“Sir,” Gus said quietly to Oliver, “it is only that I observed my nephew’s condition after a nasty break, and—”
“Not now,” Oliver muttered with a shake of his head. “The foot is already set. If it is loose in a day or two, I’ll cut off the cast and rebandage it myself.”
They reached the examination room just as another nurse wheeled Emme out in a rolling chair. She was pale and bedraggled, with tear smudges on her face.
He turned to Gus. “Will you arrange for a cab to the Grand Hotel?”
“Absolutely.” Gus leaned forward to take Emme’s hand. “Dear lady, you’ll feel much better after a good cup of tea and some soup.”
Emme’s eyes glistened, and she cleared her throat. “Thank you, Gus.” He moved on, and she looked up at Oliver, mouthing, “Get me out of here.”
He needed no further urging. He took the bag holding the bottle of laudanum, placed the portmanteau on Emme’s lap, grasped the chair’s handles, and wheeled her through the halls. His pace was likely too quick for decorum, but she looked up at him with a grin. A weak grin, but he would take it.
Gus showed them to the cab and then informed Oliver he had some business to attend to and would find them at the hotel.
The ride through the streets to the hotel was bumpy, and Emme bore traces of strain around her mouth and eyes. He was casting about for something to distract her when she said, “John and Mary Smith? You are not a creative sort at all. Why not the pseudonyms Xavier and Guinevere? Alexander and Sophronia?”
“The beauty of John and Mary,” Oliver said, “is that they are unremarkable. They would allow us to continue our journey without fuss or unwanted attention.”
“You are far from unremarkable, John. One would know you as law enforcement at fifty paces.”
“I do not care for your tone, Mary.”
She smirked and turned her attention to the window. “There are so many people here,” she breathed. “I hope . . . I hope . . .”
“The very size and scope of this gathering is proof of growing public awareness. You’ve been an instrumental part of that and should be proud.” He touched her hand, and she turned it over, clasping his fingers but keeping her attention focused on the world outside.
They rode in silence for the remainder of the ride, and the driver pulled around to the back of the hotel, as Oliver had instructed. After much maneuvering and grunts of frustration and pain from Emme, he managed to get her and the rolling chair into the hotel. The halls were crowded with maids and bellboys, kitchen help and various administrative staff. Each walked quickly and with purpose, and Oliver quickly realized the chair was an obstacle.
The freight elevators used for luggage and larger items were crammed full, and two smaller elevators were too narrow for the chair. He flagged a passing employee, flashed his police identification, and requested attention from either the manager or someone at the registration desk.
Emme leaned forward and rested her head on the portmanteau in her lap. She had assured Oliver that she preferred to get cleaned up before being seen by other hotel guests, many of whom were colleagues.
Oliver reflected that they’d not slept decently for forty-eight hours, which explained why he was beginning to see enemies in every shadow. Finally, a front desk attendant, flustered that they’d entered through the servants’ area, took their information and provided room keys.
Emme dismissed the harried young man with a smile of reassurance that dropped the moment he was out of sight.
Reasoning they could wait an eternity before a freight elevator was available, Oliver caught the attention of a young maid. “This chair,” he told her, “must be delivered to room 407, along with these crutches.” He must have looked stern, because she nodded with wide eyes and promised to see to it personally.
He scooped Emme out of the chair, portmanteau and all, and carried her into a personnel elevator. The bewildered maid closed the outer grate, and Oliver instructed Emme to push the button for their floor.
The compartment began climbing, and he shifted Emme in his arms with a grunt. “Ought to have requested a ground-floor room.”
“Safer from miscreants when not on the ground floor. Every woman in the world knows that.” Emme looked at him, humor touching her mouth. “Is your strength waning, Farmer John?”
“No,” he panted, “but my arms are wickedly sore, and my wife’s weight is doubled with her wretched carpetbag.”
She tipped her head and raised her brows, affecting a picture of innocence. “Your wife can at least stand on her own now.”
He took a deep breath. “It would take me an hour to pick you and the luggage up again.”
She narrowed her eyes at him as they reached their floor. “I see good manners dissipate once vows are said.” She managed to open the elevator gate for them.
“Good manners?” He carried her down the hall to the end, locating their room. “Woman, there is no better image of chivalry than this very moment.”
She took the key and fit it into the lock, turning the handle and pushing the door open.
“Only fitting I carry you and your infernal luggage across the threshold, I suppose, since John and Mary have only recently wed.”
Her mouth lifted at one corner as she looked at him, their heads very close together.
He entered and nudged the door shut with his foot. The main room was large and elegant, with an adjacent room sharing a connecting door. A sofa and chairs graced the hearth at one end, a large bed occupied the other, and an open door near the bed showed a small wash-and-dressing room.
Emme carefully dropped the luggage to the floor, and he slowly lowered her to sit on the edge of the bed.
They both exhaled, and he shook his sore arms.
“You needn’t make such a show of it,” she told him, scowling. “The
