You’ll take me there this week.’
A spark of indignation flared in his wife’s eyes, but he watched as quickly she quashed it and nodded. ‘As you wish.’
Visiting his son’s grave would be difficult, but he owed it to the child he’d never held in his arms to at least see where he was buried.
Smoothing her skirts down, Lucy stood, placing her almost-full glass on the small table beside her.
‘I should be getting back,’ she said, inclining her head and taking a step towards the door.
For a long moment Oliver was too stunned to do or say anything. He’d barely begun questioning her, barely scratched the surface of what had become of his wife over the past year. All she’d revealed was the bare bones of the story of how and why she’d fled after the birth of their son. He needed to know so much more.
‘Sit down,’ he said, catching her arm as she edged past him.
For the first time since he’d cornered her in St Giles, her eyes came up to meet his and Oliver felt a painful flash of memory. He’d barely known Lucy on their wedding day, but when she’d walked down the aisle of the church and turned to face him in front of the altar, he’d felt a hopeful stirring deep inside him. He’d wondered if perhaps their marriage could be about more than convenience, more than producing the heir he so desperately needed and having a wife at home to look after the estate. Quickly he suppressed the memory, setting his mouth into a hard line.
‘You’re my wife, Lucy. I’m not going to let you just walk out of my life again.’
There was panic in her eyes, the same feral expression as an animal that knows it is cornered.
‘You can’t just keep me here,’ she said softly, as if she knew it wasn’t true.
‘Twenty minutes,’ Oliver said brusquely. ‘That’s how long you’ve been in my house. Over a year I’ve been searching for you.’
‘What if I promise not to disappear again?’ she said quietly. ‘I can give you my address.’
‘I don’t trust you, Lucy.’
She chewed her lip and Oliver wondered if she had something or someone she wanted to get back for or if she just couldn’t bear to be in his company any longer. The idea that she might have a lover was like a dagger to his heart and quickly he had to push the thought away before it did any more damage to his emotions.
Before he could stop himself, he spoke. ‘Come,’ he said brusquely, ‘let me show you to your room. We can continue our discussion at dinner.’
Although they had been married for ten months before Lucy had fled, she hadn’t before been to Sedgewick House in London. His main residence was Sedgewick Place, a sprawling country estate in Sussex, and that had been where they’d married and spent the time together before he’d been recalled back to the army. Since she was pregnant by the time he’d left, she had decided to spend the Season in the country rather than travelling up to London, only to have to return to Sussex for her confinement.
With a guiding hand resting in the small of her back, he felt Lucy stiffen, but she allowed him to show her the way out of the room and up the stairs.
‘Your bedroom,’ Oliver said, opening the door. He watched her face carefully, noting the widening of her eyes as she realised it was the bedroom of the lady of the house, complete with connecting door to his own room. ‘Take some time to get settled in. Dinner is at eight.’
Stepping out, he left her alone, keen to put some distance between them. The revelations of the afternoon had given him a lot to think about. Oliver wasn’t the sort of man who made any decisions quickly and he would appreciate having a few hours to himself before he resumed questioning Lucy. One thing was for certain—he wasn’t going to let her slip out of his life again and if that meant keeping a close watch on her these next few days, then that was what he’d do.
* * *
Sinking down on to the bed, Lucy glanced around the room. It was rather oppressively decorated with dark furniture and busy flowery wallpaper. Quite the change from her room back in St Giles. She had no doubt Oliver’s late mother had chosen the decor for the bedroom; it was not a room made for comfort and her mother-in-law had not been one for relaxing.
Quickly she stood, refusing to let the despair she could feel creeping in overtake her. There would be a way out, all she had to do was find it. She sympathised with Oliver, felt dreadful about how she had treated him and understood his desire to know everything that had happened since she’d run away, but she just couldn’t stay here. She was needed at the Foundation; people were relying on her—she couldn’t just disappear. With a shudder, she wondered what her husband’s long-term plan was—surely he couldn’t mean for her to stay with him indefinitely. Their lives had changed too much for that to work. Plenty of couples led completely separate lives. There really was no need for them to become entangled once again.
With a glance at the window she shook her head. There was no reason to consider acrobatics when she could easily just walk out the front door. She hadn’t heard Oliver turn the key in the lock; she wasn’t his prisoner here. All she needed to do was open the door, stroll down the hallway, descend the stairs and slip out the front door. She’d send him a note, of course, perhaps arrange a meeting in a more neutral environment to resolve their remaining issues.
