“People never look for what they don’t expect to see.”
“How very astute of you, my lord.” Her voice was hard, her words more accusation than observation. “Have you any more words of wisdom you care to share? As viscount or butler or spy?”
“Yes.” He sat down beside her and took her hand. She snatched it away. “I love you, Delia, and I would give my very life if all this had not happened to you. If it would change things, but it won’t. You should know, as well, I have always intended that this be my final assignment. I have a position and responsibilities that I now have to attend to and I want you by my side. As Lady St. Stephens. As my wife.”
“Do you really think that’s possible?” She stared in disbelief. “You have just told me everything I have believed about Charles, about you, about Gordon, was a lie. How can I be your wife now? How can I trust you ever again? God help me, how can I trust myself?
“As for love…” She studied him for a moment, and he thought his heart would break at the pain that colored her blue eyes. “I fear it’s as much an illusion as any other appearance of perfection.” She thrust her glass into his hand, got to her feet and started toward the door.
He stood at once and followed her. “Delia.”
“I know where your bloody notebook is.”
Chapter 22
“Obviously, I am a better spy than you are.” Disdain rang in Delia’s voice. “But then, from what I’ve seen thus far, that would not take a great deal.”
Delia crossed the hall, snatched an offered candlestick from Mac, gave him a scathing look and went into the library. She moved directly to a section of bookshelves, holding the candle close to scan the titles, then selected a book. She stepped to the desk, set the candle down and flipped the book open. She turned a page or two, then stilled.
“Delia?”
She stared at the book in her hand. “I had quite wanted to be wrong. I think I harbored an odd hope that if I was mistaken about this, then perhaps the rest of the night was a mistake as well and not…real, I suppose. Nothing more than a bad dream, and I could wake up and…” She snapped the book closed and tossed it on the desk. “Here. Take it.”
He picked up the book. It was a volume of Byron’s poems. “This is the book you gave me, isn’t it?”
“No. If you recall, I told you I had another copy. This is my copy.” She drew a deep breath. “Charles gave it to me.”
Tony opened the book and paged through it. A few pages were indeed the works of Byron, but the center section of the volume had been carefully removed and replaced with pages covered with tight lines of handwriting.
“Charles obviously did that after we were married. I know it was simply a book of poetry when he gave it to me. I took it with me to the Lake District, but I never opened it again.”
“It’s definitely what Mrs. Miller was looking for,” Tony murmured, his gaze skimming over the script. “I’m not entirely certain, but it appears to be a list of prominent lords and politicians with notations as to information that can be used to extort money from them or the crown. Apparently the Effingtons weren’t the only targets of this scheme. It will be interesting to see how much of this is legitimate and how much is as fraudulent as the Effington Papers. Regardless, it’s damnably clever.”
“I put the book on the shelf when I came back to London.”
“And as Mrs. Miller had already searched in here, she did not think to search again. Hopefully this will also lead us to whoever Mrs. Miller was working with as well.”
“You have what you want, my lord, I suggest now —”
“Wait, Delia, there’s something else here.” Tony pulled free a folded piece of paper. He read it quickly and regretted doing so. “It’s from Wilmont. Addressed to me, actually.” His stomach clenched and he forced himself to meet her gaze. “In the case of his death.”
“I don’t really care at this point.” Her voice was weary and resigned and caught at his soul.
“Nonetheless, you should hear this. He details Mrs. Miller’s involvement and explains how he came by the notebook —”
“I said I don’t care.”
“And he talks about you.”
She stared at him. “Do I really want to know this?”
“Yes.” It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to say. He knew without question this admission of Wilmont’s might well change everything between himself and the woman he loved. And knew as well she deserved to know what Wilmont had written.
Tony drew a steadying breath and read.
“ ‘As for my wife, she was a mistake I should never have made but would make again. A grand mistake. Or in her words a grand adventure. All too brief and the best of my life. She touched something inside me I thought was long dead.’ ”
Tony forced himself to continue. “ ‘I know you wondered why I married her, what had gone awry in our plans. The answer is overwhelming in its very simplicity. I loved her. Pity, I neither told her nor showed her. Indeed, I have not touched her since our first night together. I felt it was imperative to finish this last investigation so I might put this work behind me and start a new life with her, and my thoughts and time were fully occupied to that end. I could not be the husband she should have until then.
“ ‘I leave her my fortune and I leave her you, my friend. See to it she is taken care of. She deserved far better than I gave her.’ ”
Delia stared, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Shock sounded in her voice. “He loved me?”
“So it would seem,” Tony said softly, placing the letter and the book on the desk.
“And his actions were because of me?”
“Delia…” Tony moved toward her.
“Don’t.” She thrust out her hand and stepped back. “Don’t come near me.”
“You are not to blame for what happened to him.”
“I am entirely to blame.” Her voice rose. “He would not have been where he was if not for me. She would not have killed him if it were not for me.”
“No. She killed him because he had found her out.”
