Page 98 of Cold November Rake

At least, he had thought it was Temperance asking. Now he was not so certain.

God, let her be all right.

He swung down from the saddle on legs that would barely hold him, clutched his sword-cane in his hand, and took the steps at a run. The door opened before he reached it.

"Where is Lady Sutton?" he demanded, before the astonished butler could finish his greeting.

"Asleep, my lord, I should think⁠—"

Sutton was already on the stairs, through the corridor, and at her door.

He burst into the bedchamber like a man possessed, then stopped, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.

"Temperance," he breathed.

The single candle on the nightstand illuminated one corner of the room, revealing a bed and the shape beneath the coverlet. Temperance lay on her side, her hair loose on the pillow.

He crossed the room to her and⁠—

Temperance opened her eyes, startled, and let out a yelp.

"Tempe, it's me!" Sutton fell to his knees before the bed, dropped his sword-cane, and took her hands in his.

She sat up, her eyes wide.

"Edward?" She blinked up at him, bleary and bewildered. "What are you doing here? What is going on?"

He ran his hands over her arms, shoulders, and face, to ensure she was not injured.

She was warm. She was breathing. She was alive.

He pressed his lips to her forehead.

"Edward?"

"Nothing is wrong." His voice came out ragged. "Stay in bed. Do not come out. Do you understand? Do not leave this room."

"Edward—?"

"Wait for me here," he said as he jumped to his feet, picked up his sword-cane, and hurried out the door.

He learned from a footman, who was heading to bed, that Whitlow had gone down to the library.

Sutton nodded and turned toward the stairs.

He took a deep breath. He needed his hands to stop shaking and his mind to be clear before confronting Whitlow.

He made his way downstairs, saw the line of light beneath the library door, and approached it.

With another deep breath, he opened the door and stepped inside.

Whitlow sat at the library desk in his shirtsleeves, the lamp turned low, a ledger open before him. He looked exactly what he was: a man of business at his work.

He glanced up. His face, mild, pleasant, and forgettable, instantly rearranged itself into concern. Sutton, who had known that face for twelve years, thought with the distant calm of exhaustion: he is very good at that.

"Sutton? Good God, you look like death. What are you doing here?"

Sutton stepped closer. "I have been through the accounts, Whitlow."