The son of an earl? La-di-da, how you have come up in the world, my brother. I hope he is not unbearable about it.
—from Cecilia Harcourt to her brother Thomas
Several hours later, as Cecilia followed the cheerful young lieutenant who had been dispatched to escort her to the Devil’s Head, she wondered when her heart might finally stop pounding. Dear heavens, how many lies had she told this afternoon? She had tried to keep her answers as close to the truth as possible, both to ease her conscience and because she had no idea how else to keep track of it all.
She should have told Edward the truth. She’d been about to, honestly, but then Colonel Stubbs had returned with the doctor. There was no way she was going to make her confession with that audience. She would have been booted from the hospital for certain, and Edward still needed her.
She still needed him.
She was alone in a very strange land. She was almost out of funds. And now that her reason for holding herself together had woken up, she could finally admit to herself—she was scared out of her mind.
If Edward repudiated her she’d be soon in the streets. She’d have no choice but to go back to England, and she couldn’t do that, not without discovering what had happened to her brother. She had sacrificed so much to make this journey. It had taken every ounce of her courage. She could not give up now.
But how could she continue to lie to him? Edward Rokesby was a good man. He did not deserve to be taken advantage of in such a brazen manner. Furthermore, he was Thomas’s closest friend. The two men had met when they had first entered the army, and as officers in the same regiment, they’d been sent over to North America at the same time. As far as Cecilia knew, they had served together ever since.
She knew that Edward felt kindly toward her. If she told him the truth, surely he’d understand why she’d lied. He would want to help her. Wouldn’t he?
But all this was neither here nor there. Or at the very least it could be put off until the following day. The Devil’s Head was just down the street, and with it the promise of a warm bed and a filling meal. Surely she deserved that much.
Goal for today: Don’t feel guilty. At least not for eating a proper meal.
“Almost there,” the lieutenant said with a smile.
Cecilia gave him a nod. New York was such a strange place. According to the woman who’d run her boardinghouse, there were more than twenty thousand people crowded into what was not a very large area at the southern tip of Manhattan Island. Cecilia wasn’t sure what the population had been before the war, but she’d been told that numbers had surged once the British had taken over the city as their headquarters. Scarlet-clad soldiers were everywhere, and every available building had been pressed into service to house them. Supporters of the Continental Congress had long since left town, but they had been replaced and more by a rush of Loyalist refugees who’d fled neighboring colonies in search of British protection.
But the strangest sight—to Cecilia, at least—were the Negroes. She had never seen people with such dark skin before, and she’d been startled by how many of them there were in the bustling port town.
“Escaped slaves,” the lieutenant said, following Cecilia’s gaze to the dark-skinned man coming out of the blacksmith’s shop across the street.
“I beg your pardon?”
“They’ve been coming up here by the hundreds,” the lieutenant said with a shrug. “General Clinton freed them all last month, but no one in Patriot territories is obeying the order, so their slaves have been running away to us.” He frowned. “Not sure we’ve got room for them, to be honest. But you can’t blame a man for wanting to be free.”
“No,” Cecilia murmured, glancing back over her shoulder. When she turned back to the lieutenant, he was already at the entrance to the Devil’s Head Inn.
“Here we are,” he said, holding the door for her.
“Thank you.” She stepped in and then out of his way so that he might locate the innkeeper. Clutching her meager valise in front of her, Cecilia took in the main room of the inn and public house. It looked very much like its British counterparts—dimly lit, a bit too crowded, and with sticky bits on the floor that Cecilia chose to believe were ale. A buxom young woman moved swiftly between the tables, deftly setting down mugs with one hand as she cleared dishes with the other. Behind the bar a man with a bushy mustache fiddled with the tap on a barrel, cursing when it seemed to jam up.
It would have felt like home had not almost every seat been filled with scarlet-clad soldiers.
