Adam wasn’t able to see Suzanne again for a few more hours. He did so on the pretense of taking her a luncheon tray, a duty that was not strictly in his list of responsibilities. He needed to see the duchess in order to learn what had happened the night before. That was in keeping with his mission, more important than being a majordomo at Marsley House.
He made his way up the grand staircase with a large tray containing a teapot, a cup and saucer, Suzanne’s lunch that was covered with a lid but smelled of roast beef, and a small vase with one of the flowers from the conservatory. This one had a bright yellow center with pink petals. He knew nothing about flowers and couldn’t have named it if pressed, but it was a cheerful little thing that bobbed as he went up the stairs.
He set the tray on the table beside the double doors and knocked lightly. When Emily opened the door, he refused to surrender the tray to her. Instead, he asked that she open the second door for him.
“It’s very heavy,” he said in explanation as he stepped inside the sitting room.
She smiled in thanks and led the way to Suzanne’s bedroom, standing aside as he entered.
The duchess was awake, sitting up against both pillows. He wasn’t surprised to note that her hair had been artfully arranged around the bandage to conceal it. He wouldn’t consider her vain, but she was careful with her appearance.
What did startle him, however, was the fact that she had dark circles beneath her eyes. He wondered if it was the effect of the head wound.
“Are you feeling well, Your Grace?” he asked, genuinely concerned.
“I have a beastly headache, Drummond,” she said, smiling. “Other than that, I’m fine.”
“Mrs. Thigpen has some karpura.” He glanced at Emily and then back at the duchess. “Camphor,” he added. “If you massage it into your temples, it should ease your headache.”
“That sounds lovely. Emily, would you mind fetching some for me?”
The young maid looked torn at the prospect of leaving the duchess alone with him. Thankfully, Suzanne eased her conflict by saying, “Thank you, Emily,” and adding a smile.
Emily finally nodded and excused herself.
Once they heard the sitting room door close, he moved toward the bed. She pushed herself up with both hands. He steadied the tray as she moved the pillow behind her back.
“Are you going to tell me what you remembered?” he asked, sitting beside the bed.
“How did you know?”
He only smiled.
“Very well,” she said, somewhat crossly. “I did remember something, but I’m not sure what it was. Or who it was.”
He sat beside the bed, knowing he had some time before Emily and Mrs. Thigpen found the camphor where he’d hidden it. He’d taken the metal box containing the white, waxy camphor and hidden it behind the sack of flour in the pantry.
“I was climbing the stairs,” she said. “At first I thought something had fallen on me, but then I realized whoever was there was wearing a cloak or something black. They pushed me.”
“You’re saying someone was in the library?”
“Yes. On the third level. At first I thought it was you.”
“Is that why you went to the library? To find me?” That was probably the most improvident question he could have asked and he wanted to immediately call it back.
Her cheeks turned pink as he watched. The metamorphosis from haughty duchess to embarrassed woman fascinated him. He told himself to look away, to give her some privacy, but he didn’t.
In the next breath, she turned the tables on him.
“Tell me about your wife, Adam. Has she been gone long?”
No one asked about his wife. No one who knew about India ever spoke about it. Suzanne’s ignorance was a shield, yet her curiosity was a spear.
“Seven years,” he said.
“Have you had no desire to remarry in all that time?”
“No.”
He could only give her that one-word answer and nothing further. However, he had the feeling that his monosyllabic response would not be enough for the Duchess of Marsley. He was beginning to think that she was her father’s daughter, as stubborn and determined as Hackney.
“Did you love her very much?”
He reached for the teapot, their fingers meeting. He didn’t remove his hand immediately and neither did she. Their eyes met and something seemed to flow between them, an emotion he didn’t want to analyze at the moment. She finally pulled her hand away.
“I thought her smile engaging,” he said. “And she was very kindhearted.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment.
“It sounds like you’re describing a woman you’ve just met. Or maybe a friend about which you wish to say nothing detrimental.”
He couldn’t fault her insight.
“Rebecca needed to be married. It was suggested that I should marry as well. She was killed at Manipora.”
The words were spoken with infinite calm, almost as if they carried little import. Still, they lingered in the air between them.
He never spoke about Rebecca. Until that night in the nursery, he hadn’t said her name aloud for a good year, maybe more.
“India,” she said. “George told the story often. It was an example, he said, of the treachery of the people.”
He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t talk about the Duke of Marsley without wanting to add a few profanities and she didn’t deserve that.
“Did you know my husband?”
“I knew him. I served under him.”
“You never said.”
“The topic did not come up, Your Grace.”
“I much prefer it when you call me Suzanne.”
He looked away, unwilling to let her see his confusion. Ever since the night on the roof she’d befuddled him. She was unlike any of the peerage he’d met. She didn’t hold herself above others. She didn’t consider herself better than her servants. If she had been perceived as distant, he suspected it had been because of her grief. Now, tucked up in bed, with her pink cheeks and her troubled eyes, she wanted him to call her Suzanne.
It would be so much better if he remembered his place, his role, and his mission. Everything else was ancillary and unimportant.
The confusion he felt was his problem, not hers.
“Did you wear a kilt in the army?”
He shook his head, grateful that she had changed the subject.
“I don’t even own one anymore,” he said. But he didn’t tell her what he thought, that it wasn’t the clothes that made the Scot. Nor was it the accent. Instead, it was his heart, his mind, and his soul. He was a creature of independence, someone who had willingly yoked himself to the British Army first and now to the Silent Service. Neither organization should ever take his loyalty for granted and so far neither had.
“You didn’t like my husband, did you, Adam?”
He looked at her, wondering if he should tell her the truth. In the end, he didn’t have a choice. The truth donned wings and flew from his mouth.
“I despised him, Suzanne.”
“Why?”
“Because he was responsible for the death of my wife.”
She looked stricken. The moment he’d spoken the words he wanted to call them back. Not because they were untrue. He believed the Duke of Marsley was guilty of treason.
Yet Suzanne was innocent of her husband’s sins. At this exact moment, however, she looked as if he’d accused her.
Reaching out, he poured her some of the tea Mrs. Thigpen had brewed. The smell of it, something strong and spicy, reminded him of India. That’s probably why the floodgates had opened up on his memory, and emotions spilled out.
“Forgive me,” he said.
“Why?” she asked again. “For saying what you felt?”
“Yes. Some things should not be given voice.”
She didn’t say anything for a long moment, merely took the cup and saucer from him, careful not to let her hand touch his.
“Tell me about it,” she said. “Tell me about Manipora.”
That was the very last thing he wanted to do. He glanced at her and then away. How could anyone refuse to grant Suzanne whatever she wished when her eyes were filled with such compassion?