“You, dear sister, are going to have a terrible headache in the morning,” he told the inert form sprawled across the bed. He looked around the room and spied a shawl draped over a chair. He grabbed it and covered her with it rather than fighting with the bedcovers. “Thank you for all you have sacrificed for my children,” he whispered and brushed a kiss across her forehead.
“Thorn, kiss me again,” she mumbled.
“What secrets are you carrying?” he asked the sleeping woman.
***
June 1811
“Good afternoon, Director,” Thorn Wulfe greeted Mack in the obscure coffee house. He had made sure no one followed him. Very rarely did he get summoned to meet the Director, and he wondered what could cause the man to risk their connection being made public.
“Wulfe, have a seat,” Mack nodded at the waiter, and the man brought over two cups. “I have some news to share with you.”
“Will it help with Glandingham? I swear that man is as slippery as an eel.”
“No, this is of a more personal nature.”
“What is it?” Wulfe asked, noting the solemn tone that had entered the man’s voice.
“There is no easy way to say this. Your brother was in London to see you. We were on our way to the Lady Luck and someone took a shot at me. Your brother saved my life.”
“Where is he?”
“He didn’t make it. He told me he was dying and had some things he needed to tell you. He went very quickly.”
“Teddy’s dead?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Where?”
“A few blocks from the Horseguards. I believe it was an assassination attempt on me.”
“I see.”
“Take a drink of your coffee. I had them put something a bit stronger in it.”
Wulfe mechanically took a drink of the coffee, welcoming the whisky he could taste in it. He just as quickly put the cup down. “The twins. I have to get to the twins. Sarah’s parents will be like vultures,” he knew he was rambling, but could not stop.
“The children are being well cared for at the moment by your wife.”
In the process of standing, Wulfe paused, hands braced on the table and looked at McKenzie. “I’m sorry, Director, but I don’t think I heard you correctly. Did you say they were being looked after by my wife? And before you answer, please remember that I am very much single and have a beautiful mistress that is very demanding of my attention.”
“The children are being cared for by your wife,” Mack repeated.
“And just who the hell is this wife?”
“Your brother said the name ‘Bekah’.”
“Bloody hell! How in the hell am I married to that waspish woman when I am in London and she is at Wulfecrest Manor?”
“Proxy marriage.”
Wulfe dropped back on the chair. He would have had to sign some sort of papers, wouldn’t he? Then he remembered a night several years ago when he had not been thinking clearly. A night that had changed the lives of several people. Barkley, his valet had presented papers for him to sign and passed them off as “estate business”. Bloody hell, he had signed his life over to a fishwife. Never again would he sign something without reading it thoroughly. “Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered before pounding his fist on the table. His head began to pound.
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