And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

“Wycliff has his enemies,” the gentleman said, “and the marquis is often keen to make a point.”

Shocked at the suggestion the marquis might be to blame, she said, “What sort of father shoots his own son?”

“One determined to get his way.”

Scarlett shook her head. “I am more inclined to believe it was another bungled attempt on my life.”

Mr Trent shrugged. “Either way, it will be impossible to prove.”

“Then I shall b-beat every suspect until I gain a confession,” came Wycliff’s weak reply.

“There is no need to concern yourself with that now.” Scarlett placed a comforting hand on his chest. “You’ll likely catch a fever and must rest for the next few days, at least.”

“Then g-give me an incentive to remain abed, else I shall be on my feet come the morning.”

Hearing a hint of his suggestive banter eased her anxiety, until he breathed a pained sigh and closed his eyes.

“He will be all right, won’t he?” she whispered. “Tell me you’ve seen him in worse states.”

Tell me this is not all my fault.

“Much worse,” Mr Trent confirmed.

“So why is there a solemn edge to your tone?”

The man frowned at her directness. “It has nothing to do with my concerns for Wycliff and everything to do with a private matter.”

“Oh.” Heat crept up her cheeks. “Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.”

A tense silence descended.

Mr Trent stared out into the night for a while before saying, “Do you ever visit your husband’s grave?”

The odd and somewhat startling question gave her pause. “No, but if I did, it would be to dance and sing and give praise. I suffered greatly at his hands, Mr Trent, and can only celebrate his passing.”

The gentleman rubbed his chin. “And what would your thoughts be should you arrive at his grave to find fresh flowers, a cross fashioned from willow, a letter filled with poetic verse tied with a pretty pink ribbon and left in a decorative box?”

Having created such a vivid picture, evidently, Mr Trent spoke from personal experience and cared nothing for the condition of her husband’s final resting place.

Scarlett absently stroked Wycliff’s brow as she deliberated her answer. “Then I would presume whoever left them there cared a great deal for the person who had passed.”

“Not merely a kind parishioner or a dutiful neighbour?”

“I might say yes, had they only left flowers.”

Fascinated by this strange line of questioning, she thought to probe Mr Trent further, but the carriage slowed to a halt. A quick peek out of the window told her they had arrived at their destination.

“Should you ever have cause to seek my opinion on this matter again, Mr Trent, feel free to approach me at your convenience.”

The gentleman inclined his head. “I will remain in Bruton Street for a few days and will send word to you regarding Wycliff’s recovery. Cutler will see you home. Perhaps Wycliff might send for you tomorrow.”

Gracious Lord. Did he think to dismiss her so easily?

“Oh, I am not returning home, sir.” On the contrary, she refused to leave Wycliff’s side until confident he was well. The devil himself wouldn’t drag her away, let alone a man skilled in domination. “Feeling somewhat responsible for Mr Wycliff’s condition, I intend to nurse the patient back to full health.”

“He won’t want you here,” came the terse reply.

“Then he can tell me so himself in the morning.”