Taking a deep breath, Lucy opened the door and stepped out into the hall.
‘Good afternoon, Lady Sedgewick,’ a smartly dressed young footman said, giving a formal little bow.
Lucy’s eyes narrowed as her heart sank. Oliver had posted a guard at her door. A guard. Someone to make sure she didn’t sneak away. It was insulting and showed her true position in the household: she was a prisoner.
With her cheeks reddening, she conceded that she had planned to slip away, but still, how dare her husband send a footman to monitor her movements.
‘Is there anything I can get you?’
‘Some tea, and water to wash my face.’ She hoped he would step away, hurry downstairs and organise the things she had requested, but he didn’t move a single inch.
‘Of course, Lady Sedgewick. I’ll arrange for them immediately.’
Neither of them moved and Lucy raised an imperious eyebrow. She had never been one to talk down to servants, always seen them as the hard-working, genuine people they were, but she wasn’t above a bit of play-acting if it meant securing her freedom.
‘Immediately,’ she said, injecting a sharp note into her voice.
He nodded but still didn’t move. Lucy hated any kind of confrontation, but a year living in St Giles had taught her how to look confident even when scared or uncertain.
‘Please don’t keep me waiting...’
‘Peterson, Lady Sedgewick,’ the footman supplied with a smile, as if oblivious to the tension between them. ‘You’ll have your tea and hot water in no time.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, giving in and spinning on her heel, closing the door firmly behind her. No doubt Peterson had strict orders from her husband not to leave his observation post and Oliver was not a man people seemed to disobey lightly.
Sighing, she regarded the room, crossing to the bed to flop down on the floral covers, but hesitated just as her body began to sink down.
They were only on the first floor, barely ten feet from the ground. The window had a generous ledge outside and she was sure she would be able to lower herself down. The remaining drop would only be a few feet. She’d be at risk of a twisted ankle, but nothing more serious, and if she landed correctly she might even get away unscathed. From what she could see there was a garden gate, leading to what she assumed would be a side passage and an easy stroll back to the street.
With a glance at the door, aware that her tea and hot water could arrive at any moment, she dashed to the window and pushed it up. To her relief it was unlocked and, before she could talk herself out of it, she had one leg over the casement and resting on the ledge. The skirts of her practical woollen dress tangled a little around her knees, but one swift tug and she was free, swinging the other leg out the window.
Cautiously she looked down. The garden was deserted, the small patio beneath her devoid of any furniture and the neatly trimmed lawn unbroken by any flower beds. It meant there was nowhere to hide, but if she dropped to the ground she could quickly skirt around the house to the side gate and let herself on to the street.
For a moment she hesitated. Perhaps she did owe it to Oliver to stay, to explain a little more about what had happened this past year. She’d been cruel and selfish to remain distant for so long, but truly what did he think they had to gain by renewing their relationship now? No, she’d escape from here, from the pressure he was putting on her to explain, from the guilt that was threatening to destroy her from the inside. Once she was back on more neutral ground she would consider how best to make amends to her husband, but she couldn’t think with his dark eyes boring into her, couldn’t reason when he fixed her with that haughty stare.
Before she lost her nerve, Lucy manoeuvred herself first to her hands and knees and then eased her body over the edge of the ledge. As she dangled, her fingers gripping the rough stone, she wondered if she had miscalculated. The drop seemed further than she had first imagined, but knowing there was no way she would be able to pull herself up again, she closed her eyes and let go.
She plummeted for a fraction of a second before coming to a juddering halt. A strong hand gripped her arm, stopping her from falling to the stone patio below. Lucy opened her eyes, looking up into the frowning face of her husband.
‘Peterson, in here now,’ Oliver shouted, his fingers digging into her flesh as he held her firmly by the wrist.
He said nothing more as the footman joined him at the window and together they hauled her back inside. Lucy stumbled as he set her on her feet and immediately Oliver’s arm was around her waist, guiding her to the bed.
Only once they were alone, the door firmly closed behind them, did he open his mouth.
‘That was foolish,’ he said quietly.
Lucy looked down, unable to meet his eye. It had been foolish, but she was desperate.
