“You threatened to have us killed if we left.” Vincent opened his eyes and dropped his chin into his cravat—black, to mourn a man who was not dead. He turned to face his father, shifting Jane’s hand to his other arm. His free hand, he tucked behind his back, the fist tightly clenched. “I trust you will understand why I have difficulty accepting your apology as sincere.”
Lord Verbury looked out the window. “I do. Lord help me, but I do.” He reached up with his good hand, and Sarah placed her hand in his. He squeezed it with surprising tenderness. “After the stroke … there was a long period in which I could not speak. It was … difficult, but gave me much time for reflection. Sarah stayed by my bed and prayed, which I will admit enraged me at first, but … but her thoughts and prayers have been deeply persuasive.”
“You threatened my wife.”
He winced, and it seemed unfeigned. Jane did not trust him, but when he turned back from the window she was stunned to see that his eyes were wet. “I was—am—grieving, and I reverted to old habits from the shock. I think … I think you know what that is like.”
“These are very pretty words, but the fact remains that we are prisoners in your house.”
Lord Verbury dipped his head. “Frank? See to it that Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton are given safe passage to St. John’s whenever they wish to go.” He looked back to Vincent. “Now, I presume?”
“Yes.”
“All I ask—and I want to make very clear that this is a request, and not a disguised threat—all I ask is that you take advantage of Sir Ronald’s expertise, or at least speak with him, if you do not trust him with an examination. Or allow me to call back the Negro, if that is truly your preference. But please, please do not go without a doctor’s advice.” He wet his lips. “I will admit to having an interest, given Jane’s condition.”
Vincent’s breath stopped altogether. Jane clutched his arm to keep from wrapping her arms around her stomach. She stared from Frank to Louisa, wondering which had told him. Likely Louisa, given everything that had occurred.
Lord Verbury indicated Louisa and Frank with a little turn of his head. “They both knew? Well … the fact that neither of them told me is something to consider.” He reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out a piece of paper. “I learned of the child from Vincent, via the laundress.”
He held the note that Jane had given to Vincent when the baby kicked.
The paper trembled in his grasp. “I have known for two days and done nothing. Will you not take that as a sign of my good intentions? When I heard that Jane—”
“Do not use her name.”
Red flooded Lord Verbury’s cheeks, but Sarah put a hand on his shoulder. He clenched his jaw and nodded. “Of course. It is too familiar, given our relations. When I heard that your wife was with child, I consulted Sir Ronald. That is all I have done, and you know well that I could have done more.”
Jane had no doubt of that, though she very much doubted his reasons. “This all comes as a shock. Will you give us leave to discuss it?”
“Of course. We shall be in my rooms.”
Vincent led Jane back through the blue parlour to their bedchamber. He shut the door with his foot and took Jane straight to the bed.
“Vincent, are you—?”
“Not yet. Please.” He threw the counterpane back with one hand and helped her sit. Once she was settled, he stepped back from the bed and rolled his shoulders. Reaching into the ether, he wove the shape she recognised as a Sphère Obscurcie. She could tell by his concentration and the spread of his arms that he had widened the fold to cover the bed and half the room. Its edges must pass the outer wall, but the gossamer thinness of the strands would wrap around any corporeal objects, leaving only those in its centre invisible. He followed this with the weaves for silence, executed with precision.
“Vincent, are you all right?”
He turned from the bed and walked to the washbasin. “Would you like to wash your face?”
“I am more concerned about you than my cleanliness.”
With his back to her the way it had been to his father, he seemed at his ease, but he stopped with his hand on the pitcher. For a moment, she thought he was not going to answer her. When he spoke, his voice was low and flat. “I am very close to breaking.”
“What may I do?”
“Please pretend that I am not and allow me some time.” He poured water into the basin and dipped one of the linen cloths into it. “Now, you once told me I would feel better if I washed my face, so I shall apply the same theory to you.”
“It was my governess’s theory, but I have adopted it.” When he turned back to her, she tried not to search his face or let her concern show, but she did not need to worry about being immoderately expressive, because Vincent kept his attention fixed on the cloth.