Page 12 of Cold November Rake

He let out a low, unsteady breath, wiped his sword-cane's blade on the dead man's coat, and slid it back into its sheath with a sharp click.

As he straightened, the heat in his left side bloomed into searing pain. He winced, pressing his hand against his waistcoat. Dark blood had already soaked through the wool and was seeping between his fingers.

Marie was at his side in an instant. "You are hurt. Good thing the footpads were gracious enough to attack us right before the steps to my home. Come inside—I shall tend to your wound."

"No." He eased away from her, pressing his handkerchief against the cut. "It only grazed my side. I've had worse."

"You will bleed out before you reach home," she warned.

He shook his head. "I assure you, I shall be fine. Roger, where's the carriage?"

"Just beyond the corner, sir."

"See?" Sutton raised both brows. "I shall be fine."

The wound was not that deep, and the last thing he wanted was to spend more time away from home.

Marie paused and looked at him, curiously assessing his features before a knowing smirk spread across her lips.

"I understand—why have me tend to your wounds when your wife can do it for you?" she teased softly.

Sutton shook his head, his mouth twitching in spite of the sharp pain in his side.

"Go to hell," he gritted out through his smile.

Chapter Four

Florence

9th December 1815

Dear husband,

I write from Florence. I arrived at my aunt's without much trouble. I do not know whether anyone has informed you of my flight, or whether you have read the note I left for you at Sutton Hall.

If you have, perhaps you think it too harsh. I have thought of little else since I left, turning over every word, wondering if I might have softened them. I also wonder if you are doing the same with the last words you said to me.

I wish to say once more that I did not mean the kiss with Daniel as a betrayal. It was a goodbye. I was closing the door on a love that could never be, to make room for one that might yet bloom.

If you decide you wish to be my husband once more, you know where to find me.

Your wife,

Temperance

Temperance sat by the fireplace in her bedchamber, staring blankly at the fading embers. The longcase clock in the corridor struck two in the morning.

A quiet, hollow sadness settled in her chest. She had returned to London ready for a fight, armed with years of unsaid words and a hope that seven years apart might have thawed Sutton's icy resolve. Instead, he had ordered her to leave and had disappeared for the entire day. He had left the house before she woke and had not returned for dinner.

Where was he?

Was he drowning his anger at his club, or was he seeking solace in the arms of that opera singer the scandal sheets were so fond of linking him to?

Either way, he would be in for a surprise when he returned and realized that his wife had no interest in following his orders or leaving this house until she got what she wanted.

If he ever returns, that is.

At that very moment, the front doors slammed downstairs, followed by uneven steps on the grand staircase. Temperance held her breath, her heart giving a painful flutter.