“Iris?” Camelia pushed herself up, concern flaring in her delicate features. “Is something amiss?”
“I do not know,” Iris answered, which was true. Dread had already uncurled in her stomach like smoke. “It is probably nothing. Some little matter with the house. I shall be back directly.”
The Brentmere morning room smelled faintly of beeswax and daffodils. Mrs. Henkings sat on the very edge of a chair, hat still pinned to her gray-streaked hair, her strong hands clenchedaround her reticule, and her capable face had gone an unhealthy yellowish white.
“Mrs. Henkings.” Relief and worry collided in Iris’s chest. “Has something happened at Hentley House? Are you well? Is?—”
“Oh, my lamb.” The endearment, used only in the most private, dire moments, cut through her questions. Mrs. Henkings surged to her feet, then seemed to catch herself, as though remembering her place in a ducal household. Her chin trembled.
“No,” Iris said, very calmly. “You will tell me at once.”
The housekeeper swallowed.
“It is His Grace, my lady,” she blurted. “The Duke of Knoxford.”
Every thought evaporated, and Iris’s body went oddly light, as if she had risen out of herself.
“What of him?” Iris asked, composed but for the way her fingers dug into the skirts
“There was an accident,” Mrs. Henkings said. “His private skiff was found overturned near Waterloo Bridge, they say, yesterday morning. No one saw it capsize, but it was his, sure enough.” She pressed a crumpled handkerchief to her mouth. “They have found no body. But the river…” She shook her head helplessly. “The river takes what it pleases.”
Iris heard a gasp behind her. Camelia stood in the doorway, clasping her mouth. Iris’s lungs refused to work for a heartbeat; then air rushed in too fast, and slow panic began. Absurd and violent images collided in her mind. She did not want to picture him in that way; she wanted to see Blaise standing at the hearth at Hentley House, his broad shoulders filling the doorway of what had once been her study. She wanted to feel his warm hand closing around her wrist again and savor the mocking curve of his mouth.
Iris began to shake; she sat heavily in a chair as Camelia’s housemaid faffed over her.
“You said presumed dead?” she asked shakily.
Mrs. Henkings reached into her reticule and drew out a folded scrap of paper; it was creased as if it had been opened and closed a dozen times. She placed it into Iris’s hands and kept a finger on her lip as she looked around to see if anyone could hear her.
“This came to me not an hour after the news. A boy brought it and said only that I was to put it straight into your hand,” she whispered.
Fear flared again, quick as a match. Iris eyed the slip of paper as if it might explode. It was Blaise’s handwriting. Her fingers did not feel entirely under her command as she opened it. The paper was coarse and thick. No seal, only a hastily folded edge.
You are the only one I can trust.
Meet me outside the Reynolds Club at night.
* * *
Iris waited patiently in the hackney outside London’s newest and most popular club. An hour was passing by, and she wondered if perhaps it was a trap. Just as she was about to escape, a tall, dark figure emerged and sat opposite her. She held her breath.
“Viscount Vale’s estate,” he called out, and his deep voice caused her to shiver. “You will catch your death like that.” He addressed her as the hackney lurched forward.
Iris felt her cheeks flush as he studied her. She waited until the street looked quieter and emptier.
“You are one to speak of death!” she snapped.
In the flicker of a streetlamp, Blaise’s face came into sudden stark relief, and she perceived his angular cheekbones, the dark stubble along his jaw, and the scar that ran from brow to jaw like a pale, vicious stroke. It caught the light and then disappeared again as they trundled back into shadow. But it was enough for her to sigh in relief.
He is alive.
“You have heard, then.” He slouched lazily in the corner, but she could see the tension in the line of his thigh, in the way hisgloved hand tapped a rhythm against his knee. “About my tragic demise.”
“Oh, could you have made it any scarier?” Iris asked, fighting the emotion in her voice and the fresh tears that threatened to fall. “I left my sister’s house in such a hurry, but I told them I would be at Hentley House. I pray they do not venture there. You are already more interesting dead than you ever were alive.”
“Impossible.” His mouth kicked up at one corner in that infuriating way she missed. “I was exceedingly interesting alive.”
“You are a conceited creature.” She realized she was staring too intently at the wet gleam of his hair, at the solid breadth of him in the dim carriage. She wrenched her gaze back to the window. “How dare you?”
