Chapter Twenty
“Well, it appears someone’s feeding the beast. Grooming him, too.” Rhys St. Maur, Lord Ashworth gave the stallion’s withers a brisk rub. “Osiris, you look a damn sight better than when I saw you last.” The former warrior looked to Julian. “For that matter, so do you. Marriage must be suiting you.”
Julian shrugged. “Funny how that works, isn’t it? Where’s Lady Ashworth?”
“Merry?” Ashworth’s eyebrow lifted, splitting in the middle where a thick scar divided it. “Left her at the hotel. She’s fatigued from the journey, or so she says. Too enamored with the scented soaps and bed hangings, is more like it. But she sends her regards.”
“Bring her by Harcliffe House later, if you will. My wife will be glad to make her acquaintance.”
“Your wife.” Ashworth chuckled. “And just think, six months ago you were so determined to marry Lily off to some other man.”
Julian knew he was being ribbed, but he didn’t take offense. These days, so little seemed worth getting upset about. “I was only following the code, you know. A member of the Stud Club needed to marry her. Once you and Morland married elsewhere, the duty fell to me.”
“Duty, my arse. You’ve been in love with that woman from the start. Don’t try to deny it.”
Very well. Julian wouldn’t. He pulled a stub of carrot from his pocket and offered it to the horse.
Ashworth scratched the stallion behind his ear. “What would Leo think, if he could see the remaining members of his fast, subversive club? We’re all old married men now, settled and sedate.”
Osiris snorted, sending a little cloud of vapor into the brisk December morning.
“This stallion’s none too youthful, either.”
Ashworth asked, “You think Morland will agree to your plan?”
Julian nodded. “I have my ways of convincing him.”
The duke himself arrived at that moment, approaching the mews astride a stately bay gelding. He dismounted smoothly and handed his reins to a waiting groom.
“Ashworth,” he said, catching his breath as he removed his gloves. “This is a surprise. When did you arrive in Town?”
“Just now.”
“I hear you’ve married.”
“Aye. My lady’s resting at our lodgings. But I hope to introduce her to you and Her Grace while we’re in London. She and Amelia will get on well, I think.”
“We’d be delighted. Where are you staying in Town?”
“At the Pulteney.”
“You’re at a hotel?” The duke’s brow wrinkled with disdain. Odd, how Morland’s superior expressions used to enrage Julian. Now he just found them mildly irritating. Not nearly worthy of a punch to the jaw, at any rate.
“Don’t stay at a hotel,” the duke continued. “You’re more than welcome at Morland House. We’ve plenty of rooms, and Amelia loves nothing more than guests.”
“That’s generous of you, but Merry had her heart set on the Pulteney.”
“Trade research,” Julian explained to the duke. “The new Lady Ashworth is the proprietor of Devonshire’s finest coaching inn. Only natural she’d want to investigate the London hotels. Anyway, Morland, you’ll be needing your guest rooms for someone else.”
“Who?”
Ashworth took his cue and went over to his waiting coach, opening the door and reaching inside to help Peter Faraday down. Yet another man Julian had once been desperate to pummel. Christ, had he truly walked around irate for so much of his adult life? It all felt so foreign and far away now.
Faraday slowly advanced, unaided by Ashworth but relying heavily on the assistance of a walking stick. The man looked to be in better health than he had in Cornwall, but that wasn’t saying much. He was still pale, still obviously in a great deal of pain. If he hadn’t healed after six months’ time, it was unlikely he’d ever walk unaided again.
“Mr. Bellamy. Your Grace.” Faraday inclined his head. “Forgive me if I don’t bow.”
“Peter Faraday,” Morland said, returning the man’s nod of greeting. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“Last time we met, your attention was on the cards.”
“What are you doing here now?”
“Let me explain,” Julian said. He summarized the progress—or lack thereof—of his investigation into Leo’s death. Then explained how last month, the idea had finally occurred to him to check the prison and court records. “My investigator explored that angle in the first weeks after Leo’s death, but at that time we had no real description. A few weeks ago I received these names. Angus Macleod and Horace Stone. They match Cora Dunn’s physical description of the men. They were jailed the morning after Leo’s death, apprehended not a mile away from the scene of his beating. Sentenced to six months’ hard labor for breaking and entering.”
Ashworth whistled low. “Has to be them. Too many coincidences not to be.”
