by Sue London
She felt his turmoil and saw his jaw tense. Finally he said, “I hope never to be anything like one of The Four.”
“And you shan’t be. Meanwhile, we’d best get up off the floor and to your sister’s before she tracks us down.”
Robert helped her up. “Yes, I’m sure Charlie has used this opportunity to torture her with the news that I’m expected imminently with an announcement that he isn’t allowed to share with her.”
“And they say that you’re the cruel one?”
“I am making her wait, am I not?” Robert took responsibility for everything, even things that weren’t his fault. It only barely stopped short of hubris. She watched him as he gathered his outer garments for the weather, left instructions with his butler, and greeted her kinsmen that served as her outriders. Perhaps she had been too hasty in deciding she could never love him. He was, as she first noticed, a man of contrasts. Lonely but sociable. Good but wicked. Certainly in all of his contrasts she would find something she loved?
As their carriage rolled toward his sister’s house he held her hand. She had noticed his tendency toward physical possessiveness and had always been surprised that it didn’t bother her. When her previous lovers had shown any inclination for ownership, she had rebuffed them quickly. With Robert she was happiest when he was touching her, even in the most casual way. Prior to this, she had assumed it was because of the sexual promise inherent in his touch. Now she wondered if it meant more. He had subsided into his typical quiet state, his mind working over some problem.
“Perhaps,” he said, breaking the silence, “you could advise me so I don’t punish good men and profit bad.”
She was surprised by his proposal. “But in business you can’t just do what you feel. There are hard decisions to be made for the good of the company.” That was just one of the many lessons she had learned at her mother’s knee.
“What’s the point of any game if you can’t make up your own rules?”
She foundered for a response. “Business isn’t a game.”
“Everything is a game. Sometimes the stakes are just higher.”
She contemplated his idea. “Do you really see everything as a game?”
“Essentially.”
“Then why don’t you have more fun?”
That earned a small smile and he toyed with her fingers. “Who is to say I’m not having fun? I am, at least, entertained.”
“But you said earlier that one couldn’t do things merely for one’s own enjoyment.”
“Moderation in all things, Imogen.”
She laughed. “Please! You are on of the most immoderate people I’ve ever met!”
“Well, I’m sure any moment now I can come up with another, better explanation.”
She felt his amusement. Was Robert Bittlesworth playing with her? “I can’t,” she said quite primly, “let you destroy my family’s business for your entertainment.”
That ceased his playful energies. “Do you think I would?”
“No, not really,” she had to admit.
He nodded approvingly. “Well, then. Within the parameters we have set for ourselves, I say that we use the powers we have at hand to make the world as we wish it to be.”
The carriage stopped and Robert stepped down to help her alight. She looked down into his eyes and felt the wash of his current feelings. His love for her, his confidence in his own abilities, his thread of concern over how his siblings would adjust to this change in their lives. Good Lord, how could she not love this man?
She remembered that she had only recently chastised herself for not granting a kind word when she knew it was needed. Once her feet were firmly on the ground and Robert offered her his arm, she said, “For all your cleverness, you have missed one thing.”
“Oh? What is that?”
“I do have feelings for you beyond lust.”
“Let me guess. Annoyance?” Such a carefully guarded heart.
“No. How many guesses should I give you?”
“It depends on whether you want Sabre to break through that front window to which she has glued herself.”
She smiled up at him. “Then perhaps I should just tell you. I would hate for her to cut herself on the glass.”
“If you must,” he said. She felt his trepidation, and so very little hope.
She went up on her tiptoes to be nearer to his ear. She knew he would assume it to be part of a flirtation and enjoyed the flare of lust he experienced. “I love you, Robert Bittlesworth,” she whispered.
Confusion and suspicion warred with hope in him. He held her by her arms and looked down into her eyes. She simply smiled back at him. It might not be the sort of innocent adoration that many brides felt for their husbands, but she knew that what she felt for him was deep, and honest, and true. Perhaps he had a dark past, but it did not define him. Something in her gaze convinced him of her veracity, and he pulled her close for a scandalous kiss. She heard Sabre squeal and was glad there was no sound of glass breaking.
Epilogue
Robert was surprised how easily Imogen handled Sabre. His sister had been set to organizing Robert’s guests for the wedding, with a list of requirements long enough to keep even her busy. Imogen had opted to brave the winter weather and have them travel back to Scotland, which required a lot of stopping for snow and listening to Charlie agonize over how the horses were doing. He would have been content with a special license in England, or even words from a blacksmith over the anvil in Scotland, but his fiancée turned out to be more traditional than he expected. She was full of requirements and superstitions. They had to marry when the moon was waxing, not waning. He needed to provide something to stand as his tartan. It was amusing, not least of which because of how serious she was about it all. He was tempted to remind her that they weren’t waging a war.
