“Far be it from me to criticise any of your actions. I know too well the failure of family bonds,” Trawler said in passing reference to his own baseborn heritage. “Yet, I would hope you felt the need to let us know, for our sakes if not your own. To see the offer of kindness, sometimes we must put out our hands to receive it.”
A knock sounded, and then there was the familiar voice of Fischer. “Excuse me, my lord.”
Before the servant could get any further in his explanation, Maeve swept into the room in his manservant’s wake. She looked magnificent, her presence tearing a hole in Silverton’s chest at the mere sight of her. A dawning realisation slammed into him like a wave that, despite his supposedly clever plan of seducing her into his bed, his dastardly manipulation had resulted in his own heart being captured. That he was a good way along to being in love with Maeve.
The joy swept through him at the sight of her, real and breathing and alive before him, and his knees felt weak. She had a navy cape on her shoulders, its fur-lined hood pulled up to shield her bright hair. Her outfit was visible under the cloak, and it was one of her older dresses of dark grey. She looked lovely but not too eye-catching. Her hazel eyes swept the room before they settled on him. A small blush coloured her cheeks as she looked at him with focused attention.
“Gregory.” Her voice was low, almost a purr, and his name, uttered quietly in the same tone she used as they made love, spurred him on.
In rapid steps, Silverton closed the distance between them, crushing Maeve to his chest, his hands coming up behind her head to hold her face to his as he kissed her thoroughly.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked her and then kissed her again before she could answer. His mouth was ruthless as he explored the sensitive taste of her, his tongue sweeping past the barrier of her lips to claim her completely. The sensation of her soft mouth against his was heavenlike, a bliss he didn’t deserve but that he would be a fool to resist. There was a familiarity in holding her. The scent she used—was it lilies or just her soap? He couldn’t be sure, but he had missed the smell and only realised it now.
Maeve responded, her lithe body lifting and pressing against his, her perfect breasts brushing against his shirt, and her hips tilted up to nestle against his own. The emotion was profound, overwhelming in having her close again. Breaking apart, he gazed at Maeve’s dear visage, and the warm buzz of anger washed through him.
“How the blazes did you know I was here?” he asked, fears from earlier arising as he looked around the room at the windows, suddenly scared in case Charles might appear and see her.
“This is your wife, I assume?” Trawler asked dryly from his seat at the table. He hadn’t moved but had been watching their interplay with a small amount of amusement on his face. A faint grin played around his mobile mouth. Silverton looked sharply at him, and Trawler’s grin dropped away.
In response to Silverton’s blatant fury, Maeve replied, “I came here because it was a matter of life and death. That was our arrangement.”
“What?” Silverton asked as he prised Maeve’s hands off his neck. He stepped away from her, putting some much-needed space between them. He might have felt selfish relief in seeing her, but it was wrong, terribly wrong of her to be here. She should not have come. It was too risky. Too dangerous. Unable to think of what else to do, he frowned at her.
But Maeve didn’t seem to care for his reaction. She moved across to Trawler’s table, lifted a spare cup, drained the contents, and wiped her mouth. “I am just pleased to find you here. When I arrived at Fitzmaurice Place, Fischer was not sure where you would be, but he said this was the best place to start.”
Turning, Silverton gave his manservant a furious look. The man flushed and fidgeted on the spot. “Lady Silverton insisted she’d go on her own if I didn’t help her. Besides, her ladyship said it was a matter concerning your life.”
“Is that so?” Silverton pivoted to look at his wife. She was busying removing her cloak, revealing hair that was mussed, and a dress stained at the bottom. She had clearly travelled in a great rush.
“It was a matter of urgency, so I ordered a coach to leave Brighton as soon as I knew the truth,” Maeve said. She brought out a bottle that Silverton recognised as one of those vials prescribed to him by Dr. Sprot. She slapped the medicine into his hand, her animated face alive as she looked him.
“What of it? I left some behind but brought plenty with me.”
“This is poison. You’ve been drinking poison.” Her voice altered from heated urgency to a softer tone. “Someone is trying to kill you with this. Dr. Copeland tested it at my request. Then he tested again. It is deadly, Gregory. You are not dying, but you will be if you keep drinking that. It is killing you.”
Despite the comfort and relative ease of the office, Silverton was sure there was suddenly an absence of air. His surroundings tightened uncomfortably around him, and when he spoke, the words were strained and muddled. “How do you know that? How can you be sure?” It couldn’t be true. He stared at her in utter confusion.
“Dr. Copeland told me that this ‘tonic’ would kill the strongest of men within a year. He had one of his colleagues, a Dr. Rushmore, test it in my presence and confirm that it is poison. He believes this has been responsible for all your symptoms.”
Her statement roused a hundred different questions in him. The most pressing of all was whether this was true. Was he really going to survive, was he really going to live? Again, doubts amassed in him. “Are you sure?” His voice was not his own and shook with doubt.
“As certain as I can be,” Maeve answered.
Who was Dr. Copeland to her? A nasty pang of jealousy sliced through him at the mention of this man.Focus.If what she said was true, then why had Dr. Sprot done this to him? Sprot had been his physician for his whole life and had always proven loyal and dependable.
The treachery spiralled inside him as the horror of the poisoning permeated through him. Here was another person he had trusted, who had thought nothing of betraying him. He looked over at his wife. It seemed there were few people he could trust, and yet instinctively, he believed her. He saw the truth in Maeve.
“I am not dying?” Silverton asked her again. The idea that he was a dead man walking had motivated him, driving him onwards ever since he’d had the diagnosis just a few months ago. The urgency of it had ripped through him and told him not to waste time. Now that he was hearing it might be a lie, the relief that pounded through him felt almost false.
Then a new horror struck: If this was the truth, he had trapped Maeve into a marriage under false pretences. He needed to be condemned for that too. He watched Maeve. She had agreed to this mad, dangerous marriage on the understanding it would be short-lived, with the tantalising offer of being a widow at the end of it. He had tricked her if it was true, and he was perfectly fit and healthy.
She gave him such a look, one of kindness and concern, and then she nodded. It struck him that there was not a braver or truer person than his wife, and if she said that the vial was full of poison, then it was. He would live. He was not dying. He eased out a breath, and a wave of relief washed over him.
“Could your doctor have been be paid off to poison you?” Trawler asked.
“Perhaps he has become senile,” Maeve said. “Or made a hideous error? What is his character like?”
Swallowing down the wild, jumbled feelings burning away in his mind until he could barely think, Silverton tried to focus on his wife and friend’s questions.