Julian nodded. “They’re serving on a prison hulk, due to be released in just over a week. We’ll ride out that morning and meet them on the docks. As lords, either one of you”—he indicated Morland and Ashworth—“can easily have them rearrested. With Faraday’s testimony, they’ll swing by the turn of the New Year.”
Faraday gave a heavy sigh. “I told you in Cornwall, I don’t recall a thing about the attack itself. I don’t know that I’ll be able to identify them.”
Julian said tightly, “Well, I’m positive that seeing them will jog your memory. If not, we’ll send for Cora.”
“Sorry I couldn’t bring her along,” Ashworth said. “But someone has to mind the inn. Besides, it felt cruel to pull the girl away from her honeymoon.”
“The comely Miss Dunn’s married, too?” Faraday gripped his walking stick. “What a shame. It’s a veritable plague of matrimony. Stay far clear of me, all three of you.”
With that, he hobbled to the side and lowered his weight onto a bench. Julian sensed the man’s loud decrial of marriage was merely an excuse to take a much-needed rest. After the exertion of standing upright all of five minutes, the poor soul needed a rest. Julian almost felt bad for him.
Or he would have, if he felt certain he could trust the man.
“Morland,” he said low, “I need you to keep a watchful eye on Faraday.”
“You want me to take the man under my protection?”
“I want you to take the man under your roof.”
“Now hold just a minute—” the duke began to object.
“You just said you have plenty of rooms. Your wife loves hosting guests.” When Morland’s face didn’t soften, Julian lowered his voice to a whisper and added, “Not to mention, you’re already hiding one invalid.”
Morland’s eyes flared. “How did you learn that? Did Amelia tell—”
“No, no. Your wife is the soul of discretion. It’s your ward who can’t keep herself concealed.” He clapped a hand on Morland’s shoulder. “Listen. Do me—do Leo—this last favor, and you can have the horse. I’ll relinquish all interest in him. You and Ashworth can work it out from there.”
Morland stepped back. “Really. You’d surrender your share in Osiris?” Julian nodded.
“In exchange for me housing Faraday for the next week?”
“Yes. Just until this is all settled. But you’ll be guarding him, not just giving him a bed.” He cut a glance over his shoulder to make sure the man himself wasn’t listening. “I can’t shake the feeling there’s still something he’s not telling us. Maybe he’s afraid, and that’s why he’s resistant. We can’t risk him running off again, to Cornwall or God-knows-where. Ashworth can’t host him, and I certainly can’t bring him home to Lily. She knows nothing about this.”
“How long do you think that will last?” Ashworth asked. “I mean, here we are making plans for our wives to get acquainted. Do you honestly think they won’t talk amongst themselves?”
“So don’t tell your wives, either.”
Morland gave a bark of laughter. “If Faraday’s staying in my house, Amelia’s going to know.”
“And my own wife just traveled all the way from Devonshire with the man,” Ashworth put in. “She knows all about the attack and Faraday’s role in it.”
“Besides,” the duke said, “I don’t lie to Amelia. We tell each other everything.”
“As husbands and wives should,” Ashworth concurred. “Merry and I, we’re the same.”
Julian cursed under his breath. This was becoming far too complicated.
“Here, then. You each tell your wives the truth.” To Morland, he said, “You tell Amelia that Faraday is a former Stud Club member, stricken by illness and fallen on hard times. You’re hosting him as a favor, but she’s to keep it very discreet because Mr. Faraday wouldn’t want his difficulties widely known. There, all of that’s true. Isn’t it?”
The duke shrugged. “I suppose.”
Julian turned to Ashworth. “And you ask Meredith to keep what she knows to herself, for Lily’s sake. We don’t want to raise Lily’s hopes or anxieties. For all we know, this will come to nothing.”
“Fair enough,” Ashworth said. “So what are you planning to tell Lily?”
“Nothing,” Julian answered. A marriage without secrets sounded lovely for others, but it wasn’t in the cards for a man like him. “Nothing just yet.”
“Oh, how lovely!”
At Lily’s exclamation, Amelia and Meredith perked up. The two ladies wandered over from across the gallery, eager to investigate the object that had inspired such delight.
“It’s just a desk.” Lily opened the top of the vast mahogany piece. The hardwood panel swung easily on its hinges, flattening to a sturdy writing surface. Inside, she found neat drawers for paper, ink, and quills, two locked compartments, and an entire regiment of pigeonholes for the sorting and filing of bills and receipts. The sight filled her with an absurd sort of joy.
