“Or it is meant to throw us off the scent. Perhaps he stole something else or did something that has nothing to do with those papers.”
Alexia pondered, still standing on one foot, like an egret, propped back against the windowsill. “Or he is after some important item to use for blackmail. Or something to give to the popular press. There has been remarkably little scandal since you and I reconciled. I wouldn’t put that kind of thing past old Twittergaddle and the Chirrup.”
“Well, idle speculation is getting us nowhere. Perhaps he got the wrong room or the wrong drawer. Now, why are we not both back in bed?”
“Ah, yes, there is some difficultly there. My ankle, you see, no longer appears to be functioning as designed.” Alexia gave Conall a weak smile, and he noticed, for the first time, her awkward stance.
“God’s teeth, why?” The earl strode over to his wife and offered his own substantial form instead of the windowsill. Alexia transferred her weight gratefully.
“Well, I did take a little bit of a tumble just now. Seems I have twisted my ankle.”
“You never?.?.?.?? Wife!” He half carried her to the bed before bending over to examine her foot and lower leg carefully. His hands were impossibly gentle, but still Alexia winced. The joint was already starting to swell. “I shall call for a surgeon immediately! And the constabulary.”
“Oh, now, Conall, I scarcely think that necessary. The surgeon, I mean. You may, of course, summon the police if you think it best, but I hardly require the services of a physician for a twisted ankle.”
Lord Maccon entirely ignored this and marched from the room, already yelling at the top of his considerable lungs for Rumpet and any claviger who might be awake.
Lady Maccon, ankle throbbing dreadfully, tried to go back to sleep, knowing that in very short order her room would be swarming with surgeons and policemen and that her dozing time would be drastically curtailed.
As predicted, Alexia got very little respite that day, which barely made much difference, as she was forced to rest that night after the surgeon pronounced her unfit to walk. She was confined to her bed with a splint and barley water and told that on no account was she to move for an entire week. Worse, she was also told that she was to lay off tea for the next twenty-four hours, as imbibing any hot liquid was bound to increase the swelling. Alexia called the doctor a quack and threw her bed cap at him. He retreated, but she knew perfectly well that Conall and the rest of Woolsey would see that his instructions were obeyed to the letter.
Lady Maccon was not the kind of woman who could be easily confined to bed for seven hours, let alone seven days. Those who knew her well were already dreading her confinement, and this, so close to that fated time, was seen as a preliminary test as to both her behavior and everyone else’s ability to cope with it. It was pronounced, by Rumpet and Floote much later in some private butler musings, to be an abject failure on all counts. No one survived it intact, least of all Alexia.
By the second day, she was chafing, to put it politely. “Queen Victoria could be in imminent danger and here I lie, confined to my bed by that fool of a physician because of an ankle. It is not to be borne!”
“Certainly not with any grace,” muttered her husband.
Lady Maccon ignored this and continued with her ranting. “And Felicity—who is keeping an eye on Felicity?”
“Professor Lyall has her well in hand, I assure you.”
“Oh, well, if it’s Professor Lyall. He can handle you—I have every confidence in his ability to restrain my sister.” Her tone was petulant, for which she wasn’t entirely to be blamed, being grimy, sore, and stationary. Nor was her lying-in translating to actual rest. She was too far along for the infant-inconvenience to permit anything more than a few fitful minutes of shut-eye at a time.
“Who says he can handle me?” The earl looked most offended by this blight on his independence.
His lady wife arched an eyebrow at him as if to say, Oh, now, Conall, really. She continued on to a new worry, without further disparagement of such frivolous masculine dignity. “Have you had the lads check the aethographic transmitter every evening at sunset? You remember, I’m expecting some very important information.”
“Yes, dear.”
Alexia twisted her lips together in contemplation, trying to come up with something else to gripe about. “Oh, I do hate being cooped up.” She picked at the blanket draped over her belly.
“Now you know how Biffy feels.”
Lady Maccon’s temper softened at the mention of the dandy. “How is he?”
“Well. I have taken your suggestion under advisement, my dear, and I am trying a gentler approach—less firmness of manner.”
“Now that I should like to see.”
“I have been sitting and talking him through the change at sunset. Rumpet suggested some light music might help as well. So I have Burbleson—you remember Catogan Burbleson, that new musically minded claviger we recruited last month?—playing violin all the while. A nice soothing piece of European fluff. Hard to tell if any of this is helping, but my efforts don’t seem to be making the poor boy feel any worse.”
Alexia was suspicious. “Is young Catogan any good on the violin?”
“Rather.”
“Well, perhaps he could come play a bit for me, then? I must say, Conall, it is exceedingly dull being bedridden.”
Her husband grunted at that—his version of a sympathetic murmur.