Engaged in undoing the buttons at his cuffs, he saw her coming and paused. Hands lowering, he straightened.
She didn’t halt until she was all but chest to chest, her bodice brushing the fine fabric of his loosened shirt. Looking into his face, she locked her eyes on his. “How did you do it? What did you do to gain the support of Adair, and Stokes, and all their helpers?”
They hadn’t had a chance to discuss it before, but she knew him, and she had enough insight into how things worked to doubt the likelihood of him simply asking and being granted that sort of assistance.
Thomas looked into her eyes, the brown more stormy than soft. He hesitated, uncertain and, as usual, questioning what he should do, which way he should jump—how much truth he should tell—but . . .
He’d always been honest with her, had vowed on his private altar never to lie to or mislead her. “I . . . offered to surrender myself as the man I used to be, to stand trial for the crimes I committed in the past, in return for their assistance in helping to protect William and safely reinstate him to his rightful position.”
She held his gaze as she digested his words. “You knew Stokes . . . from before?”
He shook his head. “I knew Adair—he wasn’t married then. He was in Somerset—Charlie Morwellan summoned him to look into the odd happenings I had been behind. That I had caused to happen. Adair was, even then, known as something of an investigator. Subsequently, I learned that, in recent years, Adair and Stokes had formed an ongoing connection. From what I’ve gathered, Adair had, at the end, summoned Stokes into Somerset, so Stokes does indeed know all about the doings of . . . the man I used to be.” His gaze locked with hers, he paused, then added, “Stokes understood what I was offering. He, and Adair, accepted.”
Rose didn’t know what to do—how to react. She felt as if her heart had stopped. Yes, it still beat, but . . . she had to be sure. “So . . . once Richard is exposed and his threat to William is no more, you—Thomas Glendower—will . . . what? Simply cease to be?”
He looked into her eyes, and nodded. “In a nutshell, yes. That’s how it will be.”
She stared at him. She wanted to rail at him, to ask how he could have done such a thing—to have so calmly set the clock ticking on the existence of the man she had come to love, the man who had woken her heart and touched her, and to whom she’d given herself heart and soul . . . but she knew the answer.
He didn’t try to cut short the moment, to turn away from her scrutiny.
Finally, seeing the truth in his crystal-clear eyes, she dragged in a tight breath and said, “You’re going to tell me that I have to accept this”—your sacrifice—“graciously, aren’t you?”
His expression had remained impassive throughout, serious but unyielding, but her comment broke through; his lips quirked. He glanced aside, but then again met her eyes. Fractionally inclined his head. “The argument had occurred to me.”
She could imagine. She managed not to glare at him. After another long moment lost in his eyes, she heaved a huge sigh. “Very well. But understand this.” Her voice strengthened; refocusing, she recaptured his gaze. “I will not give you, or what has come to be between us, up without a fight.”
He started to frown, but she held up a hand. “No. That is not something you have any right to argue against or attempt to influence. Just as I must accept your stance, knowing as I do that you see saving William as some sort of final penance, and so your surrender to the authorities to achieve that seems all of a piece, so you must accept that my stance is my own to make.”
She held his gaze. “There is nothing you can say that will make me stop praying that whatever happens, you will be spared. Nothing you can do to prevent me living each day as it comes—and loving you through every hour. Nothing you can say will stop me from waiting for you, from being yours, even if I have to wait until eternity to be with you again.”
Without hesitation, Thomas spoke from his heart. “I wish there was.” Between them, his hands found hers and gently squeezed. “For your sake, I wish that.”
She searched his eyes, then inclined her head. “That, I can accept. But it changes nothing.”
He studied her eyes, her face, then drew a slightly shaky breath. “We’re a pair, it seems.”
And doomed.
Rose heard the unspoken words, but she hadn’t battled through all the difficulties of her life to be cast in the role of a heroine in a tragedy. “We are, and until the last roll of the dice, until the dice settle, we won’t know what they say—won’t know what the final outcome might be.”
