Page 69 of The Companion’s Secret

“‘A lady.’ That is all the printer will say. One of your countrywomen, evidently, as Lord Sebastian said. And something of a radical.”

Remembering her uncle’s wink, she tried to detect any hint of slyness in her cousin’s voice or face. Did she, too, suspect?

To hide her own expression, Cami dropped her eyes to the page Felicity had put before her, some early bantering exchange between Lord Granville and Róisín. The villain’s similarity to Gabriel struck her afresh. No wonder Lord Sebastian seemed sure he could use the story against his nephew.

“Why, Cousin Camellia, are you ill?” Felicity rose and hurried to her side. “I should have realized the story might upset you. It has made you think of things you would doubtless rather forget.”

Cami looked down and realized she was crumpling the pages of the magazine. With trembling fingers, she tried to smooth them out.

She’d given Gabriel the story for safekeeping. Oh, what had he done?

Chapter 22

“I would not wish to complain, my lord.” From the doorway, Arthur Remington spoke in his starchiest voice. “But that…creature would seem to have found another of my shoes.”

The rumbling, gnawing sound of a beast worrying its prey drew Gabriel’s attention from what he had been reading to the carpet that stretched between the doorway and his customary chair near the window. Nearly half of what had been a fine Turkish rug was covered by the sprawling form of a large tan dog whose enormous feet indicated it still had a great deal of growing to do.

“Has she?” He dropped onto one knee to scratch the dog’s ears with his left hand, while the right snatched away her plaything. “Now, Elf, my girl. We both know Remy has decidedly poor taste in footwear, but you mustn’t keep tormenting him about it.” As Gabriel held up what remained of the shoe, now dripping with slobber, Remington regarded both master and dog with an uncharacteristically fastidious shudder. “Remember, he only agreed to let me bring you here after I gave him his ticket to leave, and if we are too bad, he might just decide to use it.” He dropped his voice lower, as if taking the dog in confidence. “I confess I did not write him a glowing character, for I did not wish it to go to his head, but I suspect he’s more than capable of forging a better one.”

Remington only arched one brow. “If you are quite through, my lord? You have a visitor.”

“In broad afternoon? Surely Foxy has better things to occupy—”

“It is not Mr. Fox, my lord. I’ve taken the liberty of letting her in.”

Her?

With the slightest tip of his head, Remy stepped to the side, and the doorway now framed a slender, bespectacled woman with raven hair.

“Camellia.”

He was quite certain he must be hallucinating, until Elf lumbered to her feet and began to snuffle around the apparition’s hems. Camellia did not flinch—more proof she was a product of his wayward imagination. He reached out one hand to catch the dog’s collar, discovered he was still holding the battered, slobber-coated shoe, and dropped it. Delighted at the unexpected return of her plaything, Elf snatched it up and resumed her prior occupation.

So many times in the weeks since he’d left Dublin, he’d been on the point of throwing caution to the wind and going back to her. Then he would remember: She had made her choice. A wise woman, as he’d once said. Too wise to plan a future with him.

Still kneeling, hand outstretched, Gabriel held his breath when Camellia reached out and laid her fingers in his.

She was warm. Flesh and blood. Real.

“Gabriel?” As usual her green eyes were scouring him from head to toe.

At the questioning note in her voice, he gave a self-deprecating laugh, rose to his feet, and led her around the dog and into the room. “When did you return to town?”

“Only yesterday.” She was clad in one of her plain, loose-fitting dresses. Remy must already have relieved her of her pelisse and gloves and bonnet.

“Alone?”

To his relief, she shook her head. “Erica is with me. She was eager to leave Dublin.”

“Understandably so.” He gestured her to a chair and returned to his own. “Is she otherwise well?”

The question required more reflection than he had expected. “I—I am not entirely certain. Erica is my sister, and dear to me, but she and I have never…” She paused again. “I am not in her confidence.”

“I see.” It was Gabriel’s turn to hesitate. “And you? Are you well?”

“I hardly know that, either.” Her voice acquired a sharper edge. “Over the past six weeks, I have been torturing myself, thinking what might have become of you.” He’d been torturing himself, too, trying not to think of her and certain she had not been thinking of him. “I made myself picture you with my cousin,” she said, and he could tell by the uncomfortable set of her jaw precisely what that picture had entailed. “I even told myself you must be dead. I thought I had imagined every conceivable scenario. I did not, however, picture you cozy at home with a dog.”

Hawthorne had foisted the mastiff pup on him when he’d passed by Stoke on his way back to London, insisting Gabriel would benefit from the responsibility of caring for her, as well as from the canine devotion he would receive in return. Whether the steward had been right was a secret Gabriel intended to carry to his grave.