There were a few ladies among their ranks, and from their clothing and demeanor Cecilia assumed they were respectable. Officers’ wives, maybe? She’d heard that some women had accompanied their husbands to the New World. She supposed she was one of them now, for at least one more day.
“Miss Harcourt!”
Startled, Cecilia turned toward a table in the middle of the room. One of the soldiers—a man of middling years with thinning brown hair—was rising to his feet. “Miss Harcourt,” he repeated. “It is a surprise to see you here.”
Her lips parted. She knew this man. She detested this man. He was the first person she’d sought out in her quest to find Thomas, and he’d been the most condescending and unhelpful of the bunch.
“Major Wilkins,” she said, bobbing a polite curtsy even as her mind was whirring with unease. More lies. She needed to come up with more lies, and quickly.
“Are you well?” he asked in his customary brusque voice.
“I am.” She glanced over at the lieutenant, who was now conferring with another soldier. “Thank you for asking.”
“I had assumed you would be planning your return to England.”
She gave him a little smile and a shrug in lieu of a reply. Truly, she did not wish to speak with him. And she had never given him any indication that she planned to leave New York.
“Mrs. Rokesby! Ah, there you are.”
Saved by the young lieutenant, Cecilia thought gratefully. He was making his way back to her side, a large brass key in his hand.
“I spoke to the innkeeper,” he said, “and to—”
“Mrs. Rokesby?” Major Wilkins interjected.
The lieutenant snapped to attention when he saw the major. “Sir,” he said.
Wilkins brushed him off. “Did he call you Mrs. Rokesby?”
“Is that not your name?” the lieutenant asked.
Cecilia fought against the fist that seemed to be closing around her heart. “I—”
The major turned back to her with a frown. “I thought you to be unmarried.”
“I was,” she blurted out. “I mean—” Damn it, that wasn’t going to hold water. She couldn’t have got herself married in the last three days. “I was. Some time ago. I was unmarried. We all were. I mean, if one is married now, one once was un—”
She didn’t even bother to finish. Good God, she sounded the worst sort of ninny. She was giving women everywhere a bad name.
“Mrs. Rokesby is married to Captain Rokesby,” the lieutenant said helpfully.
Major Wilkins turned to her with a thunderous expression. “Captain Edward Rokesby?”
Cecilia nodded. As far as she knew, there was no other Captain Rokesby, but as she was already tripping over her falsehoods, she deemed it best not to try to score a point with a snide comment.
“Why the h—” He cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon. Why did you not say so?”
Cecilia recalled her conversation with Edward. Stick to the same lies, she reminded herself. “I was inquiring about my brother,” she explained. “It seemed the more important relationship.”
The major looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. Cecilia knew very well what he was thinking. Edward Rokesby was the son of an earl. She’d have to be an idiot not to press that connection.
There was a heavy beat of silence while the major blinked his expression back into something approaching respectful, then he cleared his throat and said, “I was very glad to hear that your husband had returned to New York.” His brows drew together with some suspicion. “He was missing for some time, was he not?”
The implication being: Why hadn’t she been searching for her husband?
Cecilia injected a bit of steel into her spine. “I was already aware of his safe return when I came to you about Thomas.” It wasn’t true, but he didn’t need to know that.
“I see.” He had the grace to look at least a little ashamed. “I beg your pardon.”
Cecilia gave him a regal nod, the sort, she thought, that might be employed by a countess. Or a countess’s daughter-in-law.
Major Wilkins cleared his throat, then said, “I will make further inquiries about your brother’s whereabouts.”
“Further?” Cecilia echoed. She had not been under the impression that he had made any inquiries thus far.
He flushed. “Will your husband be out of hospital soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, you say?”
“Yes,” she said slowly, just barely resisting the urge to add, “As I just said.”
“And will you be staying here at the Devil’s Head?”
“Captain and Mrs. Rokesby are taking over Captain Montby’s room,” the lieutenant supplied helpfully.
“Ah, good of him. Good man, good man.”
