by Diana Quincy
“Is he still awake?” he asked as she helped him out of his wet things.
“Aye. He’s weak as a kitten, he is, but he’s gaining strength by taking beef tea.” Trudy handed him a clean shirt and a towel to wipe himself down. “Will you be wanting a bath before you sees him?”
“No, I’ll see him now.” He handed her the towel and took the stairs two at a time, coming into Graves’s chamber without knocking.
“Goddammit, Sparrow,” Graves said when he spotted him. “Are you trying to starve me with this beef tea? Give me some real nourishment, kidney pie and some ale will do nicely for a start.”
Graves was much changed from the slim, self-assured man of four weeks ago. The once-intimidating assassin had become pale and gaunt, his perspiration-soaked white nightshirt revealing a concave chest. How frail and fleeting life could be. Sparrow’s thoughts went back to Emilia, and he resolved not to waste any more precious time. As soon as he returned to Town, he would tell her how he felt.
He dragged a spindly chair across the uneven floor, setting it to next to the man’s bedside. “Tell me what I want to know and you’ll get your kidney pie and ale.” What did he care if the man killed himself by overtaxing his body after weeks of inactivity? Trudy had forced minuscule amounts of the beef tea and water through Graves’s lips to keep him alive.
Graves grimaced. “I’ve never botched a job like this one. It might be time to get out of the game. I’m too old for this nonsense.”
Sparrow sat in the chair. “Who hired you to kill Miss St. George?”
Amusement lined Graves’s forehead. “A laudable attempt, but that information is worth more than kidney pie.”
Irritation spiked in Sparrow’s gut. “Or I could strangle you right now and put an end to Miss St. George’s suffering.”
Graves’s derisive answering laugh became a harsh cough. “I doubt that. My client is very determined to do away with the lady. My guess is that he’s already sent someone else after her.”
Sparrow exhaled loudly through his nostrils. Graves had the right of it. Someone else had come after Emilia. Graves watched his reaction with canny eyes. “Ah, I see I am not mistaken. Did they succeed in doing away with your Miss St. George? Or I suppose she was Mrs. Worsely by then.”
Sparrow clenched his teeth and restrained himself from smothering Graves with his own pillow. “I’m pleased to inform you that Miss St. George is most definitely still among the living.”
Graves brows moved a little higher. “Miss St. George, is it? That explains why she’s still alive.”
He frowned. “I don’t follow.” He supposed it was entirely possible, probable even, that the bang on the head had scrambled the man’s brain. “Surely you recall you were trying to kill Miss St. George before she married.”
“No, as a maiden, she was as safe as a babe in her mother’s arms. No harm was to come to her until after she became the honorable Mrs. Edmund Worsely.”
“You’re confused,” Sparrow insisted. “Try to remember. You were there at the church, before the wedding, intent on doing harm to Miss St. George.”
Graves gave a weak shake of his head. “I was scoping out the target. Just some preliminary work. The actual hit was to take place three days after the wedding in the Lake District, after Worsely had taken her there and consummated the union, of course.”
“After the wedding.” Sparrow fell silent as he contemplated Graves’s revelation. He’d been operating under the belief that whoever wanted Emilia dead wanted her killed before the wedding, not after.
This new information pointed very strongly to one obvious suspect—the man who would benefit the most financially from Emilia’s death. But he still wondered whether Graves’s brain was working properly. “Someone tried to shoot her shortly after I stole her away from the church,” he said to the ailing man, remembering when he’d tossed Emilia into the bushes at Portman Square and gone after the man who’d fired shots at her.
“Fields, yes.” Graves closed his eyes and nodded sagely. “You didn’t have to kill him.”
“I beg to differ.” Sparrow leaned forward, speaking urgently. “Try to think clearly. At least two attempts were made on Miss St. George’s life before she was to be wed. First, at Portman Square right after I snatched her from your clutches at St. George’s Hanover Square and then again at my cottage in Hastings. Do you recall coming here and challenging me when I vowed to protect her? You tried to kill her.”
“You think I’ve lost my mind.” The last words were said in a croak. “Water”—he gestured to the tin cup on the rickety table by the bed—“I need water.”
