Page 49 of The Companion’s Secret

Róisín played for their supper or a room for the night, and all who heard her were enchanted.

When she had written those words, Cami had never imagined they would be a sort of premonition of her own fate. As soon as they sat down to a simple luncheon in the public room of the Green Hart Inn, she drained her cup of tea in a single swallow, though it was hot enough to sear her throat in passing. As soon as she returned her cup and saucer to the table, Gabriel picked up the teapot and refilled it without being asked, looking ever so slightly guilty for having kept her at her task for so long. Lady Merrick’s considerably more limited span of attention had never required her to sit and read for hours at a time.

“I have been thinking about our conversation at Lady Penhurst’s,” he said. “So, you decided to come to London in hopes of finding a publisher for a book I assume you wrote in secret?”

She nodded. No point in denying it now.

“But why not stay in Dublin? A work of such obvious Irish pride, as Dawkins himself noted—”

“My intention was not to reach an Irish audience, my lord, but an English one.” Picking up her spoon, she prodded at the bowl of lamb stew the servant set before her. “There are those who know nothing more of my country than what may be displayed on the London stage or sketched in a broadside cartoon. How can they be expected to imagine Ireland as a country with its own culture and traditions, a place quite apart from Britain, and worthy of its independence? I hoped to help them see another side of the story.”

As she spoke, she could feel his eyes on her, watching her shift the peas to one side of her dish. A childish habit. Reluctantly, she swirled her spoon through the brown gravy, mixing them back in again. Then she forced down a bite, peas and all, swallowing too quickly to taste them.

“And Dawkins believes he will find readers for that story? To be honest, I had not thought a novel the proper medium for politics.”

“I suppose you mean to imply it is an improper one?” Crumbs scattered across the table as she gestured impatiently with the hunk of bread she had torn from the loaf to chase the dreadful stew. “Because ladies read novels?”

“And write them, it would seem. As do gentlemen,” he added hastily when she reached for the butter knife. “I meant what I said, Camellia. I have no patience with those of my sex who would argue that ladies have neither the brains nor the stomach for politics. The men who hold to such a belief cannot have known many women.”

“Whereas you have known a great many, I suppose.” The words popped from her mouth before she thought how they would sound. All those months in Aunt Merrick’s reproving company and she still had not learned to restrain her tongue.

He did not laugh, as she had half expected, though there was amusement in his eyes as his gaze flickered over her. “Perhaps I only thought I knew them.” Before she could revel in her satisfaction at this admission, however, he spoke again. “It is tempting, is it not, to presume greater knowledge of another than we can possibly have, even after intimate study?”

It might have been an allusion to his own behavior of last night. But she felt certain it was intended to be a reprimand of the use she’d made of him in her book.

Why on earth should she be expected to feel remorse for what she had done? He himself had said that everyone knew the extent of his villainy.

Still, she wondered what he would say when he heard the rest of Róisín’s tale.

While she poked at the contents of her bowl, Gabriel finished his stew, even wiping the bowl with a bit of bread, then drained his mug of ale. “Order something else, if you’d like. I’m going to stretch my legs.”

She could think of several perfectly rational reasons to stay put. For one thing, as he’d pointed out, she hadn’t finished eating—or even started, really. And her ankle was tender, though admittedly not so badly injured that a little exercise would harm it. Most of all, she sensed that he wanted time alone.

Hesitating only a moment, she swallowed the dregs of her now tepid tea, picked up a thick slab of the crusty bread and a piece of cheese, and went after him.

She caught up with him just outside the door. Wordlessly, he held out his arm to her, and she took it. Walking slowly, almost certainly for her benefit, he set out in the direction of a tumbling-down pile of stones in the distance that passed for a picturesque ruin, the village’s sole attraction to travelers. When they drew within a hundred yards of it, he stopped. “Any closer and the effect will be spoiled entirely.”

Already they were close enough to see that the dilapidated structure was too small ever to have been a castle or a church. A byre, more likely. A few sheep wandered among the rocks, nibbling at the weeds.

Cami seated herself on the stile and finished her bread and cheese, while Gabriel stood nearby. The peace and quiet here was nothing like the bustle of London. Not even Dublin. It unsettled her, reminded her that she was meant to be racing home to avert a disaster.

Though he was staring into the distance, Gabriel seemed to read her thoughts. “What do you expect to find when you get to Ireland?”

“I cannot say. My brother Paris may be involved in—well, what he does is entirely his own choosing, of course. The real worry is that he may have involved my brother Galen in something—something—”

“Something dangerous,” he finished as he came to sit down beside her. “Your cousin feared that it might have to do with the United Irishmen.”

Cami felt her eyes flare and knew her surprised expression was as good as a confession, but she could not stop herself. The United Irishmen had been driven underground years before. The very name was forbidden to be spoken by its members. If Felicity could guess as much, though, how secret could their plots be? How long before her brothers were caught up in one of them?

“Yes.” The whispered word was soon lost among the wind rustling through the grasses and the plaintive notes of a ewe bleating to her lambs.

“I see.” He looked grave. And very, very English. Good God, he was an aristocrat, a member of the House of Lords. As far as the British government was concerned, the United Irishmen—her brothers—were traitors and criminals. Why on earth had she trusted him with that admission?

Probably because last night she had trusted him with everything else.

“Cathal and Fergus are really Paris and Galen, are they not?” he went on. “With their love of country and eloquent pride in its history…” As he spoke, he took her hands in his, and she realized she must have left her gloves lying on the table in the inn. “Along with an utter inability to see how their sister’s gift could save it. And you are the wild Irish rose herself…though I do not think you play the harp.” When he lifted her fingers as if to inspect them for the telltale calluses the instrument’s strings would produce, he found only ink stains, of course. His thumb brushed across them, but this time, he did not lift them to his lips.

Disappointment tickled in the back of her throat like tears.