Leaving the wedding to her, he focused instead on learning the business of international trade from her mother. To his delight, it bore a remarkable resemblance to his previous work. Instead of moving information secretly, it required moving cargo openly. He was quickly able to see how Imogen’s mother had used her vast network of contacts to keep track of her daughter, thus how she knew that Imogen had been missing. It was difficult for him not to express an obscene amount of delight over his new position, as though he had broken a favorite toy only to discover that a better one was in the offing. The only disadvantage he had was not having any personal relationships with the myriad people he needed to know, but he had Imogen. Imogen who had traveled all over the world with her mother for years, and knew every one of the people he needed to meet. Who had been seen as the heir apparent in all that time. He couldn’t wait to have the bloody wedding over so that they could get started.
* * *
Imogen snuck up the steps. Tomorrow these would be her chambers as well, but tonight Robert was sleeping in them alone. It was a lovely suite of rooms high in the east wing that would serve as their family space whenever they were in town. She had moved her possessions there earlier today. Quite honestly, she was exhausted, but couldn’t stand the thought of waiting even ten more hours before seeing him again. She slipped through the door into the sitting room. He was there, looking at the items she had set to display on the shelves earlier. It was still odd to her, how she felt whenever she saw him now. As though she had poured champagne directly onto her heart. It was further accentuated by his feelings upon seeing her. Warmth, desire, love.
She walked into his arms and nuzzled against him. He kissed her and she surrendered to the pleasure.
Kissing her ear, he asked, “Aren’t we supposed to wait until tomorrow?”
“I promise to treat our wedding night with the squeamish revulsion of any virgin.”
He chuckled. “Not necessary, I assure you.”
“No?”
“I would prefer if you didn’t.”
She sighed. “I would prefer to stay here and regret a wedding still stands between us.”
He tickled her sides. “And w
hose fault is that?”
She laughed and twisted away from him. “Yours. You’re the one who decided to get married.”
“I remember it as you asking me.”
“Don’t you recall what Charlie said when he heard that story? That of course you planned it out so that it was the only thing I could do.”
He stood there with his arms crossed, lips tilted up in amusement. She could read him so well now, almost as though his feelings were here own. He was unsure if he wanted to continue playing with her or take her to bed and she didn’t think she could love him more. That agile mind of his distracted him, though, and he pointed to a piece of pottery on her shelf.
“What’s this?” he asked.
She came over to look it. “That’s my kintsugi bowl.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, and pulled her close. “That helped so much.”
“It’s primarily practiced in Japan, but I learned about it from my tutor in China. It’s an art of repair.” She traced a finger over the golden join. “If you break something important, you don’t throw it away. You repair it. You honor not only what it was, but what it has become. You make it beautiful in a new way. When he explained it to me, I knew I needed to see it and I pestered my mother until she bought one for me. In this kintsugi they used gold dust and enamel to join the pieces back together, making something stronger and more beautiful than the original bowl.”
“So that’s what you’ve been doing to me.”
She felt the wash of love and gratitude from him.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she said. “When I first heard of it, I hoped that I could always treat my own flaws in such a way. But you? You were too strong to be broken.”
He kissed her. “I used to think that, too, but you have been filling in the cracks of me.”
She held onto him. Perhaps she could love him a wee bit more than she realized.
* * *
George was entertained to finally be spending some time in Scotland like she had been saying she was all those years. The cold was intense, even in this parlor with a roaring fire, but at least she had her husband to keep her warm at night.
It was clear to her how Casimir had been successful moving among cultures for all these years. His curiosity about their surroundings was nearly insatiable. But if he started another statement with ‘did you know’ she thought she might kill him.
He strolled over with a book he brought in from the Grant’s library. “Did you know that George Lockhart was the name of a member of the Scottish parliament a hundred years ago?”
“Yes. He was a Jacobite spy, actually.”
“Really?” Flipping through the book he said, “They don’t say anything about that here.”
He sat and pulled her feet into his lap, laying a hand over them and providing blessed warmth to her toes. Fine. Perhaps he could say it one more time.
George heard footsteps out in the hall and reluctantly put her feet back on the floor. It would be time to dress for the wedding soon anyway.
“Ah, George. Casimir.”
George popped up off the lounge. “Robert? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong.” He chuckled. Robert actually chuckled. As though he found something amusing, and not in the vicious, cynical way he usually did. “How are you enjoying your time here?”
“I love it.”
“Her feet are always cold,” Casimir confided.
“Perhaps next time you can visit with us somewhere warm, like the West Indies.”
George grabbed her husband’s hand. “Imagine it. Sunshine and blue water.”
“You can bring your paint,” Casimir said. That served to make her hold his hand even stronger.
“I can bring my paint. When do we go?”
“I’ll figure that out. But, in the meantime, don’t take any assignments from the Home Office.”
George frowned. “Why not? You’re the one who insisted that if asked I should serve.”
“I intended to be the one doing the asking. Just promise me.”