“I do hope we are not inconveniencing him,” Cecilia said. She glanced toward the tables, wondering if the displaced Captain Montby was seated at one. “I should like to thank him if possible.”
“He’s happy to do it,” Major Wilkins declared, even though there was no way he could have known this for certain.
“Well,” Cecilia said, trying not to gaze longingly at the stairs she assumed led up to her bedchamber. “It was very nice to see you, but I have had a very long day.”
“Of course,” the major said. He bowed crisply. “I shall report back tomorrow.”
“Report . . . back?”
“With news of your brother. Or if not that, then at least an accounting of our inquiries.”
“Thank you,” Cecilia said, startled by his newfound solicitude.
Major Wilkins turned to the lieutenant. “What time do you expect Captain Rokesby tomorrow?”
Really? He was asking the lieutenant? “Sometime in the afternoon,” Cecilia said sharply, even though she had no idea what time she planned to fetch him. She waited for Major Wilkins to turn to her before adding, “The lieutenant is unlikely to have special knowledge of the matter.”
“She’s quite right,” the lieutenant said cheerfully. “My orders were to escort Mrs. Rokesby to her new accommodations. Tomorrow I’m back up to Haarlem.”
Cecilia gave Major Wilkins a bland smile.
“Of course,” the major said gruffly. “Forgive me, Mrs. Rokesby.”
“Think nothing of it,” Cecilia said. Much as she’d like to box the major’s ears, she knew she could not afford to alienate him. She was not certain of his precise job, but he seemed to be in charge of keeping track of the soldiers currently billeted nearby.
“Will you and Captain Rokesby be here at half five?” he asked.
She looked him squarely in the eye. “If you are coming with news of my brother, then yes, we will most definitely be here.”
“Very well. Good evening, ma’am.” He executed a sharp bow of his chin, and then said to her escort, “Lieutenant.”
Major Wilkins returned to his table, leaving Cecilia with the lieutenant, who let out a little oh before saying, “I almost forgot. Your key.”
“Thank you,” Cecilia said, taking it from him. She turned it over in her hand.
“Room twelve,” the lieutenant said.
“Yes,” Cecilia said, glancing down at the large “12” etched into the metal. “I will see myself up.”
The lieutenant gave a grateful nod; he was young and clearly uncomfortable with the idea of escorting a lady to her bedchamber, even a married one such as she.
Married. Dear God. How was she going to extricate herself from this web of lies? And perhaps more importantly, when? It wouldn’t be tomorrow. She might have claimed to be Edward’s wife so that she could remain by his side and nurse him to health, but it was clear—appallingly so—that the wife of Captain Rokesby held far more sway with Major Wilkins than the humble Miss Harcourt.
Cecilia knew that she owed it to Edward to end this farce as soon as possible, but her brother’s fate hung in the balance.
She would tell him the truth. Obviously.
Eventually.
She just couldn’t do it tomorrow. Tomorrow she had to be Mrs. Rokesby. And after that . . .
Cecilia sighed as she slipped the key into the lock of her room and turned. She feared she was going to have to be Mrs. Rokesby until she found her brother.
“Forgive me,” she whispered.
It would have to be enough.
Edward had every intention of being upright, in uniform, and ready to depart when Cecilia arrived at the hospital the following day. Instead he was in bed, wearing the same shirt he’d been in for he-truly-did-not-know-how-long, and sleeping so soundly Cecilia apparently thought he’d slipped back into a coma.
“Edward?” he heard, her voice whispering at the edges of his consciousness. “Edward?”
He mumbled something. Or maybe he grumbled it. He wasn’t sure what the difference was. Attitude, probably.
“Oh, thank God,” she whispered, and he sensed, rather than heard, her settle back into the chair next to his bed.
He should probably wake up.
Maybe he would open his eyes and the whole world would be restored to him. It would be June, and it would make sense that it was June. He would be married, and that would make sense too, especially if he remembered what it felt like to kiss her.
