Page 70 of The Companion’s Secret

Realizing she was the topic of conversation, Elf paused in her destruction of the shoe, looked from one to the other of them, then heaved herself to her overlarge feet and came to lay her head on Camellia’s knee. Gabriel reacted swiftly to spare her, leaning forward to pull the dog away, but to his shock, Camellia laid her palm on Elf’s head and smoothed the wrinkled skin there.

“I met Mr. Fox today,” she continued, and her voice seemed to him to have lost some of its sharp edge. “He was walking his dogs on Hampstead Heath, near where Erica and I have taken a house.”

“Was it he who brought you here?” Gabriel asked in genuine surprise. Fox could be a stickler for propriety, and it was most improper for a lady to call on a gentleman—to say nothing of bearding a rogue in his den.

“No. He took me to Trenton House to see Felicity. I came away with a great deal of information.” That, Gabriel suspected, was a bit of an understatement. “From there I walked to Grosvenor Square, but the butler at Finch House insisted you were not at home. I had not yet decided what step I should take next, when your downstairs parlor maid—a French girl by the name of Adele—whispered to me I might find you here.” She paused. “Is she the one? Did you manage to help her once more?”

“Remy did it, actually. By the time I returned to London, he’d rounded up proof she could not have been involved in the assassination attempt. After that, it was no great matter to secure her release.”

“And to clear your name as well.”

“Yes.” Though the resolution to his uncle’s threat had been rather anti-climactic, the thought of what might have happened still had the power to make him wake in a cold sweat. Or perhaps that was simply a consequence of waking alone. “Of course, that was not all I had to do in town. You had given me a commission to execute.”

“You refer, I suppose, to taking The Wild Irish Rose to Mr. Dawkins. But I had not considered it a commission.”

Without conscious thought, he reached into his coat pocket and rubbed his fingertips over the length of silk ribbon he had secreted there. “Perhaps not. Still, Dawkins was glad to have it.” It had required all Gabriel’s strength to part from the pages over which she had labored, however. “He told me he considered it an ideal test for his new publishing method.”

Her eyes were fixed on the motion of her own thumb, stroking the dog’s short fur along the line where the black mask of her face met the tan of her body. Elf gave a blissful groan, and a damp spot began to form on Camellia’s knee beneath the dog’s drooping jowls. After a moment, Camellia said, “What if the story provides society with fresh proof that what your uncle says about you is true?”

“Because of Granville, you mean?” He made a scoffing sound in his throat. “People see what they wish to see. And in any case, it’s only a story, as someone once told me. It’s hardly proof of a crime. A solicitor’s daughter ought to know that.”

“Your uncle knows you were in Dublin, however. What if it’s also discovered you were aiding and abetting the United Irishmen? Oh, Gabriel.” Her whole body sagged. “Why did you do it? The trip, the code, the book…”

“Why did you send me away?” he countered.

“Because I was afraid,” she said, her voice raw in its honesty. “Because I could not bear to have you take more risks and make more sacrifices.” Briefly, her hand stopped its motion. “Because I love you.”

His breath caught in his chest. “Ah. Then you understand.” Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he echoed her movement, fingering a seam in the leather of the chair’s rolled arm. “And because I love you, I could not bear it if your story were never told.”

“Róisín’s story,” she corrected swiftly. “Ireland’s story.”

“Your story.” He pushed himself forward in his chair, drawing her eyes with the movement. “The words of your heart and your mind and your pen.”

“Those words may yet add to your troubles,” she pointed out.

He shook his head. “If you will persist in claiming that they have anything to do with me, say only that they’ve added to my legend.” Surely that was a flicker of amusement that crossed her expression? “I had to do something,” he continued, letting some of the old mockery creep back into his voice. “All this talk about my good deeds was quite ruining my reputation. As it is, I suspect no one will ever look at Lord Ash the same way again.”

Quickly, she rose—to hide a smile, he thought. Unhappy at being disturbed, Elf gave a little groan of displeasure and turned to Gabriel. But he too had got to his feet. Resigned, the dog flopped onto the carpet and went back to chewing on Remy’s shoe.

“Mr. Dawkins’s new scheme of printing books in parts seems promising,” Camellia said, drawing one fingertip along the spines lining the bookshelf. “But what does he mean to do about the ending? The manuscript you gave him was unfinished.”

“I’m not sure.” Gabriel felt hopeful but hesitant, a gambler with a promising hand, waiting for the deal of the final card to decide his fate. “Have you changed your mind about the outcome of the story?”

She paused, evidently puzzling over the title of some thick volume. The ink stains on her hand had faded. Not surprising if the circumstances of recent weeks had curtailed her writing, he supposed, but those marks of her literary labors were as much a part of her as her emerald eyes and her quick tongue, and he missed them now as he had been missing all the rest of her for weeks.

“I confess it’s been troubling me for some time,” she said at last. “I had hoped to show my readers that Ireland was more than capable of being independent.”

He dared to take a step closer. “And you have.”

“But Papa says the outcome of the rebellion will almost certainly mean more English control, not less.”

His heart sank a little as he imagined how she and her brothers must feel about such a result. “I fear he’s probably right. Not exactly a happy ending for Róisín, to be under the thumb of a man who’s proven himself unworthy of her.”

Turning, she fixed him with that familiar defiant spark in her eye. “Róisín, under a man’s thumb?” Her nose wrinkled slightly and her head wagged in disbelief. “She has far too much spirit for that.”

“True,” he agreed, and hope dared to swell once more. “But what then?”

She steepled her fingertips before her and looked thoughtful. “I had in mind a match made on more even ground, in which each complemented what the other lacked. A true union, in which the whole is stronger than the parts.”