He held her gaze steadily. She knew very well what he was waiting for, but she made him wait just to prove she could withstand his stare. Oddly, it wasn’t as intense and demanding as she remembered it being. “Very well, Robert. I promise.”
“Good.” He patted Casimir’s shoulder. “Keep her safe.”
“But,” she said as Robert turned to go, “I can keep myself safe!”
Casimir nudged her. “You shouldn’t argue with a man on his wedding day.”
“But I can keep myself safe,” she said again, more quietly but with an increased amount of resentment in her tone.
“And he offered to take us to the British West Indies. I say don’t argue with the man.”
“Of course you’re taking his side.”
“Did you know—”
George groaned and covered her face with her hands. She wondered what trivia she would end up learning about the West Indies.
* * *
Sabre leaned over in the pew to whisper to her husband again. “I think he looks happy. Do you think he looks happy?”
“It is hard for me to ascertain if he looks happier or not since the last time you’ve asked that.”
“I think he looks happy,” she sighed.
There were many traditions in a Scottish ceremony that she hadn’t been familiar with, but it was fascinating. After the pipers played, the bride and groom had their hands tied together, like an old-fashioned hand fasting. Imogen’s father had given Robert a folded bundle of Grant tartans that Sabre terribly hoped was a kilt. Imogen presented her new husband with a sword, at which point Quince leaned over to whisper, “You didn’t give me a family sword.”
Then the ceremony was over and her brother was officially married. Married. Robert Bittlesworth. It tickled her to no end.
She floated through the rest of the celebrations as though she were somehow to thank for the outcome. Perhaps she was. Would their relationship have proceeded if she hadn’t stepped in and invited Imogen to tea and then to Belle Fleur? Not that they had yet made it to Belle Fleur. But she had never met two people less inclined to pursue a romance. Certainly she could give herself a tiny bit of credit.
To her surprise, when her brother was making one more round of greetings with the attendees, he cornered her and Quince to speak more privately. He was also, by her estimation, quite drunk.
“I need you to do something for me while I’m away.”
She smiled politely. Lord only knew what a drunk Robert might want, because she certainly had no idea.
“I’ve been thinking about it and thinking about it, and I think you’re the answer.”
Quince asked, “Are you sure you don’t need to do some more thinking?” Based on Robert’s furrowed brow it was clear that her husband’s dry humor had sailed clear over his head. “Just so,” Quince said. “One shouldn’t overthink things.”
“I need a contact. A new Key.”
Sabre didn’t know what Robert meant by a Key, but she did remember the Dragon babbling on about them. “Oh?”
“Yes, but the Key Key. I mean really, I was the Key Key before.”
Sabre pinched herself to keep from laughing in his very drunk face as he was making no sense whatsoever. “I see,” she said. Not because she saw anything, but simply because it seemed rude to remain quiet.
“I can teach you the encryption tomorrow. I’m sure you can remember it without writing it down.”
Sabre felt goosebumps rise. He might be drunk, and he might not be making sense, but she was now certain that what he was saying was very, very important. “Yes,” she said. “I’m sure we can.”
“Good,” he said. He gathered her up in a hug. “You’re my favorite sister. Today.”
“I’m you’re only sister.”
“It just gives you better than average chances. Now remember,” he said, looking deadly serious, “you can’t discuss this with anyone.”
“Of course,” she agreed.<
br />
“Quince,” he said, clapping her husband on the shoulder. And then he was gone.
“What aren’t we telling anyone?” Quince asked. “How drunk your brother was at his wedding?”
Sabre turned to speak more covertly to her husband. “I think he’s about to turn over a spy network to us.”
“No.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“I think it sounds like an early birthday present.”
* * *
Jack awoke to Gideon coming into the bedroom, as she had since they returned to Kellington. He had already been up and about, and was bringing her Oliver and what looked to be a stack of mail.
“I don’t have to eat breakfast in bed every day,” she said.
He handed Oliver over and settled down next to her. “I’m shocked it’s taken you this long to complain about it.”
“It’s quite lovely,” she admitted. She just didn’t need to be spoiled to death.
“Well, the way I see it, since breakfast is the family meal, we will have to take it in here until Oliver is old enough to sit at table.”
Jack laughed. “You’ve been waiting months to say that, haven’t you?”
“We’ll just say something more than a fortnight. One of these is a letter from Sabre. I assume you will want to read it?”
Jack had Oliver nestled to her breast. “Why don’t you read it to me?”
“Dear Jack and Gideon. Hm, it’s addressed to me as well. Don’t I feel special?”
Jack nudged him with her foot and he cleared his throat to read Sabre’s account of the Scottish wedding. The ceremony had included a weaving of the tartans to join their families together, and Imogen had given a small swatch of the Grant tartan to send to Jack, as the Haberdashers were her sisters now, too. Jack was misty-eyed by the end of the letter, wishing she had been able to join her friends, but she wouldn’t trade this time with her husband and son for the world. She tickled Oliver’s nose with the small square of red plaid.