Because he’d really like to kiss her. It was all he’d thought about the night before. Or at least most. Half, at least. He was as randy as the next man, especially now that he was married to Cecilia Harcourt, but he also had a working sense of smell, and what he really wanted was to take a bath.
God help him, he stank.
He lay still for a few minutes, his mind resting serenely behind his closed eyelids. There was something rather pleasant about unmoving reflection. He didn’t have to do anything but think. He could not recall the last time he’d enjoyed such a luxury.
And yes, he was well aware that he could not recall anything of the last three or so months. He was still quite certain he had not spent it sifting peacefully through his own thoughts, listening to the muffled sounds of his wife beside him. He was reminded of those moments the day before, the ones right before he’d opened his eyes. He’d heard her breathing then, too. It was different, though, now that he knew who she was. It sounded the same, but it was different.
It was strange, really. He would never have believed that he’d one day be content to lie in bed and listen to a woman breathe. She emitted more sighs than he would have liked, though. She was tired. Maybe worried. Probably both.
He should tell her he was awake. It was past time.
But then he heard her murmur, “What am I to do with you?”
Honestly, he couldn’t resist. He opened his eyes. “With me?”
She shrieked, jumping so far out of her chair it was a wonder she didn’t hit the ceiling.
Edward started to laugh. Big belly laughs that hurt his ribs and squeezed his lungs, and even as Cecilia glared at him, her hand over her obviously racing heart, he laughed and laughed.
And just like before, he knew that this was not something he’d done in a very long while.
“You’re awake,” his wife accused.
“I wasn’t,” he said, “but then someone started whispering my name.”
“That was ages ago.”
He shrugged, unrepentant.
“You look better today,” she said.
He lifted his brows.
“A little less . . . gray.”
He decided to be grateful no one had offered him a looking glass. “I need to shave,” he said, rubbing his chin. How many days’ growth was this? At least two weeks. Probably closer to three. He frowned.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Does anyone know how long I was unconscious?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. No one knows how long you were unconscious before you were found, but I can’t imagine it was very long. They said the wound on your head was fresh.”
He winced. Fresh was the sort of word one liked when applied to strawberries, not skulls.
“So probably not more than eight days,” she concluded. “Why?”
“My beard,” he said. “It has been far more than a week since I last shaved.”
She stared at him for a moment. “I’m not sure what that means,” she finally said.
“Nor I,” he admitted. “But it’s worth taking note of it.”
“Have you a valet?”
He gave her a look.
“Don’t look at me that way. I know very well that many officers travel with a manservant.”
“I do not.”
A moment passed, then Cecilia said, “You must be very hungry. I got a bit of broth into you, but that’s all.”
Edward placed a hand on his midsection. His hipbones were definitely more prominent than they’d been since childhood. “I seem to have lost some weight.”
“Did you eat after I left yesterday?”
“Not much. I was famished, but then I started to feel ill.”
She nodded, glancing down at her hands before saying, “I did not have the opportunity to tell you yesterday, but I took the liberty of writing to your family.”
His family. Holy God above. He had not even thought of them.
His eyes met hers.
“They had been informed that you had gone missing,” she explained. “General Garth wrote to them several months ago.”
Edward put a hand to his face, covering his eyes. He could only imagine his mother. She would not have taken it well.
“I wrote that you had been injured, but I did not go into detail,” she said. “I thought it most important that they know you had been found.”
“Found,” Edward echoed. The word was apt. He had not been returned, nor had he escaped. Instead he had been found near Kip’s Bay. The devil only knew how he’d got there.
“When did you arrive in New York?” he asked abruptly. Better to ask questions about what he did not know than to agonize over what he did not remember.
“Almost a fortnight ago,” she said.
“You came looking for me?”
“No,” she admitted. “I didn’t—that is to say, I would not be so foolish to cross an ocean to look for a man who was missing.”
