Page 56 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

“In the back… at the end of the news, but…” She dipped her head.

“I’ll not leave you here alone,” he said.

She nodded. “Then let’s get you cleaned up, but… before we go to the mews, I think we need to speak with the Agremons. Surely Mr. Agremon will know what to do.”

Angus considered her words and finally nodded. “After that?” he prompted.

“We’ll return here, hopefully with a plan of what to do with… the body. And then I’ll go with you to the mews.” She pointed to a room behind the office. “There’s a privy,” she said. “With a water pump and a sink. Let’s get you cleaned up.” She glanced down her front, wincing at how wrinkled her gown was. One of the seams had torn where the skirt was attached to the bodice, and she knew the seam beneath one sleeve was torn. “I’m going to need a different gown.”

Obviously heartened to hear her plan, Angus nodded. “It will be all right,” he said, as much for himself as for her.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A Theory About a Viscount

Meanwhile, in the Agremon town coach, somewhere in Mayfair

For the entire trip back to Agremon House, Stella relayed her conversation with Lord Woodhurst to Darius. He listened intently, but until he had a chance to do some research, he didn’t dare tell her what he was thinking.

Words he had written from the battleground didn’t always reach their intended recipient—Stella—and yet here was one that had somehow made its way into a book published in the mid-seventeenth century without ever being in her possession.

Darius wondered if he could tell her what he suspected had happened.

“Did Lord Woodhurst provide his given name when he introduced himself?” he asked.

Stella inhaled sharply. “Even better. He gave me his calling card,” she said with excitement, pulling it from the pocket of her gown. She held it up, reading it more from memory than directly from the card, given the dim light in the town coach. “James Entwistle, Fifth Viscount Woodhurst.”

“Huh,” Darius huffed.

“What is it? Do you know him?”

He inhaled slowly. “Not him, at least, not that I know of, but I recall serving with a Viscount Woodhurst in the Battle of Neerwinden.”

Stella scoffed. “That was—”

“Late sixteen-hundreds. Ninety-three, I think,” Darius finished for her. “Part of the Nine Years’ War. We were living in the Dutch Republic at the time.”

“The Republic of the Seven United Netherlands,” she countered.

He gave her a quelling glance and pulled her to him so that her head rested against his shoulder. “Same thing,” he murmured.

“What do you remember?” she asked.

His brows furrowed in concentration. “We were fighting with the English and Hapsburg monarchy against the French for the Spanish Netherlands,” he recalled. “Woodhurst was a seasoned officer—mayhap forty at the time?” he guessed. “William of Orange had bestowed him with the title from some other battle he had fought for England. So he would have been the first viscount.”

“But you remember him,” she commented. “Why?”

At that point, he suddenly seemed reluctant to share his thoughts, but he finally whispered, “Because I saw him die.”

Lifting her head from his shoulder, Stella inhaled softly. “You must have seen thousands of young men die in battle,” she said quietly. “Yet, you remember him?”

He sighed. “I do.” He was about to say more, but the town coach stuttered to a halt in front of their townhouse. “Later,” he said, carefully unwrapping her from his hold so he could exit the coach before her.

The butler, Jenkins, met them at the door. He was quick to see to their wraps and Darius’s top hat before he said, “I placed your correspondence on the desk in your study, sir.”

“Thank you, Jenkins.”

About to head for the staircase, Stella stopped short when she realized something was different in the hall. “I see Mrs. Jenkins went to the market today,” she commented, her gaze going to an elaborate bouquet of flowers ensconced in a vase on the round hall table.