Everslade had provided a variety of garments for Helena’s use. One traveling gown, a plain brown one, but well made, jostled for space in the small portmanteau with a lighter gown, no doubt for the evenings, and a collection of clothes she doubted she would ever wear. The night rail was far too thin for any use, the fabric so fine it would tear if she turned over in bed. It had an equally thin robe to go over the top.
He meant to visit her tonight. He’d said as much. He’d mauled her so much in the carriage that she had almost been sick, but she had kept to her resolve and offered him no resistance. She was alone now, but not for long, she guessed.
She put on the night rail but added the traveling gown on top and kept her cloak handy. She had no clean shift, so the night rail would serve until she could find something more serviceable.
When a knock sounded on the door, her heart leaped to her throat, but she had barred it as securely as possible. Unfortunately the window was too high up for her to risk jumping. She would most likely break a limb if she tried. Neither was there a tree within jumping distance.
Only fighting held the answer. She could not let him do any more to her. She had discovered her limit about half an hour ago, when he’d fondled her between her legs and pinched her painfully. Would he know that she was no longer a virgin? He had treated her carefully, saying he would breach her there with the appropriate part of his body.
Perhaps she could offer to kiss it for him and bite it off.
Before today, Helena would never have thought herself possible of dreaming of such a thing. She spared a thought for the girls who arrived in London to become maids and ended in a stew or bagnio, serving several men a night, after having been raped into subservience.
How did they stand it? She would not have lasted one night.
The key rattled in the lock, and the latch lifted. She waited, praying the chair she had hopefully propped under the plank holding the door together would hold. Tears rose to her eyes and her heart beat so hard she had to fight for breath.
The door held.
Someone knocked, three gentle taps, and the word, “Madame,” sounded softly.
It could be a trick. Lamaire could be a hired ruffian, bought to compel her into obedience or to fool her into trying a fruitless attempt at escape. Then Everslade could punish her. She had not missed the gleam in his eyes when he caused her pain. He liked it.
But what choice did she have? To wait here meekly like a lamb and allow the man who had snatched her off the street to rape her, or take a risk?
She went to the door. “I’m here.”
“Madame, open the door. We have but five minutes, perhaps ten.”
Helena made haste to move the chair away from the door. Lamaire barreled in on stockinged feet. “Collect your cloak, madame, you will need it.”
“What do you propose?”
“The inn is full. If we can get downstairs, we may have a chance, but do not raise your head or let anyone get a good look at you. Then, I am afraid we must walk, probably across the fields. How far can you walk?”
She found her outdoor shoes that she had donned that morning, so long ago now. The hat, too, much the worse for wear, but if she went out in public without a hat, people would stare, and that was the last thing she needed. She could feign a semblance of respectability by bundling her hair up in it, since she had scarcely any hairpins left.
Everslade had pinched and fingered her so much that walking hurt, but she could still manage it. He must have left bruises, though she had not dared to examine the area, lest she find more.
Every floorboard creaked outside her room. A man sat outside, his head slumped, his chin touching his chest. He had obviously been put there by Everslade, otherwise why else would he be on a chair by her door? She held her breath but he did not move. A bottle rolled under his chair, and she smelled the strong odor of red wine.
When Lamaire held out his hand, she took it, and let him lead her, tiptoeing, a careful tread at a time, down the landing toward the stairs at the end. The floor was bare wood, well polished, the nails sticking proud of the surface. Small casement windows, diamond-paned, looked out over the yard where horses nickered and ostlers yelled. From downstairs came the murmur of patrons in the taproom, and the glow of lanterns and tapers. The stairs were lit by tapers stuck out from hooks in the walls, holding them clear of the worst of the fire hazards, but at the height of a tall man, so still not entirely safe. The whole place stank of beer, that sweet, hop-laden unmistakable odor. This inn was out of the way of the main roads, nestled in a village that in its turn was off the main high street of the place. And this was where her abductor had brought her to be raped.
