Page 29 of Cold November Rake

Sutton absently twirled a pencil in his hand. "Her ladyship is stubborn when she makes up her mind. And her mind is more than made up to stay by my side."

He had begun the sentence meaning for it to sound harsh, but he couldn't summon the frown.

He realized he liked the idea of her by his side. He liked even more that the insistence was hers. For the first time in years, he actually felt wanted by his wife. It was a rather pleasant feeling.

And a dangerous one.

He had once thought that he was wanted by her, only to have that illusion brutally shattered by a kiss in the gardens and ten words from her lips.

"Well, then you should⁠—"

A crash shook the foyer, interrupting whatever Whitlow was about to say.

It was followed by a yelp, the high, bright shatter of porcelain, and Ganderson's voice, pitched an octave above its usual dignity. "Sir! Mind the..."

Sutton rose from his chair too fast and swore under his breath. A hot line of pain shot up his side, and he grabbed the edge of the desk until it passed.

"Are you all right?" Whitlow stepped toward him, but Sutton waved him away. Both men then hurried toward the foyer, Sutton with one hand pressed to his ribs.

As it turned out, the disaster that struck his house was named Cuthbert Everly.

A pedestal lay on its side, the Chinese vase that had stood on it reduced to shards, and chrysanthemums were scattered across the marble. In the middle of it all, Sutton's no-good cousin was picking himself up off the floor.

Beside him stood a white-haired older gentleman, clutching a leather instrument case to his chest. Behind them both hovered Dash, Sutton's valet.

"I am fine," Everly announced, rising with great dignity and a chrysanthemum stuck to his breeches. "We are all fine. Nobody is hurt but the vase."

Sutton raised his eyes heavenward.

Everly had not always been a clumsy idiot. There was a time people would have called him more accomplished, handsome, and refined than Sutton himself. That had all changed after his father's passing, when he took to drinking and gambling to mask the pain.

At the moment, his skin had the waxy pallor of a candle, and his eyes sat in sunken, bruised hollows beneath drooping lids. He looked, Sutton thought sourly, considerably worse than the man who had been injured just last night.

"What in God's name are you doing in my house, Everly?" he barked.

"Coming to your aid, cousin. The tragic hero, struck down by a rug."

"My aid?"

"I was at Dr. Grisham's on my own private business," Everly said, waving a hand with a flourish toward the older gentleman, "when your valet storms in, raving that his master is all injured and bleeding. Good thing I had my carriage and four at the ready, or the good doctor would have taken a great deal longer to arrive."

Dr. Grisham cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. "At your service, my lord."

"Good day, Dr. Grisham," Sutton said. "My wound is not as fresh and dire as my valet made it sound."

"Ah, perhaps I should take a look and decide for myself then?"

Sutton nodded. "Absolutely. Shall we proceed to my chambers?"

"This way." Whitlow waved a hand and proceeded toward the stairs. The doctor followed, Dash trotting at his heels with the second bag, and so did Everly.

Apparently, they were all accompanying the good doctor to Sutton's bedchamber. Sutton could only shake his head and follow the delegation up the stairs, one hand on the banister and the other pressed to his side.

Dash dropped back to offer his arm, and Sutton gave him a look that sent him scurrying forward again.

"Is everything—? Oh, good day." Temperance appeared on the landing, her hair half-pinned, wearing a pale green muslin day dress.

Her profile awash in daylight, his wife looked angelic. Sutton's pulse, which had no business doing anything of the sort, gave a stupid little skip.