*Wicky*
After taking him to my bedchamber, I sit him at my dressing table. I dip a cloth into the washbasin, then kneeling before him, I begin to gently wipe away the blood that he’d overlooked when he’d stopped the bleeding with his handkerchief. He grimaces, and I lighten my touch.
“I’m sorry if that hurt,” I say.
“I’ll live. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you what I suspected when you first told me about the strange happenings. I was hoping I was wrong.”
I give him a soft smile. “You’d rather I be mad?”
He shakes his head. “No, I was hoping for another explanation.”
“I’m relieved that it’s over, that he’s truly gone, and yet I’m melancholy.”
“That’s to be expected I think.”
“If I hadn’t hit him so hard…”
He cradles my face between his palms. “Wicky, make no mistake. He was going