“And yet you are here.”
“Thomas was injured,” she reminded him. “He needed me.”
“So you came for your brother,” he said.
She regarded him with a frank, open stare, as if she was wondering if this was an interrogation. “I was led to believe I would find him in hospital.”
“As opposed to me.”
Her lower lip caught between her teeth. “Well, yes. I did not—that is to say, I did not know you were missing.”
“General Garth did not write to you?”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe he had been made aware of the marriage.”
“So . . . wait.” He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. He felt very twitchy, but something didn’t make sense. The timeline was off. “Did we marry here? No, we couldn’t have done. Not if I was missing.”
“It—it was a proxy marriage.” Her face flushed, and she looked almost embarrassed to admit it.
“I married you by proxy?” he asked, dumbfounded.
“Thomas wanted it,” she mumbled.
“Is that even legal?”
Her eyes grew very wide, and he instantly felt like a heel. This woman had cared for him for three days while he was in a coma, and here he was implying that they might not even be married. She did not deserve such disrespect. “Forget I asked,” he said quickly. “We can sort all that out later.”
She nodded gratefully, then yawned.
“Did you rest yesterday?” he asked.
Her lips curved into the tiniest—and the tiredest—of smiles. “I believe that is my line.”
He returned the wry expression. “From what I understand, I have done nothing but rest these past few days.”
She tilted her head, a silent touché.
“You did not answer my question,” he reminded her. “Did you rest?”
“Some. I rather think I’m out of practice. And it was a strange room.” A lock of hair fell from her coiffure, and she frowned before tucking it back behind her ear. “I always find it difficult to sleep the first night in new surroundings.”
“I’d wager you have not slept well in weeks, then.”
At that she smiled. “Actually, I slept very well on the ship. The rocking motion agreed with me.”
“I’m jealous. I spent most of my crossing puking up my guts.”
She smothered a laugh. “I’m sorry.”
“Just be grateful you weren’t there. I would not have seemed such a matrimonial catch.” He considered this. “Then again, I’m no prize right now.”
“Oh, don’t be—”
“Unwashed, unshaved . . .”
“Edward . . .”
“Malodorous.” He waited. “I notice you do not contradict me there.”
“You do have a certain, ah, fragrance.”
“And do not forget that I am missing a small corner of my mind.”
She instantly stiffened. “You should not say such things.”
His tone was light but his eyes were straight and direct on hers as he said, “If I don’t find something to mock in this, I shall have to cry.”
She went very still.
“Figuratively,” he said, taking pity on her. “You needn’t worry. I shan’t break down in tears.”
“If you did,” she said haltingly, “I shouldn’t think the less of you. I—I would—”
“Care for me? Tend to my wounds? Dry the salty rivers of my tears?”
Her lips parted, but he did not think she was shocked, merely perplexed. “I did not realize you were such a devotee of sarcasm,” she said.
He shrugged. “I’m not sure I am.”
She went a bit straight as she considered this, her brow puckering until three lines formed in the center of her forehead. She did not move for several seconds, and only when a little whoosh of air crossed her lips did he realize she had been holding her breath. It came out with a bit of her voice, resulting in a pensive noise.
“You seem to be analyzing me,” he said.
She did not deny it. “It is very interesting,” she said, “what you do and do not recall.”
“It is difficult for me to view it as an academic pursuit,” he said without rancor, “but by all means, you should do so. Any breakthroughs will be much appreciated.”
She shifted in her seat. “Have you remembered anything new?”
“Since yesterday?”
She nodded.
“No. At least I don’t think so. It’s difficult to tell when I don’t remember what I don’t remember. I’m not even certain where the memory gap begins.”
“I’m told you left for Connecticut in early March.” Her head tilted to the side, and that mischievous lock of hair fell out of place again. “Do you remember that?”
