Where the hell was he? She needed to get to Berwick and Broad Street.
Just as she spun to go back up the stairs to tell Violet she was commandeering her carriage, Adalia caught sight through a window of Toren’s carriage going past the town house. It didn’t stop to let him out, so Adalia opened the front door to watch where it went.
The shiny black coach turned at the end of the block. The mews. Toren must need to speak to the stable master. Adalia slammed the front door closed and raced through the house to get to the back alleyway.
She had made it halfway through the rear gardens when Toren came through the back gate from the mews.
He jumped at seeing her running full force at him. A smile flashed, and then vanished as he realized what was on her face.
Panic. Pure, terrifying panic had taken hold of her.
“Adalia—what—what has happened?”
She stumbled at the last second, falling into him and catching herself on his chest. His hands were instantly on her upper arms, bracing her from falling farther.
She waved the note in his face. “This. This came, Toren.”
His worried eyes didn’t leave her face. “Adalia, you are near hysterics.”
She shoved the piece of paper in front of his eyes. “Look at the note, Toren. Just look at it.”
He stilled, reading the note. With the paper between their faces, she couldn’t see his reaction, but his fingers tightened, digging into her arm muscles before he abruptly released her and took a step backward.
Her hand dropped, the crinkled paper no longer between them.
Toren’s face had gone impossibly indifferent. Cold.
She waved the note. “What could this be? Who would do this? About Caldwell? Alfred? Theo? Why?”
He didn’t answer her—no reaction.
She stared at him, at the stiffness his body exuded, at the mask—void of any emotion—that had taken over his face. Dammit. No. Not now. Not when she needed him.
And then a possibility crept ever so slowly into her consciousness. “Wait—you understand—you know what this note is about, don’t you?”
His brown eyes left her, his look going to the top of the tall evergreen hedge that lined the perimeter of the garden. “I had thought . . . There is no way out of it.” Belying the mask of indifference he had erected, the words slipped, muttered, from his lips.
But Adalia heard. She heard perfectly clear.
“What? No way out of what? What are you not telling me, Toren?”
“I thought I could, but I can hide the truth no longer, Adalia. Not with your safety at stake.”
His look dropped to her, his facade of detachment splintering, cracking in his brown eyes. That alone chilled her, her blood turning to ice, heavy in her veins.
“Truth?” Her whisper escaped, so soft she wasn’t sure he heard her, and then he flinched.
“Theodore is alive.”
“What?” The question came abrupt, loud from her lips, what she thought she’d heard so ridiculous she knew she had misunderstood.
“Your brother is alive, Adalia.”
Her hands flew up, her palms blocking him. She couldn’t have heard him correctly. She couldn’t have.
Toren stepped toward her, his chest almost to her hands. His voice was low, a growl, forcing upon her what she didn’t want to hear. Didn’t want to believe. “Theodore is alive. He has been all along.”
Her hands started to shake. “No. Stop. What you are saying—impossible—stop it, Toren.”
He grabbed her wrists, the shaking in them so violent his own steady hands could not calm them. “He is alive, Adalia. We thought he was dead, but he is not. He was taken months ago, and they are attempting to extract information from him.”
“Alive?” She jerked her wrists from his grasp, jumping backward, her voice shrill. “They? Who is ‘they’? No. No. No. You are mistaken. Theo died. And extract information? What does that mean? What information? What could he possibly have to talk about?”
“We are in the midst of war, Adalia.” He took a cautious step toward her with his palms raised, attempting to calm the panic in her. “Theodore was not lost in Caribbean waters for the past two years. He was on the Continent, an agent working for the crown. He has been all this time. The intelligence he has gathered is admirable. He manages a number of active spies infiltrating Napoleon’s army. And he is extremely valuable. But once your eldest brother died, and the title was his, we have been attempting to bring him home. Yet he insisted . . . he insisted . . . month after month he refused to board a ship—there was always one more mission he had to complete. He—”
“What . . . what are you telling me? What . . .” Savage spikes of disbelief ravaged her body, sending her quivering, staggering backward.
Theo was alive.
And Toren had known.
He kept advancing, and she kept retreating through the lanes in the garden, her legs quickly failing her. Toren had known for months—months—that Theo was alive.
Lied. Toren had lied for months.
And then it welled. A storm swirling in her gut, taking her breath. Tingles spiking up and down her arms. Sweat breaking along her brow.
She bumped into the corner of the evergreens, the needles pricking her bare neck.
“Adalia . . .”
She spun and curled over as she vomited, losing all control of her body. Trembling uncontrollably, she bent, unable to stop the heaves, stop the horror of what Toren was trying to tell her.
His hand on her back, stroking her spine, didn’t surprise her. Not that she could stand his touch at the moment, but she was incapable of removing herself from him.
Minutes passed wherein she gasped for breath, bent over, her fingers gripping her thighs as she fought not to collapse to the ground. She stared at the black hem of her muslin dress.
Theo was alive.
He was alive, and she was in black mourning because he was dead. Toren had lied to her. She blinked hard, the black muslin blurring before her eyes. What sort of hell had just happened?
