Page 97 of The Marriage Method

Miles’s own blood ran cold. He may have abandoned his rationality in coming here, but he hadn’t dispensed with it when delivering the much-deserved thrashing. He was strategic. Efficient. Good science, Nell would have called it.

The thought of her inspired a final blow to Silas’s chin. The bully staggered back from it, hitting the filthy wall of the alleyway. He slid down to the ground, his head lolling forward.

Miles marked the rise and fall of the man’s chest.

Not dead.

He’d only been beaten severely, just as any number of villains in the slum were beaten on any given night. The case against him was in no way imperiled. Garrick could still ask his questions, bring his charges, have his hanging. And no one would be the wiser. Silas may as well have fought a shadow.

Miles briefly emerged from the darkness to stand over the man’s unconscious figure. “Come near my wife again,” he said, “and I’ll kill you.”

25

It was well past midnight by the time Miles returned to St. James’s Square. The house was dark except for the dimmed gasolier Mrs. Bright had left on for him in the hall.

He climbed the stairs to his room. He had to wash and change to rid himself of the stench of the slum. And then—

He wanted to see Nell. He needed to see her, even if it was only to catch a glimpse of her sleeping form beneath the covers of her bed. He wouldn’t be able to calm himself otherwise.

It had been years since Miles had engaged in a fight. He was no longer used to the aftereffects. The cold sweat. The delayed exhaustion. The ache in his hands and the sudden bursts of pain wherever Silas’s fists had managed to deal him a glancing blow. Blows Miles hadn’t even felt at the time—he’d been too full of rage to feel anything but his own blood lust.

He passed the door to Nell’s bedchamber on the way to his own. No light shone from beneath it. She would have gone to sleep hours ago. Mrs. Bright had mentioned something about a poultice and a special tea.

Exhaling heavily, Miles opened the door to his own unlit bedroom. He entered, shutting the door behind him. He shed his hat, coat, and gloves, and was in the process of unknotting his cravat when he heard the strike of a friction match.

A flame blazed forth, illuminating Nell in the darkness. She was seated in the upholstered wing chair beside his bed.

Miles froze where he stood.

Nell lit a taper candle on the small table beside her before wafting out the match. Her countenance was inscrutable. “Good morning,” she said.

Miles swallowed hard. “Good morning.”

Nell didn’t rise from the chair. She was in her dressing gown, her hair disposed in a plait over her shoulder, and her right arm still in its makeshift sling. A quilted blanket was draped across her legs.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked.

“Waiting for you.” She motioned to a collection of medicinal implements on the table. “I have a jar of salve and a roll of bandages. There was a can of hot water, too, but it’s gone cold by now. I’ve been waiting for some time.”

“Nell—”

“He’s not dead, I trust?”

“No.”

“And he didn’t see you?”

“No.”

“Well, then.” Her rigid expression relaxed a fraction. “Come here, if you please. I would come to you, but my leg is being uncooperative after sitting for hours in this chair.”

A sharp twinge of guilt constricted Miles’s chest. He crossed the room to Nell. Rather than remain standing, he sank down on his knees in front of her, bringing their eyes level. “How did you know?”

“I’ve been a teacher for many years. I have a sixth sense when mischief is afoot.”

“Mischief?” He gave a hollow laugh. “You do have a way of taking the heroism out of it.”

Nell lifted her hand to smooth the rumpled hair from his brow. Her fingertips were cool and gentle. Infinitely soothing. “I didn’t need you to be heroic,” she informed him. “But I understand the impulse.”