Page 34 of The Companion’s Secret

Not enough, though. Not this time. Felicity was studying her, precisely in the way Cami often took the liberty of studying everyone else. And she saw…something. Something that made her brows, her lips, her fingertips twitch. But whatever it was she had imagined she glimpsed, she did not speak of it.

Instead, she freed herself from Cami’s hands and stepped back across the threshold. “I should leave you to your rest, Cousin. Mama is likely to be a bear in the morning.” Cami nodded her understanding of the warning and closed the door behind Felicity as she left.

Ought she to have confessed what she had done? Confession was good for the soul, it was said. But not as good, perhaps, for Felicity, who would rightfully feel betrayed. Cami had set out with the intention of protecting her. Oh, where had it all gone wrong?

Her eyes darted about the room as if seeking an answer and settled at last on her worktable.

With the book.

She had let herself be drawn to a flesh and blood man merely through the power of her own pen. She pulled the closing pages of the manuscript from the drawer with trembling fingers.

She could fix this. She must.

Chapter 10

As he walked back to St. James’s, Gabriel found himself wishing for more seasonable weather. Cold, damp. The sort of air that would cool a man’s ardor in half a moment, or at least half a mile. Instead, the balmy warmth encouraged his thoughts to persist in untoward directions.

After a while, he gave up and let himself think of her. Of Camellia. Dark hair spilling from a band of poppy-red ribbon. Another flash of color, another glimpse of the woman inside. On her lips, he had tasted the lemonade she had drunk—or perhaps that delicious combination of tart and sweet had simply been the taste of her. God, but he wanted to kiss her senseless. Every inch of her. But worse than that, he wanted to talk with her. Tease out her thoughts on import tariffs, the value of native culture, and Irish independence—issues about which he had never troubled himself before. Before making love to her. After. Perhaps even while making love to her, if that’s what it took to put a spark in those green eyes…though there were a few other things he’d want to try first.

Instead, he forced himself to imagine sitting opposite Felicity in the breakfast parlor at Finch House, a twelvemonth hence, discussing…nothing of importance. They would have risen from their separate beds and met there quite by accident. She would be poring over her invitations. He would only too gladly offer to breakfast at his club instead.

Better yet, she would be at Stoke by next spring. A baby in the nursery, or on the way. He would stay in town, of course, and—and what? Visit Tattersalls and pretend to care about horseflesh? God, he could hardly imagine anything more boring.

But boredom was his goal in a way, was it not? No more gambles. Just a life of quiet respectability until he passed Stoke Abbey, his title, and all the rest, whole and—well, not unblemished, but hopefully polished up a bit—to his own son.

And to do that, he need only spend the rest of his life with Lady Felicity Trenton, for whom he did not, and thank God would never, feel anything like passion. If that seemed like too great a price to pay, then he had forgotten the most important lesson of his childhood: the sort of wretched bills that came due when a man wagered with his heart instead of his head.

When he let himself into his rooms with his key, all was quiet. His footsteps echoed along the corridor; the rugs had been rolled up in preparation for his move to Finch House. Here and there sat a half-full packing crate. Skirting them with care, he made his way to his study, expecting to find more crates, hoping at least that his chair still sat by the window.

It did. But it was not empty.

Clad in the sort of clothes that would allow him to slip in unnoticed almost anywhere, Remington sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, an unlit pipe clutched in one hand. Fox sat in the chair opposite, in a similar posture of defeat. When Remy offered to rise, Gabriel waved him off. They had never really stood on the normal ceremony of master and servant; he saw no need to start tonight.

“What is it, then?”

Fox raised hollow eyes to his face. “I’ve come straight from Victoria’s. Lord Havisham was there, bending Dalrymple’s ear about the assassination attempt on the king. Seems the culprits have been caught. A French girl and two men claiming to be her brothers.”

French. Just as Uncle Finch had suggested. “Oh?” It was a struggle to keep his voice flat, uninterested. Had the man made a lucky guess, or was he in a position to know something? “That’s good news, I presume?”

“For some.” Remy fiddled with his pipe.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Gabriel looked from one to the other expectantly. “Out with it.”

“The girl’s name is Adele Vallon.”

Gabriel dropped like a stone onto the footstool. “Damn.”

“So it’s true?” Fox demanded. “You do know her?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Now is not the time for mincing words, Ash. Was she your mistress?” His friend did not meet his eye, clearly wary of the answer.

“No. No!” But even the second, more forceful denial was met with skepticism, a slight raising of the shoulders, like a man warding off a blow. Or a lie. “I met her at a gaming establishment—”

“One of those wretched hells, I suppose you mean?”

“Yes.” One of the seediest. The sort he frequented only when his prey could not be run to ground elsewhere. “She was working the floor. When Viscount Steyne made her a, ah, proposal, I…intervened.” He had spoken to her in French as she passed on Steyne’s arm, and relief had flooded her expression. Her dark eyes, overlarge in a narrow, sallow face, had been enough to confirm his suspicion: she was too young and knew too little English to be making the devilish sort of bargain he had just overheard her making with that libertine. Spurning the viscount, she had latched onto Gabriel instead, clinging to his arm, treating him as a sort of protector.