“Being at Marsley House was my duty,” he said.
“Do you always do your duty, Adam?”
“Yes.”
He was determined to give her the truth, even if it was harsh or difficult to hear.
She nodded and that simple gesture had the effect of disturbing him greatly. He wanted to know her thoughts, but Suzanne was like an ornate puzzle box. Brute force would not open it. Instead you needed to use a deft touch and patience.
He topped off his glass then held it aloft.
“Firinn,” he said. “To truth.”
She finally raised her own glass and clinked it with his.
Her look was directing and unflinching. He could get lost in her eyes.
Marble Marsley. He’d never considered that the staff might have been talking about her grief, and he should have. The appellation wasn’t an unkind one as much as one of understanding.
“To truth,” she finally said.
They each took a sip of wine.
“Why do you think George was responsible for the massacre at Manipora?” she asked.
She had mastered the art of ensuring that her voice gave nothing away. She sounded perfectly calm, entirely reasonable. If he hadn’t seen her fingers trembling, he would have thought her unmoved by the question.
“Because he was the most logical person. He met with the rebel leader twice. He knew Manipora well. He’d made foolish decisions in the past that had resulted in casualties. He might have thought that trying to end the siege was wise. Or he might have given out the information accidentally.”
“Do you think him that much of an idiot?”
“Yes,” he said, making no apologies for his bluntness.
She took another sip of her wine, then carefully placed the glass down on the table. She stared at the crystal pattern for a moment before asking, “Did you take these goblets from Marsley House?”
He sat back in his chair, his gaze not veering from her. He was beginning to understand Suzanne Hackney Whitcomb. She used words as bricks, not only to pummel her opponent, but to build a wall between her and anyone else. Insinuating that he’d stolen something was one way to anger him. Added to that was the hint that he couldn’t have afforded his own crystal goblets. Or that he was too much a member of the hoi polloi to drink his wine from a glass.
“You know I didn’t,” he finally said.
She glanced at him and then away.
“Yes. No, I mean—” She looked at him again. “No, of course you wouldn’t have. Forgive me.”
“Anything.”
She took a deep breath then released it. “It makes no sense, Adam. Let’s say you’re right and that George did have something to do with what happened at Manipora. Why would he make a record of it? Why would he write anything down? He had a secretary who was privy to everything George did. Why put a secret like that into words so Sankara could read it? Or anyone else, for that matter?”
“For the same reason that anyone writes about his triumphs and his tribulations. To be heard. To let someone else know what he did. To be praised or lauded, perhaps. To be judged in future years. I don’t know, Suzanne, but then, I don’t know why Whitcomb kept journals since he was twelve.”
He took another sip of his wine. “Answer a question for me. Why demonstrate such loyalty to him now?”
Her faint smile surprised him, as did her next words. “George considered himself a great shot, but he was abysmal at hunting. He thought he was a marvelous equestrian, but he had a very poor seat. He believed himself quite well versed in the amatory arts, as he called it, but the truth was . . .” Her voice trailed off and her blush intensified. “I had thought that being in the army, commanding men, was the one skill he possessed in truth. I never heard different from anyone. I thought in this thing, alone, he might have been adept.”
Standing, she went to one of the windows overlooking the garden, taking the same pose Adam had earlier.
The wind had calmed, preparing for nightfall. The glow cast by the setting sun made the plants appear touched by gold. The sky was indigo, that shade just before darkness.
The air was sweet here in this secluded garden in the middle of London. Instead of a hint of the odiferous Thames, there was the scent of grass and soon-to-go-dormant riotous plants. He always felt at peace looking at Mrs. Ross’s garden.
“After Georgie died, I hated this time of day,” she said. “It always reminded me of when I joined Georgie’s nurse and we’d ready him for bed.” She took a deep breath. “He fussed about it. I used to sit in his room and rock him until he fell asleep.” She placed her fingertips on the window as if wanting to touch the plants in the garden before the shadows obscured them. “I can still feel the linen of his nightshirt against my fingers.”
He understood, perhaps more than she knew.
“My roughest time was morning. Rebecca was an early riser and loved to greet the dawn. I hated mornings for a long time.”
“How did the feeling go away?” she asked, turning.
“It’s been replaced. I deliberately changed my life so that I wouldn’t be reminded of things I couldn’t alter. I came back to England. I became a member of the Silent Service. I obtained new lodgings.” He met her gaze. “You live in the same house. You see the same people you used to see when Georgie was alive. You visit his room. No wonder you’re still in pain.”
She looked taken aback, almost as if he’d insulted her.
“Do you think going to Georgie’s nursery is a terrible thing for me to do?”
He thought about the best way to say the words. “I think that we hold on to pain as a way of keeping those we lost close. If we suffer it means we care more. That isn’t really true, but it’s what we feel.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, merely studied him in that way of hers.
“So you think I should raze Marsley House,” she said. “And dismiss all the staff.”
He shook his head. “I think you should move from Marsley House,” he said. “Take the staff with you, but find a new home.”
She looked startled.
“Or, if you won’t do that, get rid of Georgie’s nursery. It serves him no purpose and it only keeps your heart bleeding. You don’t need physical things around you to remind you of your son.”
She blinked several times, and he was prepared for her tears. When they came, he reached for the handkerchief she’d left on the table and took it to her.
“You are forever doing things like that, Drummond.”
“Yes, I know, Your Grace.”
“I do dislike you intensely at times.”
“The feeling has been mutual, Your Grace.”
She surprised him by smiling through her tears. All he could do was answer her smile with one of his own.
“Do you hate me?” he asked.
She sighed. “No.”
“Do you still want to?”
“No.”
He stood close, too close for propriety, but when had that ever mattered to him, especially around her?
He smoothed his fingers over her cheek, feeling the warm softness of her skin. A blush followed his touch, almost as if he had the power to summon her embarrassment. Tenderness was not something he felt often, but Suzanne had always drawn emotion from him in ways that no other woman had, even Rebecca.
In the next moments it felt as if his heart slowed, each beat important, profound in a way he couldn’t explain.
They were united in loss. With each other they’d shared both their greatest sorrows and their most touching recollections.
Grief, however strong, however powerful, was not their foundation. Life connected him to Suzanne. He knew her as he’d known no other person. He accepted her, expecting her to be nothing more than what she was, because that was enough.
He bent down, brushed a kiss against her forehead, ridiculing himself as he did so. He was acting like he’d never touched a woman or kissed one. She was not a saint and yet he didn’t feel unlike a supplicant. The room was silent, only the breeze outside blowing the green fronds of one of Mrs. Ross’s plants against the window. A gentle tap, then another, as if to recall him to himself.
He felt more himself than he had for years.
He grinned at her. “If the cat is away, the mice play.”
She looked startled. He only gave her a second to think about what he said before he took her hand and led her into his bedroom.