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Dr. Long, Oxford.
Shock pulsed through her like slashing blades against her skin. Slowly, she raised her gaze to meet his.
“Is that what’s hiding under your glove?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Burns…lacerations…?”
The words caught in her throat. Chastity had mentioned burns, but this... this was far worse than she had imagined. The severity of the injury, the implication of violence—it all crashed over her in a rush.
He froze, his gorgeous face distorted in a grimace of terrible fear. He could be a cornered animal.
“From what?” she demanded.
He swallowed hard. “An accident. I told you.”
She stood up and approached him. Clearly, he was distressed. Traumatized, perhaps, from whatever had happened back then.
“Yes, you told me. But here it says from a gun or a bomb.”
“Patience—” he said, stepping back from her. “Stop.”
As though she was going to hurt him.
“I’d never hurt you, Dorian,” she said, her voice trembling, her hand stretching out to give him back the doctor’s bill. “Don’t you know that?”
He snatched it, almost tearing it apart. “Just leave this alone,” he grumbled. “Please. It’s just ghosts.”
Ghosts that were still haunting both of them. Their marriage.
And his soul.
Dr. Long, Oxford.
The idea formed in her head. He’d be in London for at least five days. Enough time for her to sneak in a trip to Oxford.
She nodded. “Very well. I’m sorry I’ve inquired about something you’re not ready to share. Let me just tell you, whenever you’re ready, I want to see all of you. The good. The bad. And whatever you’re hiding under your glove.”
30
Two days later, Patience’s steps echoed softly on the cobblestone streets of Oxford, the ancient stones worn smooth. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of April—a mix of damp earth and the faint, sweet bloom of the clusters of daffodils planted in a few squares along her way. She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, the cool breeze teasing loose strands of her hair from under her bonnet.
She looked over her shoulder. A footman had accompanied her and Mademoiselle Antoinette to Oxford. Should she have brought him with her on her errand today? No. She’d told them both she would meet with Sir James Edward Smith, a renowned botanist—which was an outright lie.
She’d sent a footman from Rath Hall to tell Dorian she was going to Oxford to meet Sir Smith, as well. How betrayed would he feel if he found out the true reason for her excursion?
Sir Smith didn’t live in Oxford.
And she felt like a fraud.
But she had been compelled to come here and learn what she could of the secret that haunted her marriage.
As she wandered, the muffled sounds of the town enveloped her—the distant clop of horse hooves, the soft chatter of townsfolk, and the occasional burst of laughter from students spilling out of doorways. She passed by towering spires and grand, ivy-clad façades. The sunlight filtered through the budding trees, casting dappled shadows on her path, and for a moment, she could almost feel the presence of her brother, John, in the laughter and footfalls that surrounded her.
This was the place where Dorian, Luhst, Pryde, and John had all somehow become intertwined in an incident that had been kept secret the past twelve years.
An incident that had required a physician—Dr. Long.
And that was the interesting thing.
The girl she’d been when she’d married Dorian wouldn’t have dreamed of going against her husband’s wishes and finding a way to continue her investigation. Because she would have been afraid to displease him. Afraid to cast a shadow on their peace.