As far as possible she tried to use his footsteps and timed her steps to coincide with his. When he moved forward, so did she.
A door to the left opened just after they’d inched past it. A grunt, then a “What the—” came, followed by a curse and the thump of heavy feet.
Lamaire pushed her in front of him. “Run! Scream! Tell them you are abducted!” Drawing his sword, he turned to face her tormentor.
Helena hurtled down the stairs, but as she did so, the door to the outside world burst open, admitting three men, swords and pistols drawn and hats pulled low over their foreheads. From above she could see no faces, but she knew, deep inside, these were Lamaire’s men, sent to capture her and send her back.
The clash of swords sounded from above and then an explosion. A gunshot.
The man in front lifted his head. White-faced, his jaw spotted with the stubble of a day’s growth, the man stared at her.
She knew what that stubble felt like against her skin. With a choked cry, Helena hurled herself down the last half dozen stairs into the arms of her husband. Her true husband.
* * * *
Sobbing, Helena clutched him. Tom felt like sobbing too, when her warm weight fell on to him. He’d only just dropped his sword in time, and he still held his pistol, cocked and ready to fire. She could have killed them both, but he would be the last person to castigate her. A cloak and pair of shoes were lying on the stairs where she’d dropped them. He gestured for his men to go upstairs, because much though he would like to, he could not deal with Everslade himself.
He had his arms full.
Except that the man himself appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing a positively garish banyan, and from what Tom could see, little else.
Tom did not stop to think. What was there to think about? Lifting his pistol, he fired.
The sound echoed around the restricted space and a few lights went out. So did the noise from the taproom, a moment of complete silence, before men cursed and the door was flung open.
Tom lowered his weapon and put his arms around Helena, who was still sobbing. He glanced at the men, who could not pass more than two at a time through the narrow archway that led from the public part of the inn to the residential part. Gesturing upstairs with his pistol, he said, as casually as he could manage, “Well, what did you expect me to do? The man is a positive disgrace. He attacked this lady and then threatened me.” Since Lamaire had appeared briefly behind Everslade, relieving Tom’s mind greatly, he knew he had a reliable witness.
His two henchmen rattled down the stairs. He paused for a word with one. “Get a coach and harness a couple of horses to it. Give the ostlers whatever they want.” The man touched his hat and disappeared into the yard.
“I will take my woman home,” he said, moving effortlessly from assassin to great lord. Swinging Helena into his arms, he tucked her face against his shoulder.
A man with all the pomposity of a magistrate came from the taproom. I am the coroner, sir. Pray, what has occurred here?”
Tom did not stop to answer him. He would have faced the man if it had only been him, but he could not bear Helena to be distressed any more, and the man emerging from the tap-room had the swagger of a pompous magistrate determined to make the most of the fracas. If it came to a court appearance, he could swear that he was rescuing Lady Helena on behalf of her brother, and Everslade had threatened him with his pistol first.
This affair would cost Tom a pretty penny, because he would pay anything to keep her name out of the scandal. They had a lot to manage, he and Winterton. He resented none of it, because he had her back in his arms.
Before anyone could protest, he had backed out of the inn.
He had them out of that place before the magistrate had thought of a way to detain him.
He and Winterton would have to put their heads together and devise some reason why Everslade had snatched Helena off the street and later had turned up dead in an obscure country inn, and why Tom had rescued her, and not her brother.
Sitting in the gig, which was all his servant had managed to find in time, swaying toward the Heath, Tom cradled Helena as she sobbed out her story. He bit his lip several times to keep from uttering curses that would not do anything to her peace of mind.
Until she looked up at him with reddened eyes and a tear-streaked face and said, “I hope you’ve killed him.”
So did he.
* * * *
Tom waited two days before he visited. He needed the time to rationalize his thoughts. Goddamn it, he ached for her. Every part of his body, every pore of his skin longed to take her. Keeping away from her, praying his inconvenient fever for her would abate had done no good at all.
