Her eyes widened and then narrowed. Her mouth dropped open. So smart, his Perry. He knew the moment she saw the truth.
But he had to say it out loud anyway. He wanted her trust for what he must do next.
“I was the courier.”
“Youwere?”The wordswhooshedout of her and she saw spots.
Fox was a bounder, a forger, and an American spy, and he’d saved her father’s life. And Father had gone back to save Fox. And now he was here.
“Perry.” He gripped her shoulders and shook them. “Perry.”
Fox had forged the painting. Not stolen it. He’d served her mother. He’d risked his life to save her father. He’d stayed in a French prison so her father could live.
She wanted to rest her head on his chest, but he’d locked his arms and held her away from him, looking into her eyes as if she would faint.
Well, and perhaps she might indeed swoon.
She straightened, managed a breath, and then another, and shook off his hands, searching his face. He looked…tired, wounded in some very deep place. He’d been held by the French, and French cruelty was legendary.
How long had they held him? Had they chained him? Beaten him? She scanned his body for visible scars.
There. The scar on his jaw, and evidence of another cut near his hairline. Had they known he was an American, not English? Her mind buzzed with questions.
“Perry, I’m going to send for your brother.”
The words brought her up. Her brother—Charley, or Bakeley, or Bink, never mind which one—would carry her off. He wanted her gone. She’d be locked up, maybe married off. She took a step back. And another.
“It’s too dangerous here.”
Dangerous. The killer was still here.
“I can’t…I know I said you could stay, but I want you safe, Perry.” His fingers raked his hair. “I don’t want you hurt.”
He cared for her.
And she wanted him—he was her only hope for a chance at real passion in the cold, miserable life that society would allow for her. Her brothers could flout convention and marry the women they loved but…
Loved. She swallowed hard. Was this love she was feeling for Fox? Had she loved him while thinking she hated him, while trying to squash all herfeelings?
And did he love her?
That painting in his room was evidence of feelings.
The painting.
She picked up her skirts and ran.
She soon heard his steps pounding behind, but she reached his room before him and closed the door, leaning against it, heart hammering, breaths coming in short spurts.
The long summer afternoon had passed into evening. Outside, the first shadows of evening cast a pall on the room. She looked around, one hand gripping the latch, her vision adjusting, while determined footsteps edged nearer.
He rattled the door latch and pushed, and she dug in the heels of her boots, scanning the room, finally able to focus. The easel—and the canvas on it—were gone.
A hot wave of anger swept through her. Had he hidden it away or destroyed it?
With one hard push, she was catapulted forward onto his bed. She reached out to brace herself and one hand struck an unlit lamp, the other pressed into the mattress. She struggled to right herself, to right the lamp.
“God, Perry.” His voice shook. “This is why you must leave.”
The lamp teetered and shattered, just like her heart.