His brows rose fractionally, but he made no response.
She didn’t wait for him to agree. “So.” Sliding her fingers from his grasp, placing her palms against his linen-draped chest, she slid them slowly upward, feeling the heavy muscles firm beneath her touch, the scars at his right shoulder pinch and tighten. Then she stepped forward, into his arms, breast to chest, and reached up to cup his nape.
His arms closed around her and he allowed her to draw his head down.
Just before their lips met, she breathed, “All that’s left is for me to thank you—appropriately—for your sacrifice.”
She kissed him, then issued an invitation impossible to mistake—one Thomas immediately accepted, only to discover just how much he hungered, how much he desired.
The day’s portents had affected him, too. His rational mind might have seen his sacrifice, delayed though he’d made it, as an inevitability, impossible to escape, but some much more deeply buried part of him—that part she so effortlessly drew forth—railed against the decision and all it would mean . . .
She twined around him; sliding from his arms, she disrobed—herself, and him—and he let her.
She drew him to the bed and he went, as hungry as she, as needy for the warmth and comfort and the inexpressible closeness . . .
That closeness—that true intimacy—rocked him, racked him; it anchored him, all his wits and every one of his senses, ruthlessly in the here and now, and made him an unresisting, willing captive to the delicious give and take, to the moments of scintillating, breath-stealing wonder.
To the unalloyed joy.
Caresses rained; lips supped, sipped; tongues rasped while hands gripped and fingers shaped.
As they loved.
She came over him, rose up, and took him in. Sheathed him in her slick heat, and then rode him.
He gripped her hips and held her as they raced through the landscape they now knew so well, to the peak that beckoned, the pinnacle that waited.
Their hearts thundered as one; skins slick with desire, their flesh burning with a flame they both embraced, they drank in the glory and raced on.
Up and over the peak, leaping from the pinnacle as nerves fractured and senses fragmented, and then there was nothing beyond the blinding glory.
Ecstasy shone, a never-dying truth, between them.
That sun in all its splendor slowly faded, leaving them not bereft but comforted.
She collapsed onto his chest and he closed his arms around her.
The spark that fueled their glory didn’t leave them but sank back, into their flesh, retreating more deeply to take refuge in their hearts.
Neither needed to say the word—it was there, hovering, in them, about them.
Forever a part of them, something neither could deny.
Eventually they parted and lay side by side, arms loosely draped around each other.
He pulled the covers over them; laying his head back on the pillows, he closed his eyes and waited for slumber to claim him.
Settled against him, through the dimness, Rose watched his face, watched the lines Fate had carved upon it ease and soften as sleep neared.
She waited, then, pressing nearer, fitting her body to his, she relaxed into his arms. Pillowing her check on his chest, she gently kissed his cooling skin. “Come what may, Thomas Glendower, I will love you forever, until the day I die.”
She’d whispered the words, but
from the momentary stillness that came over him, she knew he’d heard.
Closing her eyes, she surrendered, to the latent pleasure in their embrace.
To whatever came. To whatever Fate thought to make of their lives.
It was nearly midnight when Richard Percival let himself into his house in Hertford Street and found Curtis sitting on a chair in his front hall, waiting for him.
Shutting the door, Percival immediately asked, “You have news?”
Slowly, Curtis got to his feet. He was nearly as tall as Percival, and half again as wide. “Of a sort.”
Percival’s expression said he didn’t like that answer, but, tossing his hat, gloves, and cane on the hall table, he waved down the corridor. “In the library.”
Curtis followed; he’d entered the house as he usually did, via the back alley and the kitchen door. He probably didn’t need to take such precautions with Percival’s job, but old habits died hard.
A bare minute later, they were seated on opposite sides of Percival’s desk, the lamp that Percival had lit and turned low casting a soft glow that reached not much further than the pair of them.
Percival tried to read Curtis’s utterly impassive countenance, gave up, and somewhat brusquely asked, “What have you learned?”