Repeating to himself that he was her brother did absolutely no good. His body did not care who she was. It still wanted her under him, wanted to thrust into her until neither of them could take any more. Telling himself that love could take many forms helped not a whit, either.
But eventually he found a pair of breeches roomy enough not to give away his deeply inconvenient secret and made his way to the house in Brook Street, ordering Lamaire to accompany him. He had made a few discoveries that might not mean anything, but he needed to discuss them with his reluctant ally. But his first thought was for Helena. It always was, and he had resigned himself to the fact that she would always be his first concern.
Tom gained some amusement by the expression on the face of the man who opened the door to him. His face stiffened in shock, and then a resigned expression entered the dark eyes. “I will inform his lordship that you have arrived, my lord.”
Tom handed his card to the man. “How is her ladyship?”
The man regarded him, all the expression drained from his face. Tom would appreciate a butler as good as this one. He glanced around, and beckoned to Lamaire. The Frenchman, smartly but inconspicuously dressed, bowed to the butler. “I have returned,” he said.
“But not for good,” the butler said, sounding, if anything, relieved.
“No, Watson, not for good,” Tom said. “Lamaire is with me now.” Without turning around, he added, “He always was.”
“And you think I am unaware of that?” Winterton stood at the top of the stairs, hand on hip. Although at home, he was dressed immaculately, as always, with the touch of elegant extravagance that marked his personal style. “Come up.”
Turning, he led the way to an elegant drawing room, throwing open the double doors with a flourish.
His mood far too eager, Tom followed him in, to find the owner of his heart sitting on a forget-me-not upholstered sofa in a gown of white sprigged with tiny blue flowers. A blue blanket was carelessly tossed aside, and she had found a book, the leather-upholstered volume propped elegantly between her carefully manicured hands. The nails were noticeably shorter than she usually wore them. But otherwise, she appeared as poised as her brother. That was, except for the tense lines around her mouth and the sadness haunting the deep blue of her eyes.
He basked in her presence, longed to seize her and kiss her, cradle her close and keep her safe. Instead, he took a seat by the fire and accepted the dish of tea the maid brought him with a gentle smile. Thus did enemies meet, parlay, and realign their allegiances. He had no idea if that would happen today, but they had to talk.
Gently he asked after Lady Helena’s health, and equally smoothly, she assured him she was perfectly well. But her lower lip was thicker than usual, no doubt still swollen from the blow Everslade had dealt it.
The maid left the room. Julius took the matching chair to the one Tom occupied, on the other side of the fireplace. He sipped his tea before placing it on the small round table by his side. The delicate flower-sprigged china barely chinked as he laid it aside. He folded his hands together, the sapphire ring on his forefinger winking in the light from the windows behind Tom. “Did you call just to inquire after my sister’s health?”
“I would appreciate knowing the truth.” Tom addressed her directly.
“Only my mouth, and a few bruises” she said. “I slept for most of yesterday. Julius would not allow me out of bed.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Tom nodded to his temporary ally. “I have made what inquiries I can.”
“And do you have any conclusions?” Winterton picked up his tea once more, holding it in precisely the correct manner.
More than once Tom had wondered what lay beneath that perfect exterior. Now he knew some of it. Julius Vernon was a sensitive, deeply caring man who loved his new wife to distraction and would never allow any of the people he considered under his care to come to any harm. If they did, the perpetrators would not go unavenged.
They were oddly alike.
Winterton spared a glance at the manservant standing impassively by Tom’s chair. “Sit down, do. And have some tea. It appears you are not the excellent valet I thought you.”
“He is the best valet I have ever encountered,” Tom said, “but from time to time he undertakes a few extracurricular tasks for me. He is devoted to me, not my family.”
Lamaire found a seat on one of the other chairs, considerately taking a place where everyone could see him.
“Do I understand that you sent him to me last year?”