The gallery owner, a meticulous man in a pale pink waistcoat, appeared beside them. “An antique,” he said. “Belonged to …”
Lily missed the name completely. No matter. Whichever magistrate or dignitary had owned the thing in the first place, it didn’t belong to him anymore.
“Are you thinking of this for Mr. Bellamy?” Meredith asked, running her fingers over the smooth veneer.
Lily had to confess no, shaking her head. “For myself. We’re making adjoining studies in the new house. One for him, and one for me.”
It was high time she had her own space for recordkeeping, rather than always using Leo’s study. She’d already agreed with Julian that she would take responsibility for the household accounts, as well as the investment of whatever funds she brought to the marriage. For all her teasing, it seemed she was the stuffy, boring clerk in their relationship.
“I’ll take it,” she told the gallery owner.
He bowed with obsequious gratitude. “Very good, my lady. An excellent choice.”
Yes, she rather thought it was. With a grand new house to furnish, Lily was discovering a new appreciation for shopping. The company of friends increased her enjoyment. Over the past week, the three of them had spent part of every afternoon wandering the shops. Obviously Lily had known Amelia all her life, and even though they’d only been introduced to the new Lady Ashworth a week ago now, the three of them got on well indeed. Meredith was a sensible, plainspoken woman, with a heart for hospitality and head for business, which gave her something in common with Amelia and Lily both.
“Adjoining studies,” Meredith said, examining the hinges of the desk as Lily closed the top. “I like that idea. I’ll talk to Rhys about such an arrangement for the new Nethermoor Hall. He plans to meet with some architects while we’re in Town.”
When Meredith walked away, Amelia caught Lily’s attention. “I’ve been meaning to ask, are you and Mr. Bellamy attending the Carstairs’ party Wednesday next? Spencer is reluctant, as ever. But if the two of you attend, I might be able to convince him. Or at least I’d be assured of having someone to talk to after he disappears to the card room.”
Lily hesitated. “The Carstairs’ party?”
Amelia nodded.
“I … I’m not certain. We hadn’t yet sent our reply.”
In actuality, they had not received an invitation. Lily told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. She’d expected this might happen when her hasty wedding to Julian became known. Obviously Mrs. Carstairs wished to communicate her disapproval of Lily’s marriage, or perhaps her envy of it. Lily was almost ashamed to realize how it annoyed her, being cut by a woman who last year would have counted it a coup to host any Chatwick in her home. Even Tartuffe.
She shook off the irritation. No matter. Slights like these would serve to teach her who their true friends were. And Lily had two very good ones right here in this gallery.
She followed the gallery owner to the back counter, to sign off on the expense and arrange for delivery of her new desk. While he prepared the bill, her eye wandered to the soaring expanse of paintings behind him. They were mostly the standard decorative scenes: pastoral landscapes of ruined castles, still-lifes with vases of flowers and bowls of fruit. Nothing particularly caught her interest. Disappointing. She and Julian needed something to hang on the walls, after all. She noted a curtained doorway leading to another room.
Once the bill of sale had been signed and settled, and the address of the new house given, Lily asked, “Have you another gallery?”
“There is another room, my lady.”
“May we see it?”
The man’s cheeks flushed pink to match his waistcoat. “My lady … I’m afraid that gallery is for gentlemen only.”
Lily thought she must have misunderstood him, but then Meredith appeared at her side. “What do you mean, for gentlemen only?”
“The paintings there are of a … shall we say, earthy nature. Not suitable for ladies.”
“What’s all this?” Amelia joined them.
“He means to protect our delicate female natures from scandalous paintings,” Meredith informed her. To the shopkeeper, she said, “We are all married women, sir.”
“Nevertheless.” The man tugged at his cravat. “Your husbands are not present. Without their express permission, I am sure I cannot—”
Meredith laughed. “Must we send for notes with their signatures?”
“Ridiculous,” Amelia said, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. “My husband, His Grace, the Duke of Morland, would be displeased indeed to be troubled on such a trifling matter. Do your worst, sir. We shall ready our vinaigrettes.”
Lily laughed. She thought they stood a decent chance of deviling him into capitulation. But in the end, it wasn’t necessary. Amelia and Meredith suddenly wheeled to face the door, clapping with excitement. Lily followed their gaze.
