Lynde touched Silverton on the arm to get his attention. “You don’t need to be on duty today, do you? I don’t think any spies are going to attack us at breakfast.” He looked amused.
Cynically, Silverton wondered how everyone but him was so naïve.
“It is nice to see you recovering,” Lynde added.
Silverton had told everyone he was on the mend, although in truth, he wasn’t. He had forced himself to come along today. The pain in his stomach was growing worse, but he could hardly tell them that.
Grunting, Silverton knew he couldn’t stay for the wedding breakfast, despite the kindly concern in Lynde’s words. He needed to get away. Before they saw how ill he was. What was he doing here, appearing as some ogre frowning and snarling his way through the wedding party? It wasn’t fair to anyone.
“Well done.” Silverton’s words came out gruffly, and if they sounded odd to the bride and groom, neither of them noticed. Or cared. They were too caught up with being in love.
He was still frowning at them in annoyance when Isabel plucked a red poinsettia from her bouquet and slotted it into Silverton’s buttonhole. She smiled at him, undaunted by the beast-like image he presented to the world. She gave him a little wave as she backed away. “I am so pleased you came,” she said to him.
With that, off Lynde and Isabel went, hand clasped and leaning close to each other through the winter wonderland, with the rest of the guests in their wake. Silverton stood watching them, slowly becoming more snow covered as he waited for his illness to pass.
Normally when faced with a problem, Silverton was a man of action. Today with his drained and injured body, he was gaining an awareness of his own fallibility. Loneliness drained his energy too.
He watched the passing guests, nodding at their greetings, but did not engage with any one of them. He felt sick. The white flakes settled on his black suit and hat until one large piece landed directly on his nose. The impact of this caused Silverton to jerk forward as if awaking from a trance.
What was he doing? Was he being self-indulgent?
Shuddering at the thought, Silverton turned away, and made swift progress through the falling snow towards the stables. His friends were used to his erratic behaviour. They knew he worked for the Home Office; they knew he never stayed in one place for long. If they were honest with themselves, they probably didn’t want him being a dark cloud in the corner for the rest of the day.
A groom stood in the stable yard when Silverton arrived. With one quick order, Silverton requested his carriage be made ready. The boy rushed away, and Silverton went to look for his valet, locating the man having a drink amongst the rest of the servants in the stables.
“Fisher, I need to be back home,” Silverton said. His manservant was on his feet, nodding as he snatched up his hat.
“To London, my lord?”
“No, to Kent.” There was one person he needed to see, the only relative who didn’t wish him dead. His mother. She was the nearest relation he had, aside from his brother, and the less said about Charles, the better. “I should be at Silver Hall with her. As quick as you can get me there, the better.”
Fisher nodded and hurried out, leaving Silverton to move across to the side of the stable, with the hope that it wasn’t too late to celebrate Christmas with the only living relative he cared about. Regardless of the fact that he came without any presents. But surely, he had to be considered the better son, in comparison to the treasonous devil that was his twin?
* * *
The grand SilverHall had been in his family for generations and dated to the era of Queen Anne. His carriage pulled into the mile-long stretch that made up the driveway to Silver Hall around eight o’clock in the evening. Thankfully, the snow had been relatively slight, and they had made the journey in under four hours. Despite the nip in the air, there was a warmth in Silverton’s belly as he climbed from the carriage and gazed up at the handsome red-brick stones, the white casement windows that glinted back at him, and the ivy that threatened to creep up higher to the second floor.
Returning here brought with it a wave of nostalgia that Silverton could not quite explain. The place hadn’t felt like it was home in a long time, not since his eighteenth birthday when his father had died suddenly, and he had been informed of his elevation to the title. It still did not feel like it was a fair exchange.
Climbing out of the carriage, Silverton hurried inside. His body was in even more pain than it had been when he first injured himself nearly a year ago. The view in front of him, even when he narrowed his eyes, was difficult to clear. It was so full of blurry outlines.
“My lord?” It took a moment for Silverton to focus, and when he did, he was surprised to find the housekeeper present as well as his trusted family physician, Dr. Sprot.
“What are you doing here, Doctor?” Silverton asked, forcing down the taste of bile that tickled the back of his throat and threatened to escape his lips. He made himself take deep breaths and surveyed the hallway, taking in the sparse, stripped-back appearance of his home. Where were the fine furnishings he remembered? His mother had a very handsome allowance from the estate, so where was it all going? The entire place looked as if it had been robbed of assets.
Without waiting for a reply, and fearful that Sprot had been sent for because his mother was unwell, Silverton hurried across the hallway and took the stairs two at a time. This new motion did not please his condition, and when he reached his mother’s parlour, he had to pause for a second so he did not collapse on the floor.
God, what was wrong with him? He’d always had the constitution of an ox, but recently, it had deserted him.
“Mother?” He knocked once and pushed open the parlour door. There was only the fire and one set of lit candles, which left most of the room in darkness. When Silverton’s eyes adjusted, he saw at once that this room, like the downstairs, had been gutted of its luxuries.
Close to the low-burning fire, his mother was seated in an armchair, holding a piece of sewing in her lap, but it seemed unlikely that she could see her work. Moving forward into the room, Silverton felt a rush of embarrassment at seeing his mother in such reduced circumstances.
“What happened here?” The words spilled out of his mouth, his shock at the scene motivating him to fill the room with questions. “What is Sprot doing here? Are you ill?”
Graceful and with more energy than Silverton was capable of, the viscountess got to her feet and stretched out her hands to him. He saw her mouth move, but whatever she said was lost when the world slid sideways, and Silverton collapsed to the ground. Darkness flooded his senses, and he dimly thought that he was pleased to have reached home.
When light returned, Silverton found himself lying in a bed, a coverlet laid across him. Distantly, words were being uttered around him, and it took him longer than he would have liked to realise that Sprot and his mother were discussing him.