A silver flask in Toren’s hand appeared in front of her, the stopper already removed. Where he had produced it from she didn’t know, but she grabbed it, then took a quick swallow and swished it around her mouth. Brandy. It stung, yet she held it in her mouth for seconds, the sharp pain grounding her to the moment at hand.
She spit the liquid out, now so far past the devastating embarrassment of upending her stomach in the corner of the garden that spitting seemed like the least of her worries.
Without looking up or uncurling, she held the flask out for Toren to take it. He did so, and her hand dropped to brace against her knee once more.
Breathe. She had to get a full breath into her lungs. She sucked air. It got no farther than the base of her throat.
His hand settled onto her back again. “I am sorry, Adalia. I know it is a shock that Theodore is alive.”
“Don’t touch me.” His words spurred her body into sudden action, sending a solidifying burst of energy into her legs. She stumbled to the side, out of his reach, pulling herself upright. Or at least partially upright. She still needed to curl her belly around her forearms. But she managed to look up at him, her eyes piercing him. “Who are you? How do you even know this?”
His hands lifted, presumably to steady her. She stepped backward, running into the evergreen hedge. She didn’t need to be steadied. She needed answers.
He froze, his hands poised in midair. “I know because Theodore works for me. At least while we are at war. I head one of the many bands of crown agents. My title does not allow me to participate past English soil, but I can strategize, wield the power of the ducal title and reserves as needed. And I am effective at the work because I hold no emotion. I merely do what is necessary.”
His voice low—they were standing in the garden and not in the privacy of the town house—his words came fast. He took the slightest step forward, his hands still in the air. “This note—it is proof. I am posit
ive now Theodore was the reason there were attempts to steal the girls—to use them to get Theodore to talk. I suspected as much when you first came to me, but then the threat of Mr. Trether made me question everything. But this note—it is they. There is no doubt.”
“But the man at Dellington—he gave you Mr. Trether’s name.”
“They know all about you, Adalia, all of your dealings, and they merely used Mr. Trether to deflect suspicion. Theodore has war secrets—he knows at least half of our spies currently in their country. They are trying to break him—and they will not stop at stealing a little girl—or you—to get him to talk. They were the ones that tried to take both Mary and Josalyn—not Mr. Trether. That is what the note is about, Adalia. They are attempting to lure you to a place where they can take you.”
“Where is he?”
A pained look flashed across Toren’s face. “We don’t know where they are. Somewhere outside of London, within a day’s ride, but we have not located them yet. We were close once, but they had half a day’s start on us. We are doing everything we can to find him, Adalia. Everything.”
Her eyes closed as his words washed over her, numbness in her ears.
Theo was alive—and a spy—and a prisoner.
And her husband had known. Had known the whole time. A stranger. She was listening to a stranger. A stranger who had lied to her.
Her eyes cracked open to him. “You lied to me? This whole time? The whole time we were married—before we were married.” Her hand went to her forehead, attempting to hold in the thousands of thoughts flying like rabid bees in her head, swelling into a swarm. “What else did you lie to me about, Toren? Oh, hell, you came here for me—you made me think you cared for me—and you don’t. This is all part of your plot to keep your secrets safe.”
“Don’t you dare say that, Adalia. I came here for—”
“For what? This whole time for what?” Her fingers moved up from her forehead, digging into her hair.
His jaw twitched to the side, his ire starting to rise against her own.
He took a full step toward her, looming over her, his voice a hiss. “There is no plot, Adalia. The only plot I have is to keep you and the girls safe. And if you are too obstinate to see that—”
“How could you lie to me—about his body—about his death, Toren?”
That made him pause. He straightened slightly. “When I first did, I did not think on it—honestly. You didn’t need to know. And you were so distraught about the twins I knew it was better if you believed him to be dead.”
“Better for who?”
“For you. For Theodore. For all of us.”
“You told me he was dead—beaten to death. Not whole. You told me you had him buried. What did I visit at Glenhaven? Whose gravestone did I cry against? Whose dirt did my fingers rip from the ground?”
His face went steely. “No one. No one is buried at his grave site. Not yet . . .”
“What?” Her voice shot into a shriek. Damn to hell anyone who was listening.
She had lost all ability to be discreet. Her dead brother was alive. The man she had fallen in love with had lied to her about that very thing—and who knew what else. And now he was talking about burying Theo again.
The churning in her stomach started again. She bit back bile.
“I apologize.” Toren’s head shook. “I should not have said that. I still have hopes that we can locate him.”
“Locate him?” Wetness hit her cheeks, tears she didn’t even know she cried streaming. “Wait—we can still find him, can we not? I—I can help.”
Toren stilled, suspicion thick in his look. “No, you cannot, Adalia. You cannot and you will not.”
“I can—you said they were after the twins to try and make him talk—so they would take me just as easily as one of the girls.” She wiped her face and then grabbed his arm, tugging it. “That was what the note was about—you said so yourself. If they took me then that would lead you to them.”
His hands curled into instant fists, the muscles in his arm going impossibly hard under her fingers. His voice dropped to a dangerous growl, each word ground out between gritted teeth. “Dammit, Adalia, you are not bait—do not even suggest such a blasphemous idea.”