“She killed him because he had married me. Because he loved me.” Her voice cracked. “And I did not love him.”
“Delia…” A sense of helplessness swept over him. For the first time in his life he didn’t know what to do.
“My God, he was so wrong. I did not deserve better than he.” She bit back a sob. “He deserved better than me.”
“Delia, it’s over. The past cannot be undone. Wilmont’s death was a tragedy, but it was not your fault. There was no need for him to finish what he’d been working on. He could have passed it off to someone else. To me, for that matter. He knew that and he knew as well the risks of his work. He died doing what he believed in.”
“He would be alive if not for me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“But I do. I know it here.” She clasped her hand against her heart. “I have never known anything so much as I know this.”
Tony wanted to take her in his arms and console her, assure her that all would be well, but he knew without question she wouldn’t accept his offer of comfort. He feared she would never accept anything from him ever again.
“You have to go on with your life. We have to go on.”
“We?” Anger rang in her voice. “There is no we ! We are as much a masquerade, as much a deception, as…as Gordon!”
“I’m your husband.”
“Charles was my husband too. And he was your friend.” She clenched her fists by her side and drew a deep shuddering breath. At last she met his gaze. A cold hand squeezed his heart. Her voice was deceptively calm, her eyes cold. “It’s nearly dawn. I want you, and your gang of spies or agents or henchmen or whatever you call them, out of my house with the sunrise.”
His gaze searched hers. “What if I refuse to go?”
She shrugged. “Then I’ll leave.”
“I see,” he said slowly. “For how long?”
“I never want to see you again.
” Her voice was steady, her gaze level. Not a touch of emotion showed in her blue eyes. “I want you out of my life.”
“I will leave for now, but you are my wife, you are my soul and I shall not give you up.”
“You have no choice.”
“Not at the moment, perhaps.” He kept his voice as cool as hers. “I understand you require time to come to grips with all of this, but I warn you, Delia, if it takes the rest of my days, I will win you back.” He refused to allow the desperation in his heart to show in his voice. “I said I would love you forever.”
“You said any number of things that weren’t true.” A weary note sounded in her voice and she sank down into the chair behind the desk.
“Nothing regarding my feelings about you was a lie.” Anger born of fear welled up within him. He smacked his palms down firmly on the desk and leaned toward her. “And understand this, Lady St. Stephens, I revealed more of myself to you as Gordon than I have ever revealed to anyone. I was more honest with you while pretending to be someone else than I have ever been with anyone.
“I didn’t pretend to be your friend, I was your friend, and I have not had many I could call friend in my life. And it was as your friend that I fell in love with you. I will not sacrifice that love because of actions I took to secure your safety. Actions that indeed were part of service to my country. Falling in love with you was not my intention, and once I had, I did everything in my power to keep you from being hurt. I hoped you would never know any of this.”
“Not even about Charles?”
“I neither knew who killed him nor why until tonight. But yes, if I had known I would have kept it from you.”
“And if you had known of his feelings for me? Would you have told me?”
He stared into her eyes. “No.”
“I see.” Her voice was cold and chilled his heart.
“It is not over between us, Delia, it will never be over. And not merely because I love you.” He straightened. “But because you love me. And you know as well as I how difficult love is to find.”
She folded her hands on top of the desk and gazed up at him as if they were discussing a matter of no more importance than the dinner menu. As if she were removed from the conversation. As if she didn’t care. “Get out.”
“For now.”
“Forever.”
An hour later, Tony was the last of the men left in the house. Delia still sat behind the desk in the library where he had left her, unseeing, unmoving.
He stood in the doorway for a long time and watched her. She paid him no heed, whether deliberately or otherwise, he didn’t know. It scarcely mattered, he supposed.
Tony had never been seriously involved with a woman before. God knows, he’d never been in love. His heart had never broken before, but it was surely breaking now for her. She was wounded and hurt and in pain, and not all of it, but a great deal, could be laid at his feet. He ached for her and had no idea how to help.
He would make sure she was not alone, but he would give her time. As much as she needed, or maybe only as much as he could bear. In the meantime, he would take up his title. Learn what he needed to know to manage an estate, to be a viscount and a husband, even a member of a family.
He tried to memorize every curve of her face, the set of her chin, the tilt of her lips, and knew the effort was unnecessary. He already knew her face as well as he knew his own. She would linger in his mind and his heart until he was with her once again. And if he knew nothing else about his future, he knew that. He would not allow it to be otherwise.
“Farewell, Lady St. Stephens, my lady wife,” he said quietly. “For now.”
He left the house, closing the door firmly behind him, and vowed he would be back.
———
The sharp, hard sound of the front door closing echoed through the house. The empty house. She was completely alone and that was precisely how she wanted it.
Delia sat for a long time, unwilling, unable to move. Frozen, numb…dead.
