A few hours later they dressed. He was more fortunate than Suzanne. What wardrobe he kept at his lodgings was assiduously cared for by Mrs. Ross. He had a snowy-white recently laundered and ironed shirt, and trousers to wear. He considered suggesting that Mrs. Ross might be willing to put an iron to Suzanne’s wrinkled dress, then immediately thought better of the idea.
Like it or not, his landlady was protective of him. You might even say that she was possessive to a certain degree. He had not, up until now, done anything to dissuade her. It had been pleasant to have someone fuss over him.
However, now it might prove to be a problem.
He shaved and finished dressing, then entered the kitchen to find the windows misted over. The day was a wet one, the view of the sky promising even more rain. After having lived in India for so many years, he liked the smell of an English rainy day. Something in the air tingled his nose and made his lungs want to expand even farther. Rain cleansed and wiped the dust off nature.
“However do you make tea?” Suzanne asked.
He turned from his examination of the garden to see her standing there barefoot in her wrinkled black dress.
He smiled and wondered how long it had been since amusement had cut through his thoughts and lightened his heart.
“Is the duchess about to be a serving girl?” he asked.
She sent him a look over her shoulder. “I’ve been known to do some extraordinary things from time to time,” she said, contemplating the small stove set into the room’s fireplace with a frown.
“Normally, Mrs. Ross brings me tea.”
She sent him another look. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Drummond.”
“Neither do I, Your Grace.”
They smiled at each other in perfect accord.
He hadn’t been able to get the sight of her out of his mind. He’d always remember her in his bed, the down pillows behind her, her rosy and flushed skin against the backdrop of his sheets. The covers had been rumpled, the counterpane fanned to the bottom of the bed.
He walked to the table, grabbed the neck of the wine bottle and held it aloft.
“‘A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou beside me singing in the wilderness.’”
“Are you quoting, Drummond?”
“Indeed I am,” he said. “I, too, have been known to do some extraordinary things from time to time. It’s from the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. A Persian poet.”
“Must I sing?” she asked with a smile. “And where is this loaf of bread you claim? I’m starving.”
“Regretfully, I don’t have any bread, either.”
“Only wine,” she said. “I’ll get silly at breakfast.”
“Something I should very much like to encourage,” he said. “I’ll get silly along with you.”
She tilted her head slightly, regarding him in the same manner he used to inspect the footmen.
“I cannot think of anyone else with whom I’d rather be silly, Drummond.”
“Nor I, Your Grace.”
She walked to him, took the bottle, and startled him by uncorking it and taking a swig. Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.
Kissing Suzanne’s wine-flavored lips was a treat, one he duplicated often in the next few minutes.
He was about to suggest that they adjourn to the bedroom once again. Or, if she preferred, he could easily throw down a blanket on the floor and they could make love in view of the rain-tossed garden. The only problem was that Mrs. Ross was almost as protective of her plants as she was of him. He wouldn’t be surprised to see her peering in the window with her umbrella in one hand and her flower basket in another.
“Where is our driver?” Suzanne asked, banishing his thought of making love for the whole of the morning.
“I sent Michael back to Marsley House last night.”
She nodded, as if she’d expected that information.
“And you asked him to come back this morning, didn’t you?”
It was his turn to nod.
“We are so very scandalous, Drummond.”
“No, we aren’t, Your Grace. You were visited by a violent headache. Mrs. Ross, who, incidentally, is an old friend of yours, settled you into a guest bedroom. I slept on a downstairs sofa.”
“You’re doing it again,” she said. “You’re protecting me when no one asked you to do so.”
Her words rankled him. “A man should not have to be asked to protect the woman he . . .” His words trailed off. What the hell was he about to say?
They stared at each other.
“I apologize, Suzanne,” he finally said. “It’s a natural response to want to care for someone.”
She still didn’t say anything, and it was probably the first time in his life when silence was acutely disturbing. Should he tell her that he hadn’t known the words he was about to utter until he heard them? That made him sound like a simpleton, didn’t it? Unfortunately, it was the truth.
“I’ll go and check if Michael is here,” he said.
Anything but stand there and try to figure out what, exactly, he was feeling. He didn’t have any problems analyzing obscure patterns, deciphering codes, or understanding the people he’d been assigned to watch. But emotions? That was entirely different and out of his range of expertise. Could anyone claim to be an expert? God knew he couldn’t, especially now.
Michael was in the carriage in front of the house. Adam spoke with him for a few minutes.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Drummond, but is Her Grace all right?”
“She’s fine,” he said. “Her headache seems much better this morning.”
Michael nodded, evidently satisfied.
An hour later he and Suzanne managed to exit the house without encountering Mrs. Ross. No doubt she was watching them from one of her many windows. He didn’t turn and look.
Mrs. Ross had, up until now, showed a remarkable lack of curiosity as to his movements. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was part of the growing network of War Office operatives. He tried to remember how he’d first learned of her all those years ago, but he couldn’t recall. For some reason, however, he thought she’d been recommended to him by someone at the War Office.
If that was true, it made him uncomfortable. The woman’s caring and concern could mask an assignment—to keep an eye on him.
When had he become so watchful and questioning of everyone around him? Since he learned that Roger had put another operative at Marsley House. Since he’d started examining every single one of Roger’s motivations.
Reaching out, he placed his hand on the small of Suzanne’s back, walking with her to the carriage. Once he’d given Michael their destination, they arranged themselves inside the vehicle.
He had an idea and it wasn’t sitting well with him. Instead of Hackney supporting Roger in his ambitious run for Parliament, maybe their relationship was more complex.
Was Roger working on Hackney’s behalf? Was this whole assignment merely to hide the fact that Hackney had something to do with Manipora? After all, Hackney had been in India at the time. In return for Roger’s protecting Hackney—and in gratitude—Hackney would be Roger’s financial backer during his run for Parliament.
Another thing that had been bothering him ever since that first meeting with Roger—how had the man come by his knowledge of the journal? He’d mentioned that someone—an informant—had been close to the duke. Was it his former secretary?
Adam’s suspicions of Hackney, coupled with Suzanne’s vehement denials of the duke’s treason, were making him seriously question his conclusions, something he’d never before done.
“What’s wrong, Adam?”
He glanced at Suzanne. Her eyes were filled with worry. Not grief. Not pain. Only worry, but he wanted to see her as she was this morning with a grin on her face and amusement in her eyes. She deserved to be happy.
He was determined to give that to her.
“Nothing,” he said, smiling at her.
He wouldn’t say anything to her yet. Not until his ideas were more fully formed.