Blame It on Bath Page 0,104
her heart. “I have said all I had to say. If he wishes to make any response, he can find me at Cobham.”
Chapter 25
Gerard was fast coming to wish he’d never heard of Reverend Ogilvie. He’d seen enough of Robert Nollworth to last six lifetimes, and breathed enough dust to fill all of Spain. Searching the dead reverend’s trunks ended up meaning they must clear out Nollworth’s wretched storeroom, since the Nollworths apparently kept every broken bucket and footstool they’d ever owned. One morning he and Carter got a section cleared, carting things into the stable yard so they could unearth more boxes and crates, only to have to drag everything back inside when it began to rain, and Mrs. Nollworth flew out of her house screaming that her belongings were being ruined. The chickens who roosted in the old stable were the pleasantest part of the whole ordeal, and Gerard could have happily killed and plucked a few of them just to have quiet.
In desperation he offered Nollworth a hundred pounds for the reverend’s things, but now Nollworth felt even more sure of himself. He countered with five hundred pounds, which Gerard rashly rejected in a flash of temper.
But soon, by God, he sorely regretted it. Five hundred pounds would have been a small price to pay to get out of this circle of hell. Nollworth’s storage stable was a filthy, ramshackle hovel. The town of Allenton was barely a village, with only one inn three miles away, close to the Bristol Road. The inn was almost as depressing and dirty as the storage shed, and Gerard set Bragg to cleaning everything, every day. When he returned home, he planned to burn every piece of clothing he’d brought with him, strongly suspecting it would have picked up vermin of all sorts. With a grim realization that he might have gotten in over his head, he finally wrote to his brother Edward. The explanation of why he needed help grew too tortured, so he settled for admitting he did need aid and imploring Edward to come at once. He told Bragg to send it off express and felt a bit of relief. Even just talking to his logical, rational brother would help.
But worst of all, he still didn’t know what to say to Kate. Every night he pulled out fresh paper and ink and tried to write. He filled page after page with apologies and explanations, and every night he threw it all into the fire when he read what he’d written. But every day that he didn’t send word to her built up the guilt he felt, as well as the pressure to write a decent letter the next day. Finally Gerard accepted that he couldn’t put his thoughts on paper and would have to wait until he saw her in person, no matter how cowardly it felt.
Carter made a hurried trip to Bath for fresh supplies and unwittingly brought back a hair shirt for Gerard. “I saw your lady wife, by the way,” he said as they began work on yet another crate the day after he returned. They had sifted through barely a quarter of the detritus, but this was one of the last five crates, presuming no more appeared from under the rubbish they were still clearing away. “She was curious to know what we’d uncovered.”
His stomach knotted at the mention of his wife. Even as he felt like the lowest rogue alive, he missed her. Sleeping alone in the hard, flat bed at the inn, on a mattress so thin he could feel the ropes every time he shifted, he dreamed of waking to find her in his arms, her brass-bright hair tickling his chest, her soft skin warm against his. Behind closed eyelids, he could picture her sleepy smile when he turned her over and kissed her awake. He could hear her soft gasps of ecstasy as he made love to her. And worst of all, he couldn’t forget the intoxicating peals of her laughter when they lay in bed and talked of nonsense. God. He was an idiot. He’d taken all that for granted, too caught up in his focus on finding the blackmailer to notice her devotion and wonder whence it sprang. A woman who said she would be content with a marriage of convenience didn’t listen intently and sympathetically while he poured out the sordid story of his father’s shameful past. Or allow him every sort of liberty with her body