Tom nodded. “I told you I had a man on the scene. I needed to find the daughter of the Young Pretender before he did. The Pretender would have killed her.”
“I see. And you do not wish for that?”
Tom turned his lip in a sneer. “What kind of man do you take me for?”
“A political one.”
“And a mortal one. I can stomach no more killing.” He’d told his father exactly the same thing. Whether Winterton understood it or not, that, for Tom, was the crux of the matter. “My father and I see family loyalty slightly differently.”
“Is there a rift between father and son?” The inquiry sounded gentle.
Tom laughed derisively. “There has been ever since the old man ordered the son to turn back at Calais in the forty-five. He considers that his son took the Regency under false pretenses. Unfortunately the son has his own allies now. In public, and to their supporters, they do their best to present a united face.”
“Then I take it you are no longer devoted to their cause?”
Tom took his time considering the question. If he answered, how much information would that give the family who were still his family’s enemies? He glanced at Helena. Enemies no more, although he did not know what to call them now. However, he was not about to throw away every scrap of information in his possession. That way he would lose any usefulness and every edge he had. “I never was. In case you had not noticed, I have been trying to rebuild my family’s wealth and reputation.”
“Very successfully, by all accounts,” Winterton drawled. He might appear at ease, but he was far from it.
Accustomed to observing opponents and allies closely, Tom had noted the tiny signs on Winterton a long time ago. His pupils dilated very slightly, for one thing. In someone with eyes as dark as Tom’s own, that sign would barely be noticeable, but Winterton possessed pale blue eyes, and every shade was instantly apparent. If Tom offered any objections, Winterton would react. Tom could not blame him. Under this roof were the people who mattered most in the world to him. Tom would be edgy if Winterton had walked into his house, which he had a time or two.
“The Stuarts are, as always, their own worst enemies,” Tom said. “If Prince Henry had not turned Cardinal, or if Prince Charles had married ten years ago and sired a healthy nursery full of children, their prospects would be much rosier. We both know that. They have a dwindling influence on world affairs, but that is fading as Europe realigns itself. We both know that too.”
“War is coming,” Winterton said, as if speaking of the weather.
“I know.” Tom would have to be a fool if he hadn’t noticed the subtle and not-so-subtle political maneuverings that were the precursor to a new conflict. He had made certain preparations against the event and realigned his own investments. He would not take odds against Winterton having done the same. But they were not here to discuss international politics. Not today, at any rate. He tilted his head to one side. “This war, however, will have little to do with the affairs of the Stuarts.”
“You are not eaten up with a desire for justice? In my experience, most Jacobites use that as a reason for their continued allegiance.”
Tom huffed a laugh. “Idealists, you mean? Spare me idealists, please. Some have resigned themselves to having lost everything at home, so they have nothing else to lose. Others are more interested in what they can lever for themselves. The idealists involved in the Cause are invariably disappointed.” He changed position, crossing his ankle over his knee. “At the moment, revenge is uppermost in my mind. Everslade has disappeared. I knew I should have killed him while I had the opportunity.” He had just revealed his own propensity to fidget when he was agitated, but Winterton would surely know that.
“Perhaps you should have, but that would have branded you a possible murderer in the eyes of the public.” Winterton placed his empty tea-dish in its saucer with precision but without looking. A casual reminder of his talents, as if Tom needed reminding of them. He had talents too, not all of them on blatant display.
Tom spared a glance at Helena and caught her looking at him. “Thank you for rescuing me,” she said softly.
He bowed his head, smiling, as if he had offered her some small service. “Think nothing of it. Of course I did.” In everything but words, he let her know he cared for her. Just not how much.
She glanced down at her book, as if surprised to discover it still there. Gently, she closed it and set it aside, concentrating on laying it down, as if she was anxious not to meet his gaze.
“I sent a man to the inn the next morning,” Winterton said.
Tom tore his eyes away from her and back to his host.