He thought about this for a moment. “No,” he said. “I vaguely recall being told to go, or rather that I was going to be told to go . . .” He scrubbed the heel of his hand against one of his eyes. What did that even mean? He looked up at Cecilia. “I don’t know why, though.”
“It will come back to you eventually,” she said. “The doctor said that when the head is concussed, the brain needs time to recover.”
He frowned.
“Before you woke up,” she clarified.
“Ah.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, and then, with an awkward motion toward his injury, she asked, “Does it hurt?”
“Like the very devil.”
She moved to stand. “I can get you laudanum.”
“No,” he said quickly. “Thank you. I would rather keep a clear head.” Then he realized what a ridiculous statement that was, all things considered. “Or at least clear enough to recall the events of the last day.”
Her lips twitched.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Laugh.”
“I really shouldn’t.” But she did. Just a little.
And the sound was lovely.
Then she yawned.
“Sleep,” he urged.
“Oh, I couldn’t. I just got here.”
“I won’t tell.”
She gave him a look. “Who would you tell?”
“Fair point,” he conceded. “But still, you obviously need to sleep.”
“I can sleep tonight.” She wiggled a little in her chair, trying to get comfortable. “I’m just going to rest my eyes for a moment.”
He snickered.
“Don’t mock me,” she warned.
“Or you’ll what? You’d never even see me coming.”
She opened one eye. “I have outstanding reflexes.”
Edward chuckled at that, watching as she returned to her expression of repose. She yawned again, this time not even trying to cover it.
Was that what it meant to be married? That one could yawn with impunity? If so, Edward supposed that the institution had much to recommend it.
He watched her as she “rested her eyes.” She really was lovely. Thomas had said his sister was pretty, but in that offhand, brotherly sort of way. He saw what Edward supposed he saw in his own sister Mary: a nice face with all the pieces in the right spots. Thomas would never have noticed, for example, that Cecilia’s eyelashes were a few shades darker than her hair, or that when her eyes were closed, they formed two delicate arcs, almost like slivers of a waxing moon.
Her lips were full, although not in that rosebud way the poets seemed wild for. When she slept, they didn’t quite touch, and he could imagine the whisper of her breath passing between them.
“Do you think you will be able to leave for the Devil’s Head this afternoon?” she asked.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I told you, I’m just resting my eyes.”
In this she was not lying. She did not so much as lift a lash as she spoke.
“I should do,” he said. “The doctor wishes to see me once more before I go. I trust the room is acceptable?”
She nodded, eyes still closed. “You might find it small.”
“But you don’t?”
“I don’t require grand surroundings.”
“Neither do I.”
She opened her eyes. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to imply that you did.”
“I have spent many a night sleeping rough. Any room with a bed will be a luxury. Well, except this one, I suppose,” he said, looking about the makeshift ward. The church pews had been moved against the walls, and the men were lying in a motley collection of cots and beds. A few were on the floor.
“It’s depressing,” she said quietly.
He nodded. He should be grateful. He was whole of limb and body. Weak, perhaps, but he would heal. Some of the other men in the room were not so lucky.
But still, he wanted out.
“I am hungry,” he suddenly declared.
She looked up, and he found he rather enjoyed the startled look in her amazing eyes.
“If the doctor wishes to see me, he can bl—” Edward cleared his throat. “He can find me at the Devil’s Head.”
“Are you sure?” She gave him a concerned look. “I shouldn’t want—”
He cut her off by pointing toward a pile of fabric—scarlet and tan—on a nearby pew. “I think that’s my uniform over there. Would you be so kind as to fetch it?”
“But the doctor—”
“Or I’ll do it myself, and I’m warning you, I’m bare-arsed under this shirt.”
Her cheeks burned scarlet—not quite as deep a hue as his coat, but impressively close—and suddenly it occurred to him:
A proxy marriage.
Him: Several months in Connecticut.
Her: Two weeks in New York.
No wonder he had not recognized her face. He’d never seen her before.
Their marriage?
It had never been consummated.