‘I had a man under my command on the Continent, James Havers,’ Oliver said, his voice betraying an uncharacteristic amount of emotion. ‘He was young, barely twenty when he joined. One day, in the heat of battle, he was trampled by a horse.’ Oliver grimaced. ‘Our own cavalry. His leg was broken in three places.’
Lucy tried to swallow, but realised her throat was too dry.
‘The surgeons tried to set it, but they couldn’t. Three days later they amputated, above the knee. Two weeks after that he was dead. The stump had festered.’
Unable to look away Lucy glimpsed a hint of pain in her husband’s eyes. She had always thought of him as cold and aloof, but there was no doubt he’d cared for the young man who’d died. She suspected he’d cared for all the men under his command.
‘Havers could not help what happened to him. You can,’ he said brusquely. ‘I do not want to see you putting yourself in such danger again.’
He left, without looking at her again, closing the door softly behind him despite the heat of emotion that had been in his voice.
As she sank to the bed, her whole body shaking at the realisation of what she could have done to herself, Lucy found herself staring at the door Oliver had just left through. She realised she didn’t know anything about her husband, at least not anything that wasn’t common knowledge among the rest of society, as well.
A few minutes later a pretty young maid bustled into the room, but Lucy barely noticed.
Chapter Three (#u5ec3ef9e-a5f0-502a-970d-e80f8cac0b31)
Oliver stood stiffly by the window, regarding the comings and goings of the street below as he waited for his wife. She was late, but that was hardly unexpected, probably trying to work out a way to swap identities with the maid and escape the house that way.
As the door opened Oliver felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. Gone was the worn, brown woollen dress, gone was the sensible bun and slightly grubby visage, and in their place the Viscountess he remembered.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Lucy said, her voice not containing even a hint of remorse.
Oliver had to suppress an unexpected smile. Nearly two years ago he’d asked his mother to find him a suitable bride. With his father and two older brothers dead from a particularly virulent fever, Oliver had unexpectedly inherited the title, land and responsibilities he’d never imagined would be his. Aware his career in the army wasn’t normal for a viscount, he’d realised he would need to start fathering some heirs just in case he, too, was taken from earth before his time. Too busy, and often a continent away, to search for himself, he’d asked his mother to make a list of suitable candidates. Lucy had been at the top. His mother had described her as respectable, docile and amiable. Looking at her now, he thought she might look respectable once again, but certainly not docile or amiable.
‘Shall we eat?’ Oliver asked, holding out his arm.
She hesitated before taking it, but eventually placed her gloved hand on his jacket.
As they walked through to the dining room, Oliver glanced at his estranged wife out of the corner of his eye. She’d always been pretty, in an unassuming way, but when they’d married she’d been young, only nineteen. The girl who’d walked down the aisle had blossomed into a beautiful young woman and Oliver was remembering why he had dreamed about her every night of their separation for the first few months.
‘We need to talk about the future,’ Lucy said quietly but firmly as she took a spoonful of soup.
‘And the past.’
‘Why dwell on it?’
He levelled her with a cool stare, only relenting when she hastily diverted her eyes and focused once again on the bowl in front of her.
‘We haven’t lived as husband and wife for a whole year. It seems silly to take up the pretence again.’
‘But we are married, so not living as husband and wife would be more unnatural,’ Oliver shot back.
‘I’m sure we’ve both moved on with our lives...’
‘I haven’t,’ Oliver said bluntly. ‘A year ago you left and an entire year I’ve been searching for you.’
This at least made Lucy look up and meet his eye. He kept his expression neutral, determined not to let his wife see just how much her abandonment had hurt him.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy said softly and this time Oliver could see she genuinely meant it.
They sat in silence for some minutes, waiting as the next course was served. Then Lucy pushed on.
‘What did you tell everyone about me?’ she asked, lifting her head to look him in the eye.
‘What do you think I said?’ he asked.
‘I thought perhaps you’d tell everyone I’d died in childbirth.’
‘That would have been too easy.’
She nodded. ‘So what does everyone think?’
He shrugged. ‘Most people don’t ask. They whisper in corners about my mysterious wife, wonder if I have you locked in a tower in deepest Sussex or if you are too mad or melancholic to be allowed out into society.’
‘And those that do ask?’
‘I tell them that you have been unwell.’
