His voice was diamond hard when he said, “You will find her alternate lodgings.”
Stubbs’s brows rose. They both knew who was the colonel and who was merely the captain.
But Edward was undeterred. He had spent most of his military career playing down his noble lineage, but in this, he had no such reservations.
“This woman,” he said, “is the Honorable Mrs. Edward Rokesby.”
Colonel Stubbs opened his mouth to speak, but Edward would not allow it. “She is my wife and the daughter-in-law of the Earl of Manston,” he continued, his voice icing over with generations of aristocratic breeding. “She does not belong in a boardinghouse.”
Cecilia, obviously uncomfortable, tried to intervene. “I have been perfectly well,” she said quickly. “I assure you.”
“I am not assured,” Edward responded, never taking his eyes off Colonel Stubbs.
“We will find her more suitable lodgings,” Colonel Stubbs said grudgingly.
“Tonight,” Edward clarified.
The look on the colonel’s face said clearly that he found this to be an unreasonable request, but after a tense moment of silence he said, “We can put her in the Devil’s Head.”
Edward nodded. The Devil’s Head Inn catered primarily to British officers and was considered the finest establishment of its kind in New York Town. This wasn’t saying much, but short of installing Cecilia in a private home, Edward couldn’t think of anyplace better. New York was desperately overcrowded, and it seemed that half the army’s resources went to finding places for its men to sleep. The Devil’s Head would not have been suitable for a lady traveling alone, but as the wife of an officer, Cecilia would be safe and respected.
“Montby leaves tomorrow,” Colonel Stubbs said. “His room is big enough for you both.”
“Move him in with another officer,” Edward ordered. “She needs a room tonight.”
“Tomorrow will be fine,” Cecilia said.
Edward ignored her. “Tonight.”
Colonel Stubbs nodded. “I’ll speak to Montby.”
Edward gave another curt nod. He knew Captain Montby. He, like all the officers, would give up his room in a heartbeat if it meant the safety of a gentlewoman.
“In the meantime,” the doctor said, “he must remain calm and sedate.” He turned to Cecilia. “He must not be upset in any way.”
“It is difficult to imagine being more upset than I am right now,” Edward said.
The doctor smiled. “It is a very good sign that you retain your sense of humor.”
Edward decided not to point out that he had not been making a joke.
“We shall have you out of here by tomorrow,” Colonel Stubbs said briskly. He turned to Cecilia. “In the meantime, fill him in on all he has missed. Perhaps it will jog his memory.”
“An excellent idea,” the doctor said. “I am sure your husband will want to know how you came to be here in New York, Mrs. Rokesby.”
Cecilia tried to smile. “Of course, sir.”
“And remember, do not upset him.” The doctor tipped an indulgent glance toward Edward and added, “Further.”
Colonel Stubbs spoke briefly to Cecilia about her move to the Devil’s Head, and then the two men departed, leaving Edward once again alone with his wife. Well, alone as one could be in a church full of sick soldiers.
He looked at Cecilia, standing awkwardly near his bed.
His wife. Bloody hell.
He still didn’t understand how it had come to pass, but it must be true. Colonel Stubbs seemed to believe it, and he’d always been a by-the-book sort of man. Plus, this was Cecilia Harcourt, sister of his closest friend. If he was going to find himself married to a woman he didn’t think he’d actually met, he supposed she would be the one.
Still, it seemed like the sort of thing he’d remember.
“When were we wed?” he asked.
She was staring off toward the far end of the transept. He wasn’t sure if she was listening.
“Cecilia?”
“A few months ago,” she said, turning back around to face him. “You should sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
“No?” She gave a wobbly smile as she settled into the chair next to his bed. “I’m exhausted.”
“I am sorry,” he said instantly. He felt like he should rise. Give her his hand.
Be a gentleman.
“I did not think,” he said.
“You have not had much opportunity to do so,” she said in a dry voice.
His lips parted with surprise, and then he thought—there was the Cecilia Harcourt he knew so well. Or thought he knew so well. Truth be told, he could not recall ever having seen her face. But she sounded just like her letters, and he had held her words close to his heart during the worst of the war.
Sometimes he wondered if it was strange that he had looked forward to her letters to Thomas more than he did the ones coming to him from his own family.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I have a most inappropriate sense of humor.”
“I like it,” he said.
She looked over at him, and he thought he saw something a little grateful in her eyes.
Such an interesting color, they were. A seafoam green so pale she would surely have been called fey in another era. Which seemed somehow wrong; she was as down-to-earth and reliable as any person he’d ever met.
Or thought he’d met.
She touched her cheek self-consciously. “Have I something on my face?”
“Just looking at you,” he said.
“There is not much to see.”
This made him smile. “I must disagree.”
She flushed, and he realized he was flirting with his wife. Strange.
And yet possibly the least strange thing of the day.
“I wish I remembered . . .” he began.
She looked at him.
He wished he remembered meeting her for the first time. He wished he remembered their wedding.
He wished he remembered kissing her.
“Edward?” she said softly.
“Everything,” he said, the word coming out with a little more edge than he’d intended. “I wish I remembered everything.”
“I’m sure you will.” She smiled tightly, but there was something wrong about it. It didn’t reach her eyes, and then he realized that she hadn’t met his eyes. He wondered what she wasn’t telling him. Had someone told her more about his condition than she had shared with him? He didn’t know when they could have done so; she had not left his side since he’d awakened.
“You look like Thomas,” he said abruptly.
“Do you think so?” She gave him a puzzled look. “No one else seems to. Well, except for the hair.” She touched it then, probably without even realizing she’d done so. It had been pulled back into an inexpertly pinned bun, and the bits that had fallen out hung limply against her cheek. He wondered how long it was, how it might look against her back.
“I favor our mother,” she said. “Or so I’ve been told. I never knew her. Thomas is more like our father.”
Edward shook his head. “It’s not in the features. It is your expressions.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, right there!” He grinned, feeling a bit more alive than he had just a moment earlier. “You make the same expressions. When you said, ‘I beg your pardon,’ you tilted your head exactly the same way he does.”
She quirked a smile. “Does he beg your pardon so very often?”
“Not nearly as much as he should.”
She burst out laughing at that. “Oh, thank you,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I haven’t laughed since . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t remember when.”
He reached out and took her hand. “You haven’t had much to laugh about,” he said quietly.
Her throat worked as she nodded, and for one awful moment Edward thought she might cry. But still, he knew he could not remain silent. “What happened to Thomas?” he asked.
She took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “I received word that he had been injured and was recuperating in New York Town. I was concerned—well, you can see for yourself,” she said, waving a hand toward the rest of the room. “There are not enough people to nurse the wounded soldiers. I did not want my brother to be alone.”