“I believe”—Curtis met Percival’s dark blue gaze—“and I stress it’s no more than that—that I know who the young lady has been masquerading as, and where she’s been hiding the children.”
Percival had learned to trust Curtis’s “beliefs.” “Where?”
“I believe she’s been calling herself Mrs. Sheridan, and she was the housekeeper at an isolated manor house near Breage, on the Cornish coast.”
“Who owns the house?”
“A Mr. Thomas Glendower, but, until recently, he wasn’t in residence. He’s been an absentee landlord for many years, but he reappeared a few months back and has remained at the manor since then.”
Percival frowned. “If you know where she and the children are—”
“No—I know where they were. Where I believe they were. The housekeeper and her children fit your bill to a T, but when two of my men questioned Mr. Glendower, he claimed they were from a local family, with their roots firmly in Cornish soil.”
Percival’s frown deepened. “So why do you imagine they are who we seek?”
“Because when my men stopped there with your brother’s valet to confirm they weren’t, they found the house closed up and no one at home.”
“No one? But . . . if she’s taken the children and run, what about Glendower?”
“That’s why I’m here. He wasn’t there, either. My men took a day to check, to ask around, but no one had seen him since the day before—in Helston, when my men were standing in the main street, organizing their sweep of the Lizard Peninsula. He saw them, that much I do know.”
Percival’s eyes narrowed on Curtis’s face. “You think he went back to the manor and then . . . fled with her and the children?”
Curtis nodded. “It took a few days, but eventually we found his horse and the manor’s pony in the stable of the best inn in Falmouth. He’d arrived there in the small hours of the morning on the day my men reached the manor. From there, we learned he’d booked passage on a ship to Southampton, and he was on it, with his wife and two children, when it sailed that afternoon.” Frowning blackly, Curtis growled, “My men spent weeks setting everything up, and yet he slipped through our net, neat as you please.”
Percival eyed Curtis. “Possibly not your average customer, then.”
“No. A very cool head, and a quick thinker.” Curtis met Percival’s gaze. “Which is why I’m here—to warn you.”
Percival had been sitting with his chin sunk in his cravat; now he raised his head and looked directly at Curtis. “About what?” Then he frowned. “What I don’t understand is why this Glendower, if it is indeed he, is helping her. Assuming it is, indeed, her and the children.”
Curtis snorted. “That’s about the only certainty in all this. The descriptions of the young lady and the boy, as well as what one can infer for the little girl—those descriptions fit. As for Glendower, he’s been in some accident and so is scarred and walks with a cane, so he, too, is easily identified. And all the descriptions match this party—the one Glendower brought to Southampton. And, yes, I’ve sent men down to see whether they can pick up any trail from there, but given the days that have elapsed, I’d say it’s fairly certain that Glendower brought ‘his wife and children’ to London—and you know how hard it will be to find them here.”
Frowning, Percival nodded. “Yes, that seems likely, but I still can’t understand why he’s helping her.”
Curtis quietly sighed. “That’s what I came to warn you about. The question you should be asking yourself is not why he’s helping them but whether he’s helping them.”
Percival stilled; his expression leached to impassivity. His voice was cool as he asked, “What do you mean?”
Curtis ran a hand over his close-cropped skull. “I mean that it’s possible he—this Glendower—has discovered their secret and thinks to use it and them to his advantage.” Curtis met Percival’s gaze. “The lady and the children might, or might not, be his willing companions.” Curtis paused, then said, “I think it’s possible that he’ll contact you himself.”
A long moment passed, then Percival said, “To get me to ransom them?”
Curtis held his gaze. “To sell them to you.”
Chapter
11
Montague could barely wait to get down to his office the next morning. As soon as he did, he summoned his staff to his inner sanctum.
Settling behind his desk, he smiled at them all. “We have a new investigation to pursue.”