Ah. Julian had finally arrived. He’d promised to meet her here after his day’s business was done.
All three ladies rushed to greet him at the door. Lily, however, was the only one to claim the pleasure of a kiss on the cheek.
“What’s this? I haven’t known such a rousing female welcome since—”
“Since the last time you entered a room full of women,” Lily said. She cut a playful glance at her friends. “Your timing couldn’t be better. There’s another gallery—a naughty gallery, apparently—and the owner won’t let us view it without our husbands present.”
“Hm.” Julian surveyed the hopeful trio. “I don’t suppose I can pose as a sheik with my harem of wives, can I?”
“Why not?” Amelia asked slyly. “You do have a certain reputation.”
Meredith linked her hand through Julian’s free arm. “Let’s have a go.”
“Why, Lady Ashworth,” he said, pretending shock.
Or perhaps not pretending. On closer inspection, Lily thought he might actually be blushing. How very sweet.
With good-natured charm, he extricated himself from Meredith’s grasp. “I’m a confirmed monogamist now, I’m afraid. And even if I weren’t, both your husbands are confirmed barbarians, whom I know better than to cross. I’ve just come from meeting with them. We made plans to go out early tomorrow for a ride in open country. Shouldn’t like to make it a daybreak duel.”
“You’re going riding?” Lily asked. It had been ages since she’d been out riding. “Where to? May I join you?”
“No, you may not. It’s a gentlemen’s excursion.” He paused. “And I’m not precisely sure where to. Down the Thames a bit, I think.”
“Down the Thames? Whyever—”
“Morland’s looking at property down that way.”
“He is?” Amelia asked. “First I’ve heard of it.”
“Yes, well.” Julian’s smile was strained. “Perhaps I misunderstood.”
Lily could tell he was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with the entire outing, most likely. Julian’s horsemanship was nowhere near the level of Morland’s and Ashworth’s, and he was probably a bit worried about being shown up by them. But he was going to ride out with them anyway, and that pleased Lily no end. She was so gratified to see the three of them becoming close friends. Leo would have been happy, too.
Meredith spoke. “Well, if you’ve just come from meeting with Rhys and the duke, where are they? We can all view the naughty paintings together.”
“I’m afraid they stayed at Morland House.”
Amelia rested one hand atop her pregnant belly and rubbed her lower back with the other. “Then I should go home, too.” She looked to Meredith. “Care to join me in the carriage? You and Lord Ashworth are welcome to stay for dinner.”
Out of habit, she extended the invitation to Julian and Lily as well, and they politely declined.
Once they’d left, Lily and Julian were the only remaining customers in the gallery.
“I bought a desk,” Lily said.
“Did you?” But he didn’t ask about it. He simply offered her his arm and walked her straight back to the gallery owner, whose buttoned pink waistcoat scalloped like the edge of a seashell as he bent to arrange some books.
When he noticed Julian, the man stood and bowed. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I be of service?”
“My wife would like to see the nudes.” Her impossible husband grinned down at her, daring her to contradict.
Scoundrel. Lily introduced the sharp point of her elbow to his ribs.
Although she was certain her cheeks were twin banners of crimson, she faced the owner and hoisted them high. She wasn’t about to demur. She wanted to be able to crow about this to Amelia and Meredith tomorrow.
And atop that, she did want to see the nudes.
The gallery owner tugged on his waistcoat. “As you wish, sir.”
With all the élan of a carnival barker, he swept aside the heavy velvet drape. Feeling a tingle of excitement, Lily nestled closer to her husband.
Together, they entered the forbidden room.
The “secret” gallery was rather a disappointment, as forbidden things all too often turned out to be. Julian was well-acquainted with the phenomenon.
But it did serve as a welcome diversion.
He carefully watched Lily’s expression as they entered the narrow room. She seemed to have no care for anything but the pictures on the walls, which put him somewhat at ease, after their conversation about tomorrow’s ride. He hated lying to her. Despised it with a dark, unwavering passion. After today, never again.
Tomorrow morning, he, Morland, and Ashworth would ride some ways out of Town, down to Woolwich, where Stone and Macleod were due to be released. The brutes would never even be freed of their chains. Once the men were hauled back to Newgate, Julian and Morland would bring Faraday to identify them. Charges would be pressed. The courts would carry the matter from there.
