“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.