They had collaborated with Adair and Stokes on several such investigations in recent months, the first of which had brought Violet into Montague’s life. Indeed, into the lives of all his staff; glancing across his desk, he found her eyes, too, on him, waiting to hear how he would handle the necessary explanations. Violet spent three days a week acting as his personal secretary and the rest of her week assisting Penelope.
Now Violet nodded at him to start. Clearing his throat, he glanced around at the eager faces, and did.
All had been with him long enough or were—as was Pringle, the most recent addition— experienced enough to quickly grasp the implications.
“So.” Frederick Gibbons, Montague’s senior assistant, straightened away from the bookcases against which he’d been leaning. “We’re looking for some debt sufficient to make Percival desperate enough to act—and that four years ago.”
Foster, Montague’s junior assistant, snorted. “If he was moved to murder four years ago because of this debt, it must be gargantuan by now.”
“Hmm.” Eyes narrowing, Montague tapped a finger on his blotter. “I’m not sure we can make such a leap.” He glanced at Foster and Gibbons. “Percival’s affairs may simply constantly be underwater—enough to be a goad, an ever-present anxiety, but not enough for anyone else to see it as a massive debt.”
Gibbons nodded. “Chronic debt, rather than acute.” He met Foster’s eyes. “Could be just as pressing—indeed, even more of a motive than a single major debt.”
“Exactly.” Montague glanced around at the others—Slocum, his longtime head clerk, Pringle, also an experienced clerk who had joined the firm some months earlier when Montague and the others had investigated Pringle’s previous employer’s murder, Slater, Montague’s junior clerk, and lastly Reginald Roberts, the office-boy-cum-runner. “Does anyone else have any observations?”
Somewhat to Montague’s surprise, it was Violet who said, “Actually, yes—there’s a point I find confusing.” She met Montague’s eyes, and when he nodded encouragingly, she went on, “This Richard Percival is known to be hiring professional searchers—inquiry agents, as you, Stokes, and Adair called them. If I’m remembering aright, the suspicion is that he’s been using them for some time, and recently M
r. Glendower saw two agents on one occasion, and on another occasion, at least a dozen.” Violet paused, then, head tipping, said, “Does that not argue that Percival has considerable financial resources? Don’t such professionals cost money?”
Montague’s eyes widened, then, slowly sitting back, he nodded. “An excellent point, but I believe I can guess the answer.” He glanced at Gibbons and saw the same suspicion in his eyes. Looking at Violet, Montague explained, “As many such things are in the less-than-legal world, I suspect the fee for the search will be contingent on its success.”
Violet frowned. “So none of those men will get paid unless they find the boy?”
Increasingly sober as he thought through the ramifications, Montague nodded.
Foster grimaced. “No wonder, then, that they’re hot to find him.” He turned to the door. “I’ll get on to the banks and see what I can learn.”
Gibbons, too, nodded somewhat grimly. “If they’ve been strung along for years on the promise of what will come once they find and hand over the boy . . .” He shook his head and started for the outer office. “After I finish with my day’s meetings, I’ll go out and see what I can learn from among the fraternity.” He glanced back at Montague. “Any idea who his man-of-business is?”
Montague shook his head and looked at Slocum.
Who inclined his head. “I will endeavor to find out while Mr. Gibbons is in his meetings.”
Montague nodded, then spoke with Pringle, Slater, and Reginald to ensure that the day-to-day business of the office continued to run smoothly. When they left to return to their desks, he turned to Violet, to discover her still frowning, albeit in a distant way. “What is it?”
They had recently learned that she was expecting their first child, and any frown or grimace made his lungs constrict.
Her gaze lifted to his face and she focused . . . and her frown dissolved into a sweet and gentle smile. “Nothing about that—I’m perfectly well and would tell you if I wasn’t.” Her frown returned. “I was thinking about this new investigation. Who are these professional searchers? Is there any way we might”—she waved vaguely—“subvert them to our cause? Might we persuade them to bear witness against Percival, at least as far as his orders to them go?”
Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 21