“Why not just marry her and put yourself out of your misery?”
“I never said I wanted to marry Emilia.”
Roswell chuckled. “You didn’t have to.”
“You are infuriating,” Fredrick muttered, “and not the least bit helpful.”
Leaning back into his seat, Roswell said, “The attraction between you two is evident to everyone around you. Furthermore, Anette truly believes you would be perfect for one another.”
“Emilia is a wonderful woman…”
“Why do I sense a ‘but’?” Roswell interjected.
“…butshe deserves better than me,” Fredrick said.
Roswell lifted his brow. “You are an earl and will be the Marquess of Cuttyngham one day.”
“That means very little to Emilia, which makes her that much more endearing to me,” Fredrick said. “She just wants to feel accepted, loved, even.”
“You can give her that,” Roswell remarked.
“I could, but I am not quite the same since I returned home from the war,” Fredrick shared. “I have nightmares to this day. And the terrible images that I still see, I do believe will haunt me forever. Can I in good conscience let Emilia into my misery, my pain?”
“Have you asked her this?” Roswell asked.
Fredrick shook his head. “I have not,” he said. “I only just came to realize that I might love her.”
“Might?” Roswell huffed. “You, Brother, can’t stop staring at Emilia whenever she is around. There is no ‘might’ about it.”
“I never wanted to marry,” Fredrick sighed.
“It is all right to accept change,” Roswell said. “It proves that you are still growing.”
Fredrick shifted his gaze towards the window, a myriad of conflicted emotions whirling inside of him. As much as he wanted to dwell on Emilia, he didn’t have the time or the luxury to do so. Two French spies were on the loose, and he couldn’t afford to let his emotions cloud his judgment. Emilia would have to wait.
Roswell’s voice broke through his musings. “Did you happen to read the newssheets this morning, specifically the article about Lord Drycott?”
“Yes, I did read that Lord Drycott was found dead last night. Presumably, his heart had failed him,” Fredrick replied.
“We both know that isn’t true.”
“I know. But I can’t say that I feel sorry for the man,” Fredrick said. “He had blood on his hands.”
“That he did,” Roswell agreed.
The coach came to a stop down the street from the boarding house and Fredrick exited, not bothering to wait for the footman’s assistance. His boots met the pavement with purpose, the gravity of the impending mission etched on his face.
Roswell gestured towards the boarding house. “That is the one,” he said. “Now where the blazes is Miss Delacourt?”
No sooner had he uttered these words than they heard Miss Delacourt’s voice behind them. “It is about time you two showed up.”
Fredrick turned around, and his brow shot up at the sight before him. Miss Delacourt was wearing trousers, a white shirt and black Hessian boots. Her brown hair was tucked under a brown cap, and she wore a handkerchief around her neck. If she thought her disguise was fooling anyone, she would be mistaken.
“What are you wearing?” he asked.
Miss Delacourt glanced down at her clothing. “I would say that it is fairly obvious.”
“You are wearing trousers,” Fredrick said, lowering his voice.
