Sutcliff seemed to agree with him. I knew this young man did not give a fig about honor, did not even know what it was. All I had to do was stick the sword into his throat, and the blight would leave the earth. I would hang for it, but what did that matter?
It was not honor that stayed my hand, but knowledge. I knew that Sutcliff would soon be doomed. I did not have all the pieces put together yet, but soon, very soon.
I withdrew my sword and stepped back. 'Get out of my sight,' I said.
He gave me another uncertain look, then he turned on his heel and scurried away, rather swiftly. I retrieved the pistol, which hadn't even been primed correctly, and sheathed my sword.
Chapter Eighteen
Belinda wept as I led her home. I had little comfort to give her. Inwardly, I decided that I'd rather see her weep than have her walk in cold silence. When a woman, or man, wept, they released their humors, which allowed healing to begin. Holding it inside, I well knew, led to melancholia and other dangerous maladies.
Belinda would weep, and then her heart would mend. I did not tell her that this heartache would likely be easy compared to others she'd face in her life. Let her believe that this was as difficult as things would ever be.
That night, Grenville's fever reached its peak. I did not sleep at all, but sat at his bedside while his skin burned and his pulse beat so fast that I feared his heart would burst. Bartholomew and Matthias continuously bathed his face and body in cold water, but nothing brought down the fever.
Sometimes he swam to consciousness and looked about him with glazed eyes. He would not know us, or he would call the names of people we had never heard of. His hair was matted with sweat, and black stubble marred his face. The room stank of his fever. Grenville, the man so fastidious about his appearance, lay helpless and sweating, and soiled his own bedding.
We washed him and changed the linen and held him down when he thrashed. He'd groan and cry out, then fall into another stupor.
The morning dawned gray and rainswept. I opened the window, no longer able to stand the stuffy sickroom. The air was a bit warmer, April fast approaching. Soon meadows would be filled with flowers and the arch of sky would be a soft blue.
Bartholomew stretched out on his back on the carpet, exhausted and snoring. His brother slept in a chair, his blond head lolling. And Grenville…
His chest rose and fell evenly, his hands resting quietly on the coverlet. His dark eyes were open, and he was looking at me in cool appraisal.
I stepped over Bartholomew, who never moved, and hastened to the bedside. I touched Grenville's forehead. His skin was clammy and cool, the fever broken.
'Where is Marianne?' he asked.
I sank into a nearby chair, my legs suddenly weak. 'Is that all you can say?'
He gave me the ghost of his usual sardonic smile. 'I prefer to see her when waking. She's much prettier than you are.'
'You must be feeling better.'
'No, I feel like absolute hell.' He turned his head on the pillow, gazed at Matthias who snored on. 'Do they always make that racket?'
'I am afraid so.' I rested my elbows on my knees. I did not like to hope at this point. I'd seen men awaken from fevers then relapse so very soon.
'A wonder I could sleep at all.' His gaze roved the room again, turned puzzled. 'How long have I been ill?'
'Four days,' I said. 'You were stabbed early Monday morning, and it is now Friday.'
'Good Lord.' He was silent a moment, then he drew on his usual bravado. 'Never say you have played nursemaid to me all this time.'
'I have. And Bartholomew and Matthias. One of us at least has always been here.'
His famous brows rose. 'What remarkable dedication. Surely you could have asked a servant.'
'There are none that I trust here. Besides, neither of the lads would leave. They guarded you like lions.'
'Good lord,' he said again. Color stole over his pallid face. 'A bit embarrassing.'
'Why?' I smiled, the first time I'd felt like smiling in days. 'Have you never been ill before?'
'Never like this. I was always healthy enough, except for my motion sickness.' He moved his tongue over his lips, made a face. 'You gave me laudanum, damn you. I can taste it still. I told you not to.'
'You were in no condition to protest. In any case, it let you sleep.'
'I told you I did not like it.'
I frowned. 'Why not? It cut the pain. Surely that was good.'
He continued to look put out. Then he sighed. 'I've always had a horror of the stuff, Lacey. When I was a lad, an uncle of mine took laudanum in water when he retired one night. He never woke again. Whether he misjudged the dose, or he did it on purpose, we were never certain. After that, I always refused it.'
'Ah. I understand.'
He looked at me. 'If you had known that, would you have given it to me anyway?'
'Yes,' I said.
His expression became perplexed, then offended. At last he smiled. 'What a bastard you are, Lacey.' He sobered. 'Where is Marianne? Is she resting?'
'I sent her to London. Do you not remember? You were awake when I asked her to go.'
'No.' He lifted a weary hand to his eyes. 'If you are carrying out your promise to return her to the Clarges Street house, there is no use in that. She will not stay. I realize this now. It is foolish of me to make her try.'
I sat down by his bedside, happy to be able to talk things out with him again. 'I needed her to do things for me in London. I sent her with messages.' And I told him what the messages were and to whom I'd sent them.
Grenville smiled, but his eyes drooped. 'I was right about you,' he murmured. 'You are a bastard.'
'So others have said.' I hesitated. 'Marianne left only reluctantly. She wanted to stay with you.'
'But she went,' Grenville pointed out.
'Cursing me. Depend upon it. If not for me, you would have awoken to see her by your side.'
'Damn you, then.' His voice drifted to a thin whisper, and then stopped.
His body relaxed, and he slept again. But it was a natural sleep, a healing sleep. The fever was gone. The murderer had not won, not yet.
Grenville and I stayed in Sudbury three more days before I decided to risk moving him back to London. I did not feel easy about Grenville staying at the school. The murderer could never be certain that Grenville did not see him in the darkness that night, and Grenville would be much safer far from Sudbury. I still did not have the evidence needed to have the murderer arrested, but I hoped, if Marianne's errand was successful, that I'd have it soon.
Grenville's traveling coach contained a seat that eased into a flat platform, which could be made up into a bed. Grenville, shaved and dressed and insisting on walking alone, allowed Matthias to help him into the carriage and settle him on the makeshift bed.
Rutledge came to say a grudging good-bye. He did not bid me good journey but hoped that Grenville would soon recover. I tipped my hat and thanked him for my brief employment, but he merely grunted and turned away.
I saw Belinda at the gate of the school, with her maid, watching us go. Didius Ramsay, too, ran after the coach to wave farewell. That was all. I saw nothing of Sutcliff or Timson or any of the others, nor did I see evidence of the Roma on the canal.
Then the school dropped behind us and was gone.
Grenville slept most of the way to London, which allowed him respite from his motion sickness and lingering pain.
Even so, by the time we reached London, he was exhausted, and Bartholomew and Matthias and his man,