Trying to contain his rising impatience, Sparrow reached for the cup and helped Graves sit up. Swallowing even tiny sips of water seemed to be a challenge for the man. He couldn’t imagine how Graves expected to consume kidney pie without choking. When he’d had his fill of water, Sparrow settled him back against the pillow.
“You,” Graves said. “Not her.”
“What?”
“I was trying to kill you, not her.”
“Me?” None of this made sense. “Why me?”
“Because you had appointed yourself as the target’s protector. Both in Portman Square”—he paused for a series of weak coughs that seemed to rattle in his narrow chest—“and on the bluff in Hastings I saw I needed to do away with you so the nuptials could go forward and then I could have a clear shot at the target once they were on their wedding trip.”
Sparrow huffed a surprised breath. All of this time, he’d assumed the attacks before the wedding were directed at Emilia. His mistaken assumption had led away from the most obvious suspect. “You’re not the only one who botched this job,” he said grimly, feeling like a fool.
Graves gave a weak shrug. “I suppose it happens to the best of us.”
Fury trembled through him. “Who hired you?” He wanted to hear the name from Graves’s lips. “Who?”
“Everything in good time.” Graves held up a weak finger. “That information will cost you.”
He clenched his fists to keep from slamming one of them into the man’s gaunt face. “What do you want?”
“Safe passage from here. I’m going to retire. I want your word that once I recover, you will release me.”
Sparrow took in the man’s slight form, shallow breathing, and difficulty swallowing. He doubted he’d last the week. In any case, he needed to protect Emilia, no matter what the cost. “You have my word. Give me a name.”
“Edmund Worsely. He plans to make Miss St. George his wife and then do away with her. He wants it to look like a terrible accident.”
—
“Mr. Worsely is here.” Sophie slipped through the door to Emilia’s bedchamber and closed it behind her. “Are you ready?”
“He’s on time.” Emilia turned from her dressing table, her stomach all nerves. “I suppose I must get on with it.”
“And you are certain?”
She took a deep breath and nodded. “The time has come to tell him the truth…at least the part about how I’ve decided not to marry him.”
“What about Sparrow?” The maid reached for the morning dress Emilia had just changed out of. “What will you tell Mr. Worsely about that?”
“There’s nothing to tell.” At Sophie’s pointed look, she added, “At least not yet.” But she and Sparrow were far from over. She was certain of it. “After what Mrs. Dubois put him through, it is no wonder he avoids romantic entanglements.”
“He’ll come around.”
“I do hope so.” She sobered. It was also possible that she was just fooling herself. That Sparrow would never be able to give her what she wanted. Pain stabbed her heart. If that was the case, she would carry on. She would travel and continue painting and hope that maybe someday she could find another man to love as she loved Sparrow.
She moved toward the door. Before thinking about the future, she needed to finish things with Edmund. “Where did you put Mr. Worsley?”
“He in
sisted upon being shown up to your studio.” Sophie brushed out the gown in her hands. “He said he would await your pleasure there.”
“Hmm, that’s unusual.” Edmund almost never came up to her studio. She went down the corridor, coming to a stop outside the closed door to take a moment to summon her courage.
The door to the studio opened. Edmund smiled out at her. “I thought I heard you out here.”
She forced a smile. “Hello, Edmund.” She joined him and swallowed hard, trying to calm her nervous stomach, wishing she’d skipped luncheon, which was threatening to make an unwelcome reappearance.
“It’s not Wednesday, the day I usually call,” he said. “I gather you summoned me here for a reason.”
“Yes.” She forced the words out. “I do want to speak with you.”
Concern marked his face. “What is it, dearest?” He came to her and took her hand in his. His skin was remarkably soft. They were the hands of a gentleman, of someone who’d never worked with them. “You’re quite pale. Come and sit.”
She let him guide her to the settee, the one where she and Sparrow had made love. The memory warmed her and gave her courage, reminding her that if she were to marry, she wanted passion with a partner, not this sort of cool courtesy that existed between her and Edmund.
“Your maid brought in some lemonade before you arrived,” he said solicitously. “Would you care for a glass?”
“Not just now, thank you.” She squeezed her eyes shut and steeled herself. Her father had offered to relay her decision to Edmund, but she owed him the courtesy of telling him herself. Opening her eyes, she gestured for him to come and sit beside her. “There is something I must tell you.”