It would all be over tomorrow.
Calming at the thought, Julian began to take some notice of the art. On either side, the walls were lined with framed paintings. High clerestory windows lit the space, sending down trapezoids of watery light to frame the works at odd angles, making them look askew. There were a few of the expected boudoir portraits, naked women lolling about on unmade beds, their nipples blazing unrealistic shades of cherry and plum. But the quality works outnumbered these.
The owner followed them down the row, rattling off information about each work. Artist, provenance, and such. The way he nattered on so industriously, Julian deduced the man had no idea of Lily’s deafness. Lily paid him no attention, of course, but shopkeepers were accustomed to being ignored.
She wandered thoughtfully from one picture to the next, then paused before a nude study of a man. Her foot slid back, as she retreated a pace to better take it in. Julian briefly considered teasing her, but decided against it. He loved the seriousness with which she approached the art. No missish giggles or blushing.
“The model was a laborer,” he said, when she turned to him.
“How do you know?”
“Look at the tan on his forearms and face, the roughness of his hands.”
“I suppose it must be difficult to find gentlemen of leisure willing to pose for such studies.” As though it were a connected thought, she added, “I was thinking of commissioning your portrait.”
He laughed, startled.
And now she blushed. “Not like that, of course. Fully clothed. But we should have a large one, for the house. And I would like a miniature for my dressing table.”
Ah. Sweet thought, that.
They moved on to a lovely painting of a mother bathing her young child. Julian wondered at its placement in this “gentleman’s” gallery, as there was nothing at all erotic or prurient about the composition. It was a domestic, maternal scene. The two stood before a roaring fire, the child with his feet in a basin and the woman crouched beside. The woman’s plaited hair dangled as she bent to sponge her naked cherub. She herself was dressed in a thin shift, the linen wet and clinging to her rounded breasts and hips. The artist had done a remarkably fine job of rendering the damp, translucent fabric stretched over pink skin.
“Who is the artist?” Lily asked, turning to the gallery owner.
“A Mr. Conrad Marley,” the man answered.
Lily frowned as she turned back to the painting.
Julian touched her arm, raised his eyebrows in question.
She hesitated, throwing an apprehensive glance toward the owner. Then she signed, “Spell it for me.”
Julian smiled. He reached for his wife’s hand and brought it to his lips, ignoring the curious stare of the gallery owner. The man would never understand the small victory he’d just witnessed.
He and Lily had been practicing signing in private for weeks, but this was the first time she’d used signs with him in the company of someone else. Julian understood why she hadn’t until now, and he never would have pressed. To begin with, excluding anyone from a conversation offended her natural sense of etiquette. She would no sooner sign with him in friendly company than she would converse with him in Hindustani, for the sole reason that it alienated their companions from the discussion. But in front of servants and hackney drivers and shopkeepers, he knew she had an entirely different reason for hesitating. By signing, she openly declared herself to be deaf. She made herself vulnerable to the curiosity and even cruelty of strangers.
Julian knew better than most the courage that required. He’d grown up watching his mother make this calculation in so many interactions—at what point would she break down and sign to Julian, asking him to explain? When did her need to understand trump the perpetual cause of caution?
Thankfully, Lily would never know the sort of treatment his mother had endured. She was wealthy and highborn, and no shopkeeper with sense would slam a door in her face. No street urchins would throw bits of refuse at her back. Still, she faced subtler forms of prejudice and disdain. And always, that backhanded “concern” from the imbecilic, self-righteous Aunt Beatrices of the world, who to preserve the fragile peace of their feeble minds would insist the defect resided not only in Lily’s ears, but in her very soul. If you cannot be like the rest of us, their subtle shaming implied, at least do not call attention to your differences.
Just now, Lily might as well have signed, “Bollocks to that.” With her question, she’d asserted her right to receive information on her own, understandable terms. Even if it made those around her suspicious or uncomfortable.
Julian wanted to catch her in a tremendous hug. Instead, he carefully spelled the artist’s name and waited for her reply.
“Mister?” she spelled back.
He confirmed with a nod.
She looked at the painting again, then signed, “No. A woman painted this. I can tell.”
“How?”
She pointed to the babe’s plump arm. “Perfect. Men always paint babies too fat or too thin.”
