Chapter Thirty-Five

Something was wrong with his wife. It had begun with dinner, of which she ate very little, despite the tenderness of the beef and sweetness of the pudding. That in and of itself was cause for alarm, but when it was followed by going to bed alone, on claim of a headache, he began to fret.

Sebastian had first feared Eliza was ill, but since the following day she had announced she must make several morning calls after her letter writing, he doubted she was suffering from poor health.

And yet…and yet.

Over the next several days, she spoke very little during their meals, and as their meals had somehow become the only time they spent in each other’s company, Sebastian was very unhappy. Her days had become busy with…something. Eliza only ever said that she was going “out” and never explained where “out” might be. She had become quiet and withdrawn. Knowing that she greatly valued her privacy, he tried to give her space to come to him, but she withdrew further. On occasion, he looked up to find her watching him with an odd, unhappy expression.

He could no longer deny it. Something was bothering his wife greatly, and that something might very well be him.

It had seemed to him, that day in the study when she had told him she liked him, that something important had happened. Their marriage had deepened somehow, forcing them into a realm of intimacy in which they were both babes in the wilderness. But he had not even had time to adjust to the new world before he had been immediately kicked out again, and the door slammed shut behind him.

He urged Ozymandias to pick up his pace. Of late, Sebastian had returned home only to find that his wife had departed after her morning writing session. He was determined that today she would take tea with him. She could not avoid him forever.

Yet, clearly she planned to, for there she was, exiting their home on Wimpole Street at a rapid clip.

How peculiar.

Peculiar because she was leaving from the back of the house, where she would not be visible to any of their neighbors, rather than the front, as befitted her station in life.

Peculiar because she was climbing into a hired hack, despite the fact that they had a very comfortable carriage with the Wessex coat of arms emblazoned boldly on the door.

Peculiar because she was wearing widow’s weeds, complete with a veil that obscured her hair and face, with capricious disregard for the fact that her husband was very much alive.

“Ozymandias,” he said thoughtfully. “I do believe my wife is up to something.”

Ozymandias farted, which Sebastian took as agreement.

The question was, what would he do about it?

What he ought to do was go inside the house, have a finger or two of whiskey to settle his nerves but not so much that he would be belligerently drunk, and await his wife’s return, upon which he might say, “My dear Lady Wessex, please explain why I saw you take a hired hack in widow’s garb.” And they would be very polite and civilized about the whole thing. Certainly, that was what a judicious, rational man would do.

What he wanted to do was wrench the door off its hinges, drag her from the carriage, strip those ridiculous clothes from her body, and remind her that her husband was not, in fact, dead. That would be such a satisfying outlet for the cumbersome feelings that had been building ever since he had taken her as wife. It would not, however, provide answers, for such behavior would not inspire her to be forthcoming. More likely, she would box his ears.

His thumb traced the braided leather of the reins. She did not want him to pry. She had said so outright, and while he had not promised he wouldn’t, he doubted she would see things that way. Likely, she would tell him to mind his own business.

Still. She was wearing widow’s weeds. That was extremely unsettling.

And she was alone, with neither maid nor footman to protect her.

That settled it. Her safety was paramount, and if keeping her safe also satisfied his curiosity, well, so be it. He nudged Ozymandias into a trot and followed the hack.

It headed northward, perplexing Sebastian even further. None of their friends lived in this direction. Perhaps she intended to do a bit of shopping on Oxford Street? But no, Eliza would have taken her maid with her at the very least, and more likely Alice and Adelaide, as well. She would certainly never embark on a shopping expedition alone, dressed as a widow, via a hired hack. The idea wasn’t merely unsafe, it was patently absurd.

But the hack continued on, bypassing the busy thoroughfare of Oxford Street, and turning on Tottenham Court Road. He frowned. What in God’s name was his wife—his duchess—doing here? It was not dangerous—he supposed he should be grateful that she hadn’t taken a sudden interest in exploring St. Giles or Covent Garden—but it was hardly the place for a duchess. The ton did not go here. The narrow homes and tidy offices did not belong to the aristocracy or gentry, but to doctors and lawyers and men of business.

The hack turned again, this time taking Charing Cross Road in the direction of the river. Suddenly, it all made sense. He could think of only one reason why Eliza and her perpetually ink-stained fingers would be in this part of London. But surely not. No, no, it was not…that. He shook his head in a vain attempt to dislodge the thought.

Yet, it was so obvious, so right, that it remained stubbornly in place.

The hours spent locked in her study writing letters. No one could possibly have such a need for correspondence, except lovers.

Her private account at the bank that she refused to explain. There were precious few ways for a lady to make money. A lady of her station and breeding—and, to be frank, lack of skills—could not simply accept a position as a dressmaker or scullery maid. Money came from one of the rare opportunities for a lady—or a lover.

And, most damning of all, her ridiculous costume, which was obviously meant to disguise her identity.

He was furious. How dare she!

He had always known she had a secret. That much, at least, she had deigned to share with him. But that it should be this! Oh, it was not to be borne. Had he not bared his soul to her? His childhood secrets, his dislike of tea, his very essence? And all the while she had kept this from him.

This!

He pressed his hand against his pocket, hard, until the bead within bruised his flesh. It hurt a good deal less than the harsh banging of his heart. His entire being ached with confusion. Why had she kept this from him? Why?

The hack ground to a halt, and Sebastian steered Ozymandias to the other side of the street, where they were well hidden behind a row of hired hacks. He held still, watching as she disappeared into one of the buildings, even though every fiber of his being was screaming to leap from Ozymandias’s back and tackle her right there on the cobblestones.

But of course he would not. Despite the fury raging in his blood, despite the pain throbbing in his heart, his excellent manners insisted that he wait patiently for his duchess to complete her business.

The tackling could wait.

Half an hour later, the door opened and Eliza emerged, a man at her side. She lowered that ridiculous veil over her face and they shook hands. Sebastian handed the reins to a street urchin along with a shilling and promised another pound if the boy did not abscond with his horse whilst he had a row with his wife. The boy, accustomed to the strange whims of men with coins to spare, tucked the shilling into his ragged clothing and nodded.

Stepping between the hacks, he strode purposefully toward her. The look of horror on her face as she saw his approach gave him a feeling of grim satisfaction. He felt horrified. It was only fair she feel the same.

“Sebastian!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“I would ask you the same thing, dear wife, but I fear I already know the answer.” He looked pointedly at the man.

“Sebastian,” she said, her voice low. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Oh, I think it is exactly what it looks like,” he said in scathing tones. “Why would a lady disguise herself as a widow, travel to this particular part of town taking no maid or footman with her, and meet with a man? I can think of only one reason.”

The man turned slightly pale but managed to straighten his spine despite his obvious trembling. “You don’t mean to accuse me—”

Sebastian sliced a hand through the air to silence him. “I accuse you of nothing. It is my wife I accuse. Well, Eliza?”

She stared at him with fear in her wide blue eyes.

“Or should I call you Lady Anonymous?”