Vincent grimaced. “I suppose it is best to have that over with.”
Jane, too, would rather have waited to view the grave, but the forms of propriety must be obeyed. Putting off the task would make it no more pleasant. Then, too, she was hoping that seeing the grave would put Vincent somewhat more at ease and allow him to concentrate on the attendant tasks associated with the disposition of the estate. She picked up her bonnet and followed the men back to the front of the house. Frank led them across the long gallery to the other wing, a route that was much appreciated as it kept Jane out of the sun for a bit longer.
The parlour at this end of the house was white and airy, with ferns on stands scattered around the room. Frank opened a door set in the back of the room. Vincent stepped through and stiffened. Jane could only stare past him.
In the room was Lord Verbury, quite alive.
Five
Discreet Matters
At the sight of Lord Verbury, Jane drew back involuntarily. Vincent’s father was much changed, wasted and bent, but unmistakable. His mouth was a little open and he wore an expression of clear shock. She could not understand why he should be shocked when he had sent the carriage for them. That brief unguarded glimpse lasted only a moment before he turned to pick up a cup of tea, as though there were nothing unusual in meeting them like this.
Vincent had frozen upon entering the room. Not out of fear, but as though he had, on instinct, stepped into the role of a young man of fashion, full of cold disdain. His shoulders drew back and his posture stiffened into a frosty perfection. Tucking his hands behind his back, he clasped them together. When he spoke, his voice was so even that Jane could scarcely credit it. “I thought you were dead.”
“You were meant to.” Lord Verbury sipped his tea.
“The stroke?”
“I was not expected to live, and am as you find me now.” He nodded towards his left side. Only then did Jane see that his arm was twisted into a claw next to his body. “It seemed expedient to allow the falsehood to stand, rather than return to face charges of treason.”
“I see.” Vincent remained in the same precisely etched posture. “The conditions in your will make keeping that secret rather difficult.”
“Not at all. Only Garland and a handful of the slaves know.” He tilted his head back and contrived to look down his nose at them, in spite of being seated. “Why are you here?”
Jane inhaled sharply. He did not know about the carriage accident.
Vincent tilted his head to the side, studying his father. “There was an accident. Garland is dead.”
A spasm ran through Lord Verbury, slopping tea over the side of his cup. His mouth worked, but no sound emerged.
“Richard is the earl now, but crippled in the same accident. Not knowing you were alive, he asked me to attend to business.” Vincent straightened his head, and pursed his lips slightly. “No doubt you have much to think about. We will speak later.”
He backed out of the small room, shutting the door on his father. Frank still stood in the parlour, his expression as fixed and remote as Vincent’s. Looking out the window, Vincent wiped his mouth and took a slow breath. “Frank, would you attend my father? He has received a shock.”
“Of course, sir.”
Turning so that he almost looked at her, Vincent put a hand on Jane’s back and drew her away from the door. Without softening his posture, he strode through the parlour and down the long gallery. His free hand went to his mouth again and covered it. He dropped his hand from her back and sped his steps, almost to a run.
He flew through the blue parlour and flung the door to their rooms open. Jane entered the bedchamber in time to see him step onto their veranda. He leaned against the rail and braced himself there, as if he were about to be sick.
“Vincent?”
“Shut the door.” His voice was a grating wheeze. “Please.”
Jane did, her heart finally remembering to beat again when the door shut. Lord Verbury was alive. She shuddered. Of all the things she had expected to find here, that had not been a consideration.
Behind her, Vincent retched forcibly.
Turning from the door, Jane extracted her handkerchief from her reticule. The square of lawn and lace seemed inadequate, but she carried it to her husband.
His hand shook as he took it from her. “My apologies.” The other gripped the rail, and he remained hunched over it. His breath grated in his throat. “It has been some time since I experienced this. I fear it will not be pleasant for you, Muse.”
“For me? I assure you, my thoughts are more occupied with you.” She put a hand on his back.
He flinched away from her touch. “Again, apologies. I am not myself.”
Jane withdrew her hand and stood back, aching for something to do for him. “Should you prefer to be alone?”