“You did the right thing,” Margot said. “If he became a doctor, he must be very smart.”
“Much the better man,” Langley said. He looked back to her in that moment, and grinned, although it did not entirely reach his eyes. “I was certainly grateful he was present and able to help us last night.”
Lifting her hand, Margot moved it to touch the injured point on her skin. A small point of vanity reared its head. “Will it scar?”
“Pip said possibly, but it was a clean cut and not too deep.” Langley leant nearer. “It will be a constant reminder of how I failed you.”
“Constant?” Margot asked. That implied, she thought sleepily, that whatever existed between the two of them might last longer. But perhaps that was a wishful fancy of hers.
Lightly, Langley’s hand touched against hers, where her skin was exposed. He moved his hand to her face before leaning forward and kissing her forehead. It was soft, gentle, and unable to help herself, Margot let out a tiny squeak of longing. Despite the lingering effect of the laudanum, there was within her the tug for affection from him.
For a moment Langley looked as if he meant to say something, but there was a noise behind him, a shifting of movement that broke Langley’s intense stare.
“Glad I found you, my lord.” It was a softly spoken masculine voice, and with an eye roll, Langley eased back from Margot and walked over to the door. “Continue to rest, Miss Keating,” the doctor told her.
With that the door closed, and Margot curled herself into the welcoming darkness, telling herself as sleep claimed her that it was important, she’d remember this conversation, crucially important.
When Margot rousedherself again it was to find the room empty, and her head far clearer. She could vaguely remember the conversation with Langley, chiefly focused on how kind he had seemed. Margot had supposed that like most rakes, once he had his wicked way with her, that his interest might wane, but perhaps this was not to be the case… It was important to hold on to the fact that no matter how much she enjoyed their encounters, how much they meant to her, Silvester was unable to feel the same way.
She sat up in the narrow bed and walked slowly through the room. It was not the surgery she recalled, but a bedchamber. Memories of the night were coming back to her, mixing elements of her making love to Langley, then the painful confrontation with Ashmore’s murderer, and finally her going to the doctor’s.
The chamber was a simple one, with rudimentary furnishings in a pleasing navy colour and a window onto a garden she did not recognise. She assumed she was simply upstairs in the doctor’s surgery, but unless she could find out, Margot would not be satisfied.
Thrown over one chair in the corner of the room was a dark grey gown, not one that belonged to Margot, but she hastily donned it. She was used to dressing on her own and remembered the movements easily enough without the assistance of her lady’s maid. It would be important to realise when the new duke arrived in Town, the luxury of having multiple servants might be something that Margot needed to forget quickly.
Once she was dressed, Margot tried the door, and was distressed to find it locked, after knocking on it loudly, the key turned and it opened to reveal a younger man, who looked so like Langley she had to do a double take. On closer inspection she saw the doctor was a touch shorter than Silvester, and his hair a shade darker than the earl’s beautiful blond, but still the similarities were striking. No one who saw them would doubt they were related. The blurred conversation on Langley’s half-brother flooded back to Margot with alarming clarity—what she could not recall was precisely how Langley felt about it.
“You must be Doctor Caton?” Margot asked as primly as she could.
The man nodded, his gaze impersonal as he examined her. “Lovely to see you up and about, Miss Keating. It has been a few days. How are you feeling?”
Worry washed over Margot, but before she could give this voice, the doctor said, “Langley wished you to be told that Mrs. Bowley has been informed of the truth, but everyone else believes you to be in mourning, since your godfather’s death has been announced.”
The Runner’s contact at the press had acted, Margot thought. She would need to regain her strength before she sallied forth and discovered the consequences. For now, she settled on the action of sinking into the only armchair in the room. “I feel much recovered.”
Caton watched her and then turned and rang a bell. When the housekeeper arrived, he gave instructions that a tray of food was to be brought up.
“I assume you are hungry, Miss Keating?”
“Indeed.” Margot could feel beneath the starched clothes her stomach clench at the idea of something to eat, and hoped the kitchens might be quick. “Although I would not wish to trespass on your time and hospitality too much.”
“No indeed. After all, it is all thanks to Langley I own this place. And he made sure to ask that you were cared for.”
She desperately wished to ask the young doctor about his brother, but instead she asked almost at random, “How long have I been here?”
“This will be the third day,” Caton said as the housekeeper slipped away. “But from my observations you have greatly improved in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Thank you for caring for me. And I must thank Langley too…”
“He has returned to Bolton Street to fetch a few items,” Caton said, pausing before asking, “Am I right in thinking he has never mentioned me to you?”
“No, never.”
“I fear our mother’s affair and my resemblance to him…” Caton looked bashful, boyish almost, and Margot felt a wave of sympathy and desire to tell him her secret too, but she squashed it down hurriedly. That was her own curse. It might comfort Caton to know they had similarities, surely, he was bound to tell Langley the truth of her birth, and where would that leave her? “But you are dear friends?” His tone implied nothing, but Margot was far too aware that Caton must be able to guess that they were lovers—only a fool could witness what he had and remain ignorant of what she felt for the earl.
“Yes,” she said. “He has been a friend, a good one, as you say.”
“I have never known my brother to bring a woman here, or to the best of my knowledge admit my existence to her.”
