Page 69 of The Lady Plays with Fire

He was not yet prepared to make that confession aloud, however; at least, not to her brother. Instead, he rose to his feet. “You say you wish your sister’s happiness—”

“I do.” Her brother stood, too, and looked Graham up and down with a clear eye and a firmly set jaw. “Though no doubt you think that to ask it of a man with your history is unpardonably naïve of me.”

Graham jerked back as if struck. “What do you know of my history?”

“Enough. I know that your title was no blessing to you, coming as it did. And I know you lost a brother to this damned war, and I’m heartily sorry for it.”

The mention of Rory caught him by surprise, and he stiffened, his bow of acknowledgment for Sterling’s words of condolence little more than a jerk of his chin. “Julia told you as much?”

“No. I learned of it just this morning. I had a meeting with my commanding officer.” At Graham’s look of puzzlement, he added, “I take it Julia didn’t mention that I’m an intelligence officer? Under the command of General Zebadiah Scott.”

It took Graham a moment to recall the gentleman with whom he had played cards at the Clearwaters’. And another moment to reflect on the possibility that people had been investigating him, perhaps on Julia’s behalf, for some time.

“No, she didn’t.”

“Don’t bandy that about, of course,” Sterling added in a lower tone. “But since you’re to be one of the family, I don’t see any harm in you knowing.”

Was it possible that this visit, the one he’d first seen as a threat or a warning, had, in fact, been a gesture of trust?

“The truth is . . .” Sterling gave a rueful smile and ran a finger beneath his collar, as if the uniform chafed. “I’m much more suited to such weapons as those”—he nodded toward the littered desktop—“than this sword.”

“The pen is said to be the deadliest weapon of all,” Graham offered, and the two men shared a glance that could only be called one of understanding.

A slightly awkward silence followed, which Sterling attempted to fill by gruffly clearing his throat. “Well,” he went on, after another glance around the room, “I should leave you to your business. There will be time for getting acquainted and settling matters and planning a wedding when the play is over.”

“Yes,” Graham agreed. “My time then will be a great deal more my own.”

Which was to say, hers—if she meant to have him.

Together, they strode across the room, their booted treads muffled by the plush wool carpet. At the door, Sterling thrust out his hand.

Graham hesitated only for a moment before taking it in a firm grasp and clapping Sterling on one epaulet-covered shoulder. “You are right to say that happiness has not always been my lot, Sterling. But you may rest assured, I will do my best to make it Julia’s.”

“I could not ask for more.” He started across the threshold, then paused. “Well, one thing more. I would appreciate it if you didn’t say anything about this visit to—”

“Your sister.” Graham nodded, almost conspiratorially.

Sterling laughed. “Actually, I was going to say ‘my wife.’ Her spirit is even more, ah, independent than Julia’s. She does not approve of interference—unless she’s the one causing it,” he added with a wink. “And if she is, then heaven help you.”

Graham remembered that Mrs. Hayes had said something about “Lady Sterling” being in all the papers. Perhaps he would have Keynes look into that little mystery next. “I look forward to meeting her. She sounds an interesting woman.”

Part compliment, part commiseration.

One corner of Sterling’s mouth kicked up. “She is that, indeed.”

When he left, Graham returned to his desk, more determined than ever to set things right. He had known already that marriage to Julia would bring a thousand blessings.

Until this morning, however, he had never considered that one of them might be a brother.

Chapter 21

Julia approached Covent Garden on opening night of The Poison Pen with the same anticipation she had approached it on the first night of the Season.

No, greater anticipation.

In fact, she wasn’t even sure anticipation was the proper word to describe the emotions currently at war within her. Her stomach was twisted in knots, and so were her fingers—both, thankfully, invisible to Aunt Mildred. Surely, though, she could feel Julia’s leg, bouncing nervously beneath her skirts.

As evidence that her state of agitation had not entirely escaped notice, when the carriage turned onto Bow Street, Aunt Mildred admonished Julia with the same words she used every time: “Settle yourself, my dear. We’re nearly there.”