Page 103 of Scandalous

“I have agreed to sign over my ship and properties—including Oak Park. In exchange for that he has agreed to free Valerie and the boy. If he kills me and seems unwilling to keep his word to me, offer him money. I have a great deal of money tucked away, far more than d’Armand can possibly know about.”

Exley grimaced. “It is a wretched coincidence we only took care of the deed to Oak Park recently.”

Martín would have called it something far worse. “Let’s hope he doesn’t get anything from me.”

Exley’s blank stare said what he thought of such wishful thinking.

“Ramsay knows about the money I have hidden and he will help you . . . after, if I am no longer able.” Martín’s mind spun as he tried to consider every eventuality. “Put the boy and the woman on Ramsay’s ship. I will leave Ramsay a letter and ask him to make arrangements to take them to one of his foreign properties. He will protect them.” Martín looked into the hard, pale face across from him. “You will see to this for me, if I am gone?”

“Yes, I will see to it. You should go now,” the marquess said, opening a drawer and taking out a sheet of paper. “You have matters to see to, and I must send a message to d’Armand’s second.”

When Martín reached the door to the study, he turned around to thank the man for his help. But Exley was already bent over his desk, the scratching of his quill moving across paper the only sound in the large room. Martín swallowed his words of thanks and quietly left the room.

Exley was correct; he did have matters to see to. One of those matters was a letter to Sarah.

Chapter Thirty

Sarah closed the door to her Uncle Septimus’s study and leaned against the glossy brown wood to catch her breath. The meeting with her uncles had not been as bad as she’d feared. In fact, her uncles had seemed almost resigned to her plans. Her Aunt Anna on the other hand, had been appalled.

“You’re going to do what?”

“I’m going back to Africa to build a school and an orphanage,” Sarah repeated.

The older woman’s eyes were wide and almost crazed. She turned to her elder brothers.

“Can you not do something? She cannot do this foolish thing if she has no money to do it.”

Septimus smiled, and Sarah’s heart hurt at the pain she saw in his eyes.

“We settled her inheritance on her outright, Anna. We did not want to use the promise or the threat of money to make her stay. It was our hope she would remain in London, but Barnabus believed she would probably wish to return to Africa. She is, after all, from there, Anna.”

His words had made Sarah blink. Her staid, proper uncles—the same men who’d wanted her to marry Mies—had believed all along she might leave?

The realization that they had believed such a thing yet treated her so lovingly had made her weep. Indeed, she was still crying. She brushed the back of her hand across her damp eyes and straightened away from the study door.

The deed was done, and she had told her family. The only thing left to do now was to finalize her plans. She squared her shoulders and strode toward the smallest sitting room, an unused chamber that she’d claimed as her sanctum.

Sarah’s mind went from the meeting she’d just left to her immediate future. She’d already set her plans in motion. Paul Cuffe had helped her, and the Manton sisters had promoted her cause among their wealthy donors. She had acquired—

“Miss Fisher?”

Sarah squeaked and spun around.

A footman was behind her. “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to startle you. A letter came for you.” He held out a thick cream envelope.

She looked at the envelope and froze. She knew only one person who possessed such bold, almost outrageous handwriting.

It was from Martín.

Her eyes swept over the writing again and again, as if to convince her brain they’d not misled her. She reached out to steady herself against the wall.

“Are you all right, Miss Fisher?”

Sarah looked up from the envelope and gave the footman a reassuring smile. “Yes, thank you, Charles.” She watched the man depart before making her way down the hall on legs as unsteady as a toddler’s.

Once inside the soothing, mint-green sitting room, she practiced breathing deeply while staring at the letter in her hands. His handwriting looked bolder and more confident since she’d last seen it; he’d been practicing.

Why had he written instead of coming to see her? It could not be good.