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Melisande nodded once. “Good.”
“But . . .” Mrs. Fitzwilliam swallowed. “He will want me back. I know he will.”
“You said before that you thought it possible he had taken a new mistress,” Melisande said in an even voice.
“Yes. I’m almost sure of it. But that doesn’t matter. His Grace does not like letting go of what he considers his. He keeps things—people—whether or not he wants them, simply because they are his.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam looked out the window as she said this, and Melisande followed her gaze.
Outside the children played with Mouse.
Shew drew in a breath, finally understanding Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s real fear. “I see.”
The other lady watched her children, a private deep love in her eyes that made Melisande feel like an intruder.
“He doesn’t care for them, not really. And he’s not good for the children. I must get them away. I simply must.” Her gaze turned to Melisande. “I have money, but he will track me. I may’ve even been followed here. I need a place far away. Somewhere he won’t think to look. I thought perhaps Ireland or even France. Except I don’t speak French, and I know no one in Ireland.”
Melisande got up and rummaged in a desk in the far corner of the room. “Would you be willing to work?”
Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s eyes widened. “Of course. But I don’t know what I could do. My penmanship is very fine, but no family will hire me on as a governess when I have the children with me. And besides, as I said, I know no French.”
Melisande found some paper, a pen, and ink. She sat down at the desk with a determined smile. “Do you think you could keep house?”
“A housekeeper?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam got up and wandered over. “I don’t know much about keeping a house. I’m not sure—”
“Don’t worry.” Melisande finished writing her note and rang for a footman. “The person I have in mind will be quite lucky to have you, and you needn’t take the position long—just until the duke loses your trail.”
“But—”
One of the footmen entered the room, and Melisande crossed to him with the folded and sealed note. “Take this to the dowager viscountess. Tell her it’s urgent and I would very much appreciate her help.”
“Yes, my lady.” He bowed and left.
“You want me to become the dowager Viscountess Vale’s housekeeper?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam sounded appalled. “I really don’t think—”
Melisande took the other lady’s hands. “I’ve asked to borrow her carriage. You said you might have been followed. The carriage will go ’round back and wait at the end of the mews. We’ll smuggle you and the children in disguised as servants. Your watchers won’t be expecting you to take Lady Vale’s carriage. Trust me, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”
“Oh, please call me Helen,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said absently. “I wish . . . I wish there was some way I could show my thanks.”
Melisande thought a moment before asking, “You said your hand was very fine, didn’t you?”
“Yes?”
“Then there is a small thing you can do for me, if you don’t mind.” Melisande rose and went to the dresser again, pulling out a drawer and taking out a flat box. She brought it back to where Helen sat. “I’ve just finished translating a children’s book for a friend, but my handwriting is deplorable. Could you copy it out fresh for me so that I can have it bound into a book?”
“Oh, yes, certainly.” Helen took the box and smoothed her fingers over the top. “But . . . but where are you sending me? Where are my children and I going?”
Melisande smiled slowly, because she really was rather pleased with herself. “Scotland.”
MELISANDE WAS GONE when Jasper returned that afternoon. Inexplicably this irritated him. He’d been avoiding his lady wife for nearly a full day, and now that he wanted to see her, she wasn’t here. Fickle woman.
He ignored the voice in his head that said he was being an ass and climbed the stairs to his rooms. He paused outside his own door and then looked down the hall to hers. On impulse, he entered her room. Nearly a month ago, he’d come here for answers to who his wife was and had gone away no wiser. Now he’d traveled with her to Scotland, learned she’d had a lover and been with child, made love to her thoroughly and wonderfully, and still—still—he felt that she held something back from him. God! He didn’t even know, after all this time, why she had married him.
Jasper prowled the room. He’d been ridiculously vain when she’d first presented him with her proposal of marriage. He’d assumed—if he’d thought about it at all—that she hadn’t other choices. That she was on the shelf and had no suitors. That he was her last chance at marriage. But now, after living with her, bantering with her, making love to her, Jasper knew that his first vague thoughts were terribly off the mark. She was a quick-witted, intelligent woman. A woman who flamed to life in bed. The kind of woman a man could spend his entire life looking for and never find. But if he did find her . . . then he would make sure he held her and kept her close and happy.
g fght="0%" width="4%">Melisande had had choices. The question was, why had she chosen him?
Jasper found himself in front of her chest of drawers. He stared at them a moment and then bent and pulled out the bottom drawer to find the little tin snuffbox. He straightened with it in his hand. Inside was the same little china dog and the silver button, but the pressed violet was missing. He stirred the items with his finger. Other things had been added to the little cache in place of the violet: a tiny sprig and a few hairs curled together. He picked up the sprig and looked at it. The leaves were narrow, almost needlelike, and small lavender flowers climbed the stem. It was a sprig of heather. From Scotland. And the hair looked like it might very well be his own.
He was frowning down at the snuffbox when behind him the door opened.