“Everslade complained loudly about his hurts. The landlord reluctantly permitted him to stay, but he slipped away in the night. I assume because he was afraid he might be found out.” Winterton glanced at his sister, his gaze grave. “I owe my sister a deep apology. It appears the man we knew as Lord Everslade may not have been the right one.” He turned his attention back to Tom. “In short, he was an impostor.”
“The devil, you say!” Tom got to his feet and paced before the window before taking his seat again. Devil take it, why had he not thought of that? “How did I miss that?”
“You investigated him?” Helena demanded in a voice of great horror.
“Yes, of course. Why would I not? He arrived back in town a month ago and showed you distinctive attention from the start. I could tell he was making a play for you, so yes, I had him investigated.”
“And what did you find?” Winterton drawled.
He was showing more of his hand than he’d intended. But the deed was done now, and he would not reveal his error. “I presume you investigated too. Everslade is an earl living in the north of England. He has no siblings. His mother adored him and rarely allowed him out of her sight, but he got away this autumn.”
Winterton nodded. “That more or less matches what I discovered. Everslade is also wealthy, due to the number of coal mines on his modest estate. He has not been back there for a number of years. Five, to be precise. Before that, he was assiduous in the management of his estate. Local opinion has it that his mother’s death sent him away. I am not so sure. None of his servants have worked for him for more than five years. His behavior has changed utterly in the last five years. He seeks the most vicious pleasures where before he was gentle and considerate. He dresses well, where he used to be almost slovenly with his costume. From the descriptions I have, some extremely detailed, we could be talking about two separate men. Even the color of his hair has changed.”
“Indeed.” His stomach churned, as he took in what Winterton was telling him. “Do you know who he was?”
Winterton shook his head. “Not yet.”
“I may know something,” Lamaire said.
The damned man sat so quietly, Tom had nearly forgotten he was there. He had brought him because of his involvement in the affair, but he had not expected any extra information to come from him.
But now he dug his hand into his pocket and came out with a crumpled piece of paper. “I had little time before we were interrupted, but if you recall, sir, I had a brief golden moment with the man we knew as Lord Everslade.”
Tom took the paper and listened to Everslade. He glanced at the writing as the man spoke. What he saw made him stiffen in alarm.
“He shot at me, but his preparations were clumsy, and the attack was easy to evade. I shot at him, but I fear my aim was not true. I was facing the stairs and concerned any stray shot would hit the wrong person.” A wicked grin flitted over his mouth. “So I used the butt of my pistol instead. It served its purpose. After that, I had a moment, thanks to you, my lord, when I could search him. The man was wearing nothing but a banyan. Apart from a few personal items, I discovered this.” He nodded in the direction of the note.
Tom read the brief note aloud. “I must charge you to adhere to our agreement. I will send you details of the person in the next dispatch.” He looked up. “That is all it says, but it is not all this note tells me. It’s execrably spelled, and whoever wrote it has a spider’s scrawl. One that I know.”
“I see.” Winterton held out his hand.
Lamaire got to his feet, took the note from Tom, and handed it to his erstwhile master, who gave him a long considering look.
“Work for me, and I will pay you double what Lord Alconbury does.”
“I thank you, sir. I will bear your offer in mind.” Lamaire bowed.
“Not many people fool me so convincingly,” Winterton said, turning his attention to the note. “Ah, yes. Our mutual acquaintance.” He closed his eyes.
Tom knew they were thinking the same thing, and controlling themselves just as rigidly.
“The Pretender. The younger, I believe.”
“His father has the better hand but never puts such sensitive information in writing,” Tom murmured. He flicked another glance at Helena and caught her watching him, eyes wide. “I’m sorry. I should never have allowed the man past my inspection. I cannot believe he fooled us both.”
“Neither can I,” Winterton said grimly. “I believe I will send for Everslade’s servants, the ones who knew him in his youth. I will send them a generous remuneration.”
