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“No, but when I was a child the other children used to say I had ghost eyes.”
He furrowed a brow.
“My eyes were pale like those of a person who was dead—a ghost. It didn’t help that my hair was light blond and my skin so pale.”
“Your eyes are beautiful,” he said. “You are beautiful and unique. I imagine all those children were jealous.”
“It’s not as though I had suitors flocking to me as I grew up,” she said, giving him a rueful smile.
“Then those men were blind or stupid. Surely your husband told you that you were beautiful.”
“He did. He was the only man ever to do so...until now.”
“Then I’ll tell you every day, though I would like you even if you resembled a head of cabbage.”
Her eyes widened. “I can’t quite imagine that.”
“I don’t care how you look. You have a beautiful heart, Emily.” He kissed her, and she put her arms around him and kissed him back. And then fifteen minutes must have passed because he was stroking her and arousing her and making love to her all over again.
EMILY WOKE WHEN ITwas still dark. The fire burned low, and it would only be a half hour or so until the charwoman came in to sweep the hearth and build up the fire. Then the rest of the servants would wake and begin preparing hot water and tea and food to break the fast of the palace. If she was to return to her room unobserved, she had best do so now.
Emily pushed the bedclothes off, careful not to wake Will. He slept on his back, one arm thrown over his head. It was difficult not to climb back beside him and kiss him awake. He looked utterly delicious, and she missed lying in his arms already. Her cold, lonely bed would be even colder now that she had a taste of his warmth for a night.
Emily moved about the chamber quietly, gathering her linen chemise and her cloak. It was a simple matter to pull the chemise over her head and tie the strings at the bodice. Then she donned the cloak and sat in the desk chair to push her feet into her slippers.
Finally, she rose, but her cloak swept a piece of paper onto the floor, and she bent to return it to the desk. She glanced at it then frowned. It was written in some strange sort of code. It wasn’t a foreign language. She had seen enough of missives from foreign rulers to recognize almost every form of alphabet. This was a series of shapes and symbols. How odd. Why would Will have a coded letter?
Emily laid the letter on the desk beside a sheet with those same symbols and words in English. She might have left it there and asked Will about it in passing later, but she spotted her name. Heart pounding, Emily lifted the paper with her name and carried it closer to the hearth, where the light was better. She saw immediately what she held. It was the deciphered contents of the coded letter. And the letter had been about the assassination attempt on the queen and the author asked about her role in it.
The print on the page swam as Emily swayed on her feet. The words used, the phrasing, all of it made one thing quite clear to Emily—she was suspected of helping the separatists who wished to assassinate the queen. She was suspected of treason.
And Willoughby Galloway was not who he said he was at all. He was not some mere nobleman who’d wiled away his timeexploring the Continent. No. He was some sort of agent for the Crown or the Foreign Office. He’d been sent here to ferret out the traitor. And he thought that traitor was Emily.
As though the last piece of a puzzle slammed into place, Emily suddenly understood. It was all perfectly clear. So clear that she didn’t know how she hadn’t seen it before. Of course, the Foreign Office suspected the assassins had someone inside the palace helping them. It hurt that suspicion fell on her, but that was to be expected. Jack had possessed strong views on the rights of Ireland, among other things, and it was natural to assume she would also be sympathetic to her late husband’s views, including the Irish wish for Home Rule. She had not helped her situation by suggesting that ride in the park, where the first assassination attempt had occurred.
But Emily hadn’t thought anyone would seriously think she wanted Victoria dead. The idea was ludicrous. And yet, Willoughby Galloway thought exactly that. She’d known he’d quizzed her in Richmond, and yet she’d believed him when he’d given her pretty words. She’d trusted him when he said he was only playing secret agent. Then he’d kissed her and touched her, and she’d forgotten all about it.
But he’d lied. Everything she’d believed about him was a lie. He wasn’t a friend of Prince Albert. He was an agent, and he was here to prove she was a traitor. Had seducing her been part of the plan or just a bonus?
Emily crumpled the paper in her hand. She might have flung it at him or thrown the water from the wash basin over his head, but she didn’t have time. The charwoman would have started on her chores already. Emily had to go or be seen.
She started for the desk, intent on replacing the letter, and then she turned and went to the bed. She placed it on her pillow, still dented from where her head had lain beside Galloway’s. Heslept the sleep of the innocent, though she now knew he was not innocent at all. He was the liar, the traitor.
Emily turned and swept silently out of the chamber. She closed the door behind her and forced herself to walk, not run, back to her chamber. The servants were already up and about, and while they might think it odd she was also awake, they would definitely remark it if she were hurrying or looking frantic.
She passed a maidservant and then a footman. Of course, it was the footman with the red hair who always reminded her of Jack. She lowered her eyes, not wanting to look him in the eye today. It felt too much like Jack chastising her for the way she’d spent the night. She knew Jack wouldn’t have wanted her to spend the rest of her life alone, but she also didn’t want to be reminded of him so soon after spending it with another man, especially when that man had lied to her so thoroughly.
Emily reached her room and shut the door. Alone, she finally allowed herself to crumple to the floor and bury her face in her hands. How could she have gone to bed with a man who thought she was the enemy?
Chapter Twelve
Will woke alone. He’d slept rather later than he was used to, but that was to be expected considering the events of the night before. Not to mention, the events of the days before. He wouldn’t be expected at the breakfast table, though he assumed the queen and the prince would want to speak to him later and to hear about the ordeal.
He also wasn’t surprised Emily was gone. He wished she had stayed, but he knew the queen was strict about morality, and Emily did not want to earn the monarch’s displeasure. She must have tiptoed out in the dark. She should have wakened him. He would have helped her dress and given her a candle to guide the way. But she was too kind, she would have done all she could to avoid disturbing him. He rolled over, his cheek on her pillow, and stared at a slip of paper. His heart sped up. A note?
He lifted it, took one glance, and swore. He sat up, pushed the covers off the bed, and shoved on his trousers. He practically tripped as he grasped the bell pull, summoning his valet so he might dress. He had to speak to Emily. Now. Before she got the wrong idea.
Not that the idea she inferred from the letter he’d decoded was wrong. He had been sent here to find the traitor, and he had been pursuing her as that traitor. No, that wasn’t wrong at all. Neither would she be wrong to assume he wasn’t who he’d said he was. He’d lied about that. He’d had to. He couldn’t exactly walk into Buckingham Palace and tell everyone he was a member of the Royal Saboteurs, here to sabotage theassassination efforts. Either the traitor would have him killed or the separatists would just wait until he’d gone and then make their attempts on the queen’s life again.
