Page 80 of A Figure of Love

Gareth gritted his teeth and stared at the nearly blank page in front of him. While he was grateful for the book’s capacity to entertain his friend and keep his mind off more destructive thoughts, he’d developed an abiding hatred for the relentlessly interfering Emma Woodhouse, her hen-witted friend who fell in and out of love more often than most people changed their stockings, and the fawning Mr. Elton, whose unrelenting obsequiousness only reaffirmed every suspicion Gareth had ever held about vicars and clergy.

Now that his friend appeared to have regained some of his health and good spirits Gareth no longer felt consumed by worrying over him every minute. Instead, he now had plenty of time to worry about his other concerns. While Declan slept and convalesced, Gareth increasingly thought of reasons why it was imperative he go back to Rushton Park. He told himself he didn’t need any excuse—it was his house—but he hated to think how foolish he would look haring back after the letter he’d left her.

Remembering the letter made him grimace, although he reassured himself that he’d said nothing cruel or cutting in it. He tried to picture her kissing Bardot and generate some anger to excuse his cold missive. But he’d found the jarring mental image had dimmed the longer he’d been away. It had been replaced by more pleasurable images—the memory of her body sheathed by her wet, translucent chemise, or her arms above her head, her body vulnerable to his ravaging hands and mouth.

He closed his eyes in disgust when he realized he was, yet again, as hard as a pikestaff.

“Here, then, Gare. Isn’t that one of your grooms?”

Gareth looked up. “What?”

Declan was leaning over and looking out the window, which overlooked the back of the inn.

“Yes, I swear that is the fellow called Timkins. And that looks like one of your new horses—the one the boy named Lightning.”

Gareth came from behind the desk to look out the window. Yes, it was Timkins, and he was talking to the innkeeper and following him inside. What the devil?

There was a knock on the door a few minutes later.

Timkins and the innkeeper stood in the hall.

“Ah, Mr. Lockheart. This gentleman says he has a message for you. I thought I would accompany him and make sure it was—”

“Yes, he is my employee. Thank you, Mr.Trencher, come inside, Timkins.”

Gareth closed the door on the innkeeper before he could recommence talking and turned to the young groom. “What is it?”

“Mr. Jessup sent me, sir.” Timkins, familiar with his master’s preference for brevity, handed Gareth a thick envelope.

He looked at his grit-covered servant and realized he must have started out quite early to have arrived here before noon. “Go see to your needs. I have engaged every room on this floor and those above, take one of them for yourself.”

Timkins nodded and left without a word.

Gareth realized Declan had risen from his comfortable chair and was staring at the letter in his hand.

He opened it and found two separate sheets of paper. The first bore Jessup’s elegant script:

“Mr. Lockheart:

This letter was found at first light by one of the servants, wedged between the main doors (the letter bore today’s date) and addressed to you. You will notice the word “urgent” written on the face of the message and your name. Given the nature of its unusual mode of delivery I thought it worthwhile to send Timkins with it first thing. I would have consulted with Mrs. Lombard, but she has made an unexpected journey to assist a sick friend in Dover.”

Respectfully,

M.J. Jessup”

Gareth’s eyes snagged on the last sentence, which was glaringly un-Jessuplike. Why would he have consulted Mrs. Lombard about such a matter? The answer to that was simple: he would not have. Jessup did not speak of Gareth’s business to anyone. He was a paragon of discretion. If he added this sentence, it was to indicate—in his inscrutable way—that something was not right.

Gareth looked up and met Declan’s impatient stare. He handed him the letter and opened the second, smaller, envelope.

“To Mr. Garth Lockhart, he that is a sucksessful man of bisness.

We have some one who is nown to You and are keeping her safe now, but cant promise she will keep being safe. If You are wanting to make shur of her good helth You will come with no heel dragging and bring £2000 as reward four owr hard work. Come only with Your Self to the Ship Hotel in Dover and tell the hed-drawer you want to by a grey horse. We will wait only until the new moon.”

Gareth read the letter three times, but it still made no sense. The new moon was four days hence. He had four days. He looked up to find Declan holding the letter with a perplexed look on his face. His eyes drifted to the one in Gareth’s hand. “Well?”

Gareth re-folded the letter. “I’m afraid it is a matter of some urgency. Mrs. Lombard’s Italian marble has become mired in customs in Dover.”

Declan’s expression was comical. “Marble? All this about some rock?” Amazement vied with skepticism.