*
Another three-quarters of an hour passed, during which the ladies abandoned all pretence of discussing glamour. Their conversation consisted entirely of speculation about what was happening outside their locked room. That conversation stopped with another set of footsteps. Jane raised her head from the pillow, counting. It sounded as if Vincent were accompanied by at least four men, possibly five.
Though somewhat deadened by the wall, she could hear their conversation clearly enough for concern. Stopping outside their door, a gruff British man said, “And this room?”
“That is our bedchamber. My wife is within and not well.” Vincent’s cold, aristocratic tones were barely recognisable as her husband, save for the timbre of his voice.
“Bet you anything that’s where they are keeping him,” Mr. Pridmore said.
“We have been over the whole of the estate. I have been patient, because I believe that Admiral Cunningham is here in good faith. About you, sir, I have no such belief.”
“For diligence, Mr. Hamilton. My apologies, but I must insist.”
“And I regret the necessity of declining. She is in a fragile condition and must not be agitated.”
It was too late for that. Jane was already agitated beyond what she could stand. She waved to Nkiruka. “Open the door. Please.”
The older woman narrowed her eyes at Jane, which seemed best to ignore. Jane pushed herself up in bed. She would not be foolish, but neither was she going to be discovered curled on her side like an invalid. It was bad enough to be in bed in a morning dress that imperfectly covered the great hill of her stomach.
Jane pulled the counterpane up more firmly as Nkiruka opened the door.
Vincent stood framed in the door, arms folded across his chest. He spun, clearly startled, and gave Jane a glimpse of a white man in his later years, with a hoary grey moustache. He wore the uniform of a navy officer. Mr. Pridmore stood just behind him, face mottled red with sun or drink.
Pridmore pushed past Admiral Cunningham.
Vincent stopped him with a hand on his chest. “No.” That single word, spoken in a low tone, was imbued with more threat than a dozen syllables.
Pridmore shrugged his hand away, fist clenching at his side. “Never touch me.”
“Then do not anger me.”
“Vincent?” Jane called from the bed. “I do not mind if the admiral comes in.”
At the sound of her voice, the tableau broke and she was able to breathe a little better. With a bow, Vincent faced the admiral, taking Jane’s lead. “May I ask that only you enter?”
“What are you hiding, Hamilton?”
Vincent neglected Pridmore and kept his gaze on the admiral. “Please. She is in danger of coming to term early.”
With a grunt, the admiral turned to address what Jane presumed was the rest of his attendants. “I will be but a moment.” He stepped inside. “The door remains open, of course.”
“Of course.” Vincent’s chin was tucked deep into his cravat. He followed the admiral into the room with his hands clenched behind his back. His voice was coldly formal as he made the introductions.
Dolly and Nkiruka took up stations by the wall, heads bent as if they were only servants, but Jane could see their fingers fidgeting and had a strong suspicion they were using glamour to talk to each other. Jane tried to smile at the admiral, but she felt her chin tremble. There were many things that vexed her about being with child, but the ease with which she cried was one of the more irksome. She was agitated and a little angry, not sad, so the threat of tears perplexed her.
“My apologies, madam, for disturbing you.” The admiral gave a superficial glance around the room, taking in the bed and the rest of the furniture. He slowed a little at the glamural Vincent had cast about the bed, but his examination of the room took no more than half a minute in total. He offered Jane a bow. “I thank you for your time, and wish you joy.”
“Is that it? What about under the bed?” Mr. Pridmore charged into the room.
Vincent spun and took him by the collar. He shoved him back so hard that Mr. Pridmore came off his feet, slamming into the doorframe. He staggered into the hall, and a uniformed arm caught him before he fell. Another white man stepped into view, holding Mr. Pridmore up.
Vincent, who was not a small man, seemed to have grown even taller and broader. His hands were no longer behind his back, but held ready at his sides. “Do not. Come into. This room.”
“You saw what he did, Admiral? You saw that? Verbury must be in there.” He waved at the glamural. “Probably hidden in all that whigmaleery.”
Jane was fairly certain that Vincent was a paper width away from punching Pridmore again. No matter how justified, it would almost certainly complicate matters. “Admiral, if you would like the glamural to be taken down, I can arrange that.”