At last she got to her feet and wandered into the parlor. The stench of smoke still hung over the room, but she barely noticed. She found the brandy decanter and her glass and started back toward the library. The charred wall caught her eye and she stopped and stared. The fire had obviously been extinguished before it could do much damage. Still, another few minutes and it would have caught the curtains and the carpet. The whole room would have gone from there, possibly the house. Certainly there was repair needed, but it could have been much worse.
They all could be dead.
She pushed the thought away and returned to the library. In the back of her mind, she noted even in the early morning light everything around her seemed blurred and unreal. Very much like a dream she moved through without conscious effort. It was an exceedingly curious sensation, as if all her senses and emotions had retreated or fled or escaped to a safe, protected spot far away. At the moment she didn’t feel much of anything at all, but she knew she would, and it would be devastating. Brandy would numb the pain. Oh, not for long and not forever, but it seemed like a good idea at the moment.
She poured a glass and took a sip. Delia had lost track of the number of brandies she’d had in this room. The long, comfortable evenings. The games of backgammon…
She collapsed back into the chair and ignored the liquor that splashed over the side of her glass and onto her fingers. A scant few hours ago she had been so blissfully happy. The future stretched before her, bright with promise and joy. The grandest adventure of her life.
How had it all gone so horribly wrong? Since the moment she’d met Charles, her life had been a lie. He’d wanted nothing from her but entree into her circle of family. That in itself was difficult to face. The fact that he had married her because he loved her and was ultimately killed because of it was almost too unbearable to consider.
And what of Tony? He had become her friend when she was alone and had no one else to turn to. Was that part of his plan, or some odd quirk of fate? She well knew there were few other women of her acquaintance who would have shared their evenings with an elderly servant. If he had begun his impersonation with the intention of becoming her confidant, it was only luck that allowed him to succeed. There was a modicum of comfort in the thought.
As for the rest of it…she didn’t know what to believe, what to think and had no idea what to do now.
Tony was indeed right about one thing: She did need time to sort all this out. Anger and hurt and guilt and pain all warred within her. She was furious with Tony for his deception and angry as well with Charles for his. Delia did indeed feel responsible for Charles’s death and probably always would, to a degree. Still, if he had told her of his feelings, perhaps the outcome would have been different.
Charles would be alive and well and she would be his wife. And she never would have known Tony at all. The realization of how much she would regret that brought a fresh wave of guilt.
Delia heard the front door open and her heart leapt.
For now.
Traitorous heart. No matter what Tony had vowed on his way out the door, her life with him was over.
“Good Lord!” Cassie’s voice sounded from the hall. She murmured something Delia didn’t hear and then appeared in the library doorway. “It reeks in there, although the damage doesn’t seem too bad.”
Delia sighed. The last thing she wanted at the moment was to explain everything to her sister. Indeed, she wasn’t entirely certain she could explain everything. “What are you doing here?”
“Your husband came to the house and demanded I be awakened. It’s obscenely early, you know. He said there had been a fire or something like that and insisted I come over at once.” Cassie pulled off her gloves and walked toward Delia, then paused. Her eyes narrowed. “You look dreadful.”
Her gaze slid to the decanter and back to Delia. “Are you drinking at this hour of the day? What’s wrong?”
“I’ve done it again, Cassie. I’ve made another dreadful mistake in ma
rriage.”
“What on earth do you mean? Why, yesterday you were happier than I’ve ever seen you.”
“Yesterday I didn’t now what I know now.” In spite of Delia’s resolve, tears filled her eyes and a sob sounded in her voice. “My housekeeper killed my husband. I married my butler, and my house is full of spies.”
Cassie stared. “What?”
Delia sniffed back a tear. “It’s a long story.”
Cassie pulled up a chair and settled into it. “Excellent, as I have a great deal of time. I am usually still abed at this hour.”
“And it’s a very odd story.” Delia licked the brandy off her fingers. “Quite complicated.”
“I assumed as much.”
“Really rather fanciful, actually,” Delia said thoughtfully. “I daresay I wouldn’t have believed it at all if it had not —”
“Delia,” Cassie snapped. “Tell me, right now. Every odd, fanciful, complicated detail.”
“Very well.” Delia paused. “But first I think you should probably swear never to reveal any of this to anyone.”
“Why?”
“In the best interests of the crown, I should think,” Delia said loftily. “Besides, I would prefer the rest of the world never know what a true fool I am.”
“I can well understand that. And I promise not to reveal any of your odd, complicated, fanciful story.”
“I wonder if I should make you take a blood oath or something of that sort,” Delia murmured, more to herself than her sister.
“Delia!”
“Sorry.” Delia thought for a moment, drew a deep breath and told Cassie everything, starting with Charles and ending with Mrs. Miller and the fire.
“Good Lord.” Cassie slumped back in her chair and stared at her sister, wide-eyed with disbelief. “I don’t know what to say. It certainly isn’t.-.that is, I never…what I mean…”
Delia pushed the decanter of brandy across the desk at her.
The Lady In Question Page 31