“No? Why not? This is my brother, Toren. If there is a chance that Theo is alive I will do anything within my power to help him.”
“Do you even know what they would do to you, Adalia?” His mouth had pulled back into a furious line. “How they would use you to make him talk?”
She blanched with a quick breath. “Torture?” Her hands fell from his arm and wrapped across her stomach.
“You cannot even imagine what these men are capable of, Adalia.”
Her head shook slowly as she tried to imagine just what they could do to her. The picture in her mind was not pretty. And if they would do that to her . . .
Her look jumped to Toren. “So what are they doing to Theo right now, Toren? You said yourself they were trying to make him talk—just how are they doing that?”
His lips drew inward. He was refusing to answer her.
“Exactly. Torture. I cannot stand by in a safe cocoon while they are doing that to Theo.” Her eyes narrowed at him. “But you wouldn’t understand—you have no idea of what I’m feeling—what I would do to save him. Because you were right—you have no concept of love.”
He winced. Her blow had pierced its target.
The line of his jaw pulsating, it took a long second for him to answer. “You think I can’t imagine what I would do for someone I loved?”
“No.” Her lip snarled, her chest expanding as she expelled all of the hurt, all of the pain that had just consumed her. “You will never understand love, Toren. Never. If you did, you never would have lied to me. And I would be on that street corner, inviting an abduction at this very moment in order to get to Theo—whatever it takes.”
“You are not going to be used as bait, Adalia.”
“You cannot stop me.” She spun from him, moving toward the back gate of the garden.
Three steps, and he grabbed her arm, twisting her back to him, his anger palpable. “I damn well can, and we both know it, Adalia. Do not make me have to do it in a way that we both will regret—because, make no mistake, I refuse to let you put yourself in the way of harm. So you can stop the idiocy running through your mind this instant. I don’t give a damn about what you think you must do, because you aren’t going to do it.”
She heaved a breath, stewing, her eyes whipping daggers at him. She should have been faster. Should have run. Damn him. “Were you ever going to tell me about Theo?”
“Yes. No.”
“Blast it, Toren, that is not an answer.”
His hand on her upper arm refused to loosen. “Yes, I was going to tell you after we found him alive.”
“And the no?”
“No, I never would have told you if we were too late in finding him and he had been killed. There would have been no purpose in telling you. I would have quietly had his body interred into the grave site at Glenhaven.”
“And I would have been none the wiser to the fact.” Her heart contracted, so much so, that she knew a piece of it was dying. Her fingers lifted to her mouth, pressing on her lips, her words eerily quiet. “You were just going to let me think, for the rest of my life, that Theo died in the rookeries.”
“Correct.”
She looked down to his hand gripping her arm, her voice calm. “I need you to leave, Toren.”
“You can go inside, and I will wait for you in the study. That is all I will allow. We are leaving for Dellon Castle this afternoon, Adalia.”
“No.” The yell echoed up against the brick of the surrounding town houses as she twisted violently, yanking her arm. He didn’t let her escape. “I need you to leave. Leave my life. Leave me alone. Leave me. I don’t want to see you. Don’t want to hear your voice. Don’t want your hands anywhere near me, Toren.”
“I am not leaving you here in London, Adal
ia. We are going back to the castle.”
With all her weight she shoved off from him, ripping her arm from his grasp. “I am not going anywhere with you, you bloody liar.”
He stood, hands twitching to grab her, heaving a sigh as he shook his head. “I don’t want to do what I am about to, Adalia, but I cannot trust you and I need you safe.”
“What?” Her hands flew up, palms to the sky. “What the devil could you possibly do to me now?” She spun before he answered and stomped toward the rear door of the town house.
Her feet left the ground in a whoosh, her body twisting in the air until his shoulder jammed into her stomach. It stole her breath for a moment, and Toren was through the back gate to the mews before she comprehended that he had actually thrown her over his shoulder.
She beat at his back with the one fist she managed to free. “Of all the blasted, high-handed, moronic, overbearing things to do—every insult I ever hurled at you was true, you pious ogre. You infuriating, tyrannical—”
Her words were cut off as he tossed her into his carriage still waiting by the mews. He was in, slamming the door of the coach before she could right herself on the bench.
The carriage lurched forward. She lost what little balance she had gained. Two sharp turns that tested the capacity of the coach’s springs, and they were a full block away from the town house before she’d managed to sit upright.
The spate of insults had only just begun. Centering her look on Toren, she opened her mouth.
“Do not test me, Adalia.”
Her mouth clamped shut.
He was right. She needed to be quiet. Needed to conserve her energy. Needed to strategize.
For she couldn’t figure out how to escape Toren and find Theo if she was too busy yelling at her husband.
The fiend had probably foreseen that as well.
She sat, arms crossed over her chest, refusing to look at Toren for two hours. Through the London streets, past the outskirts of tiny cottages and into the countryside. She couldn’t bear to acknowledge his presence.
Of Valor & Vice: A Revelry's Tempest Novel Page 19
