Owen felt his heart skip a beat. He stopped bothering with his cravat, leaving it undone and hanging about his neck. Pocket watches and cravats and wives could be attended to at another time. It was best he saw to Lady Carlisle before anything happened.
Striding across the room, he moved past the tentative footman, who opened the door for him. “Fetch tea at once. And stay outside the room. I may need a physician.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the footman stammered out.
“What is your name?” Owen called over his shoulder, bothered he didn’t recognize the lad. He didn’t look old enough to shave.
“Thomas, Your Grace.”
“Be quick, Thomas.”
Then Owen hastened across the house, hating its size in every step as he made his way to the front stairwell.
His aunt was sitting in the front parlor like he had expected—the only room she had ever been in beyond the hall. Her nerves didn’t allow her to go much further without her husband at her side.
“Aunt Augusta.”
Standing up gingerly, the older lady wrung her hands and wrinkled her gloves. “Owen. Oh, how handsome you look.”
He didn’t stop until he reached her side. Gently putting a hand over her own, he quickly noted the way she favored her right arm. She was wearing powder on the left side of her face. It was quite a bit of powder that would be enough to hide bruises. His jaw tightened.
“I’ll fetch my physician,” he said.
“Don’t.” Her voice was soft, but it was strong enough to make him freeze. “Please, Owen. I only wanted to come see you.”
After he took a deep breath, he rubbed his jaw. Owen needed a minute to think. Could he convince her to see someone for her injuries? Would she even admit to feeling poorly? It seemed he would have to argue with her to get anything out of her. But he couldn’t do that.
“How much pain are you in?”
She smiled, her lips trembling. “I’m just fine. I’ll only stay a minute. I didn’t want to… intrude on you.”
“You know you are always welcome here,” he assured her. “There is a room always open to you. Can you tell me what it would take to convince you to stay with me, where you would be safe?”
“It isn’t a life meant for safety, I’m afraid. Besides…”
Even though she didn’t say it out loud, Owen knew just what she was thinking. It didn’t matter. She could run or hide, but her husband would still search for her. Under the law, she was, for all intents and purposes, the Marquess’s property. Even Owen could be forced to give her up.
Except I won’t. I won’t, not after all this time. She can always go to the countryside. Or further. I can send her to the Continent. I can take her with me, and we can go wherever she wants to go. I can collect my plants, and she can finally have some peace.
“Why don’t we sit down?” he suggested, changing the subject.
As he helped her sit, Owen had to pause. Something was different. In fact, everything was. He slowly lowered himself into his chair while taking a quick look around the parlor.
The chairs were reupholstered into a bold red that matched the other seats. Gold pillows with frills and such littered the seats. A similar but lighter wallpaper had been placed there, and the curtains were a deep green that matched part of the pattern. It was well put together, he thought, and must have been done very recently. But when?
“Owen?”
“Hmmm?” He turned to his aunt.
She glanced at him and then around the room. “It’s nice here. Welcoming. I’m glad married life suits you, Owen.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he muttered. “Rather, I—”He caught himself. His marriage was heavenly compared to hers. It wouldn’t be fair to say otherwise. “I have been rather fortunate, haven’t I?”
“You deserve it,” she said, her smile fading. She bit her lip before tugging at her reticule. “I wanted to bring you something. A letter.”
He scooted to the edge of his seat when her voice dropped. “A what?”
Augusta pulled out a letter and handed it to him. “It’s from Benedict,” she whispered. “I wanted you to read it. Maybe… maybe he is trying to tell us something?”