“You will allow me to add to that sum,” Tom said, his hands clenching in frustration.
Winterton looked up. “You did not know that this unknown person was an agent of the Young Pretender’s?”
“Of course not.”
“I see no ‘of course’ about the matter. You could have fallen out with him. A spy in the top echelons of society would prove useful if you were prosecuting the interests of the Stuarts.”
Tom made a sound of derision at the back of his throat. “And how do you suppose I would set a spy there? How did this man gain the title? As far as I could ascertain, the true Everslade had no interest in the Stuarts, and neither did his family. That is a considerable and foolish risk.”
“Unless the true Everslade is dead,” Winterton said softly.
Helena’s small gasp made both men turn to her, but she had recovered her calm demeanor by the time they had her under observation. But with the eyes of an erstwhile lover, Tom saw her complexion pale, and her eyes widen.
“Do you truly think the man who abducted me had killed a man?”
“Yes,” Winterton said. “He could have done so.”
Tom refused to allow anyone to distress Helena in that way. He got to his feet, only pausing when he reminded himself that he had no right to claim her as he wished. But he could tell her the truth.
He would not tell brother and sister that they had gained another brother. He could not bear to have Helena upset in the presence of anyone else. So soon after her distressing ordeal, how could he pile even more bad news on her head?
He could not. The secret was still his to bear. He would wait until a more propitious time.
“I wish to speak to Lord Alconbury alone,” she said, her voice firm. She met Winterton’s gaze. “I have something particular to ask him.”
Winterton’s calculating stare went from his sister to Tom and back again. “I have to trust him with you because of his signal service on Monday, but I cannot leave you alone for long.”
Helena snorted. “Because of the proprieties?”
“Even more so now,” Winterton said softly, and turned his attention to Tom. “You understand?”
“Nobody better.” If he did but know it, Tom had as much at stake here as Winterton did. Helena would not suffer publicly because of this. “I take it you have a story to cover the incident?”
“Helena tells me you kept her face hidden.” Winterton sighed. “Her hair, however, is one of her most distinctive features. Stories are already circulating. I have not yet met them with an outright lie, but I fear I will have to devise something soon. I have said she was visiting a sick relative on Monday, but that might not serve. I will need to strengthen the tale, but Helena will not allow it.”
Rumors were vicious things. They could undeservedly ruin a blameless reputation. Helena must allow them to work to regain her good name. Otherwise, despite her family’s connections and their influence, the rumors would never die.
“I have a story, but I need to speak to Lord Alconbury to obtain his agreement,” Helena said calmly.
Winterton sighed heavily. “You have fifteen minutes. I cannot allow more. I will take myself off and consult Lamaire about a new coat I bought last week. I value his taste.”
And no doubt, work even harder to poach him. Tom was almost sure he would not succeed, but he did not like Lamaire going off with him. He should never have allowed the man to display his considerable skills to one of the finest arbiters of fashion London had to offer. He would sacrifice even Lamaire for the chance of ten minutes alone with Helena. He had been granted fifteen, so he was more than recompensed.
The door closed and silence fell. Tom, accepting he was a besotted fool, could watch her for all that time, but he must make the most of the minutes he had with her.
She folded her hands neatly in her lap. Ruthlessly, Tom squashed the notion of laying his head there.
“If my reputation is ruined, my mother will insist on me returning to her side,” Helena said, her voice slightly higher pitched than normal. “I will spend the rest of my life pandering to her needs. Julius is in the process of settling an annuity on me. I had planned to buy a Thames-side villa, find a convenient relative who needs a home, and spend my time in genteel seclusion. I was almost looking forward to it. I believed you did not care for me, or that you had decided against allying yourself to your enemies.”
He would have spoken, but she held up her hand to stop him. It was not entirely steady. She returned it to her lap.