He considered. He’d never spent much time thinking about the relative corpulence of infants, in life or art—which, he supposed, was rather Lily’s point. “Perhaps you’re right.” Though gently-bred ladies were encouraged to draw and paint, a female artist would have to assume a man’s name if she wished to be taken seriously. Or to earn any decent money for her work.
Lily stared at the painting for a minute longer, tilting her head. Julian stared at Lily, because lovely as the picture was, his wife was lovelier. Besides, he was obviously going to buy the thing, and he’d have plenty of time to gaze upon it later. The only question was whether to purchase it now or come back in secret, to make it a surprise. Perhaps a Christmas gift.
But before he could decide, Lily surprised him.
“I think I’m pregnant,” she signed.
And with that, his world stopped. Went still as a painting.
It was as though some invisible, divine hand had forced him, and this moment, into a small, square frame. He didn’t feel hemmed-in or constrained. No, never that. Just … put into perspective. Within the borders of this picture, this precious vignette, resided everything of true meaning: the two of them, and the promise of a child. The world outside it was just noise, nothing but meaningless distraction.
At a loss for words, he laid a hand to the small of her back.
She didn’t turn to him, but her cheek dimpled with a shy smile. “I can’t be certain yet.”
Julian was certain. He knew. Within a year’s time, the world would include another plump, squirming, rosy-cheeked creature, and that infant would be part him and part her, forever intermingled and impossible to separate. Looking at the domestic Madonna in the painting before him, Julian felt he understood why God had introduced His greatest miracle to the world in the form of a helpless infant. He couldn’t conceive of a more humbling, awesome thing than a child.
Not just a child. Their child.
This was his chance to start fresh and do everything right. For so long he’d chased revenge. Now true redemption was in reach. He wasn’t a bastard child any longer. He was a grown man, a husband, soon to be a father. His family would have every advantage Julian had never known. His wife would never be driven to sacrifice her own comfort or nourishment for the sake of their child. His son would be tutored in Latin and Greek, would never even learn the signs for “hungry” or “cold” or “frightened” or “penny.”
“We’ll take this one,” he told the gallery owner.
Once the purchase had been settled, they left the shop together and began strolling aimlessly down the crowded street. Lily suggested they walk the short distance to their new residence before returning to Harcliffe House.
“I’d like to see how the blue toile is working in the parlor.”
Julian was thinking of the house, too. But he wanted a look at the nursery. He needed to check it for drafts. Had there been enough bars on the window? “Just wait until it’s all done,” he told her. “It’s too dusty right now.”
“And what is a touch of dust?” Lily shook her head. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Now you’ll be insufferably protective.”
Of course he would be protective. And if she thought he was insufferably so today, she ought to wait for tomorrow. Once Leo’s killers were brought to justice, safeguarding Lily would become his paramount purpose in life. Ridiculous as he knew it to be, part of him wanted to wrap her in cotton wool and confine her to bed for the next eight months.
With one arm draped around her shoulders, he steered her through the river of humanity, banked by shop fronts on the one side and carriages on the other. He was unbearably anxious she might be jostled by a passerby or jabbed in the eye with a parasol spoke.
Wham.
Julian was broadsided. An anonymous shoulder and elbow conspired to give him a firm, swift shove that sent him careening off-balance. Despite his best efforts, he stumbled against Lily, slamming her into a shop’s display window. She cried out in surprise, and no doubt some measure of pain.
Julian righted himself and took Lily by the shoulders, assessing the soundness of her arms and wrists. “Are you hurt? I’m so sorry. There was a—”
“I’m fine,” she said, patting down her dress. “Just a bit rattled.”
Rattled. The word made him see red. Julian was going to find the man who’d pushed him so rudely and rattle him to the bones.
As Lily adjusted her cape, he wheeled to search the crowd. No one figure particularly leapt out. It had happened so fast. He’d formed no impression of the arm that shoved him, much less the man to whom it belonged.
Frustrated, he clenched his hands into fists.
Something crumpled in his left palm.
He opened his hand. There, on his gloved palm, lay a crunched card with writing on it. Someone must have slid it into his hand during the confusion. With a quick glance around, he grasped the card in his fingertips and pulled the creases straight.
Hold your tongue, if you wish to keep holding your lovely bride.
A clanging Bell will be silenced.
The ground buckled beneath his boots. The words on the card fuzzed, as though grown over with black mold.
A clanging Bell will be silenced.
Someone knew. Someone knew everything.