“Recent events have suggested to me that I was wrong. Oh, I don’t doubt that you would have done everything in your power to rescue me. You’re a chivalrous man. If Julius does not know that, I certainly do.”
She closed her eyes, but as he rose from his chair, she shook her head and he subsided once more.
“Helena…”
She continued as if he had said nothing. “But to call me your darling when you thought I was asleep, and to hold me all the way back to London? You would not have done that if I had been another woman. Therefore, I have a solution, at least to the suggestion that my reputation might finally be in tatters.”
“You know I’ll do anything to help you.”
“Then be my husband again, and do it in public. If we are seen together in an out-of-the-way country inn, what of that? We are married, so nobody will think it odd. That you wanted to take me away when a drunken fracas ensued? That too.”
He closed his eyes, agony wringing his guts. “Anything but that.”
Now her expression was anything but serene. The mask dropped away, leaving a distressed vital woman beneath. “Why not? Why have you so carefully kept away from me? So much that I thought your initial passion for me was mistaken and you regretted your actions.”
“I do, but not because of that.”
“Then why make both of us miserable? Why not face our families and have done?” She gripped her hands together until the knuckles whitened; tears sparkled in her eyes.
“You’re killing me, Helena. I cannot see you so distressed.”
“Then go, like the coward you are, and leave me to grieve.” She shook her head. “No, don’t. You have been doing that for the past five years, have you not? Why?”
He swallowed. He would have to confess some of the truth. “Because to tell you the truth would distress you even more.”
“Our marriage is legal. I made sure of it, and I have a copy of the certificate.”
He had thought of claiming that and then destroying what records he could bribe out of the Fleet or steal from it, but he had put off the task until, it appeared, he’d left it too late. Why had he not already done that?
Because he did not want the truth to be real. He didn’t want to lose the one connection to the woman he would always love. Where did he begin?
“Will you not just accept that our marriage is not valid?”
“No. If I marry anyone else, I will always have that certificate in my keeping. I will know that I am doing my husband a deep disservice and that my children with anyone but you must be illegitimate. How can I burden anyone else with that?” She bit her lip before adding, “I have not met another man I am desirous of marrying. Not after you.”
Tom groaned and put his head in his hands. “Helena, what am I to do with you?”
“I already told you.”
“Not that. We cannot.” There was no hope for it; he would have to tell her the truth. But not here and not now. Winterton would send a servant in far too soon, and the truth would distress Helena even more. He lifted his head. “If I prove to your satisfaction that a forbidden level of consanguinity lies between us, will you then leave this matter alone?”
Her eyes widened. Why in heaven’s name had he given voice to the word that had haunted him day and night? But it was done. She brought far more out of him than he meant to say. Tom was notoriously close-mouthed when he wished to be. Nobody pried secrets from him, but he was babbling like a baby now. He clamped his mouth shut and waited for her response.
“Yes.” She folded her arms, the lace at her elbows falling over her pale skin. “Prove it beyond doubt.”
“Not here. Will you risk your reputation one more time? Come to the house a week from now.”
She shook her head. “No. I will not go another week until I know. Thursday.”
“But you are only just recovering from your ordeal.” He could not lay another on her so soon.
“Next Thursday. At eleven. I will, however, bring a coach and footmen, so the visit will not be covert. I cannot cause my brother such distress as to give my protectors the slip.”
So the house in Folgate Street would no longer be a secret. He would accept that. He had other establishments, but none as precious as this one. He never used it, never allowed anyone else to use it, but kept it maintained. After next Thursday they could both move on and the house could become something else, instead of a mausoleum to events that should never have occurred in the first place. “Very well. Then I might make you a gift of the house, to use as you will.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “Once, that was all I wanted. That and you.” She spoke quietly, her voice vibrating with longing. Opening her eyes, she said, “Thursday, at eleven.”
Tom left shortly after. He couldn’t bear to look at her any longer. After Thursday, she would not look at him again. Or she would tell Winterton and he would kill her. He no longer cared.