Alarm momentarily crossed the patrician features of his face until he rearranged them into a more impartial expression. “What is it?”
“I have come to a decision that might pain you.”
He waited patiently, his true feelings inscrutable. There was no easy way to say it. Had it been this difficult for Sparrow when he’d cried off five years ago? She’d always assumed it had meant nothing to him. But now she realized jilting her must have pained him somewhat. She didn’t love Edmund, but the thought of disappointing or embarrassing him weighed heavily on her conscience. “I am sorry but I cannot marry you.”
He stared at her, the only visible reaction a slight drawing together of his amber eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
“This was not a decision I took lightly. In fact, it’s been very difficult, but I realize I cannot be the wife you want. I would not make you happy.”
“I am the judge of that,” he said indignantly. “And I have decided you will make me very happy indeed. You are just suffering from wedding nerves. You cannot be serious.”
“I am.” Her answer was soft but firm. “I know my own heart and mind. I cannot marry you and I will not.”
“What will you do then?” He shot up out of his seat and paced away from her, his agitation obvious. “Do you anticipate never marrying? Perhaps you intend to become an ape leader.”
“I might end up a spinster,” she affirmed. “I don’t know. But what I am sure of is that I do not love you and I think you do not love me. At least not in the way you care for Mrs. Dubois.”
He sucked in a breath and pivoted to face her. “Who told you about Marie?”
“Does it matter?” She kept her voice level. “It has no bearing on my decision.”
“Perhaps you hope Vale will marry you.” She watched him struggle to contain his fury. “Is that it? Have you decided to hold out for a title?”
“This has nothing to do with Vale.” Had she made her feelings for Sparrow that obvious? “Why would you think that?”
He strode over to her worktable and grabbed a sketchbook from the bottom of a pile of drawing pads. He turned, holding up the nude drawing of Sparrow. “Because of this.”
She shot to her feet. “You had no right to go through my things.”
“I was interested to see what you were working on,” he said sharply. “Imagine my surprise when I learned who your latest subject is.”
What could she say? He had every right to feel angry and disappointed in her. “I am sorry if I’ve hurt you.”
He let out a long sigh and tossed the sketchbook back on the table. “No, it is I who should beg your pardon.”
She blinked. “It is?”
“As a gentleman, I have no choice but to accept your decision.” His voice held a note of resignation. “I cannot force you to marry me. But are you certain this is what you want?”
“Yes.” His calm, regretful reaction surprised her. “But I hope you will consent to remaining my friend.”
“Do you truly wish for us to be?”
“Absolutely.”
He picked up the two full glasses of lemonade. “Then let us drink to remaining friends, shall we?”
She took her glass from him. They toasted each other and then sat back down on the settee to drink their lemonade. “What will you do now?” he asked after they’d spent a few moments sipping their lemonade in silence.
“I want to travel.”
He bottomed out his lemonade. “I would have taken you.”
“Yes, I know.” She swallowed more of the sweet-tart liquid. “I’ve decided to travel with a companion and continue working on my art, without being beholden to a husband.”
“Are you truly determined not to marry? Or is it just me you’ve no wish to wed?”
This surprisingly companionable conversation was perhaps the most honest one she’d ever had with him. “If I ever do marry, I want to feel the kind of passion for my husband that I assume you feel for Mrs. Dubois. I am sorry if you find my candor unseemly.”
“On the contrary, I find you refreshing.” He leaned forward to set his glass down. “I just regret you shan’t be my wife.”
She finished her lemonade. Her nerves about jilting Edmund had made her unusually thirsty and her head was starting to pound. She needn’t have worried so much. He’d taken her rejection like a gentleman, and she truly wanted him to be happy, as she intended to be. “How about you? Will you marry Mrs. Dubois?”
“It is my fondest wish.”
She blinked. Edmund seemed to have become two people. She was seeing double of him. She didn’t feel at all well. “It is?”
“Indeed.” His icy smile chilled her to the core. “And you are about to make my dreams come true.”
Chapter 21
“Where the devil is she?” Sparrow demanded, his drenched greatcoat dripping onto the St. Georges’ immaculate marble floor. He’d ridden through the night like the demons of Hades were after him, fighting the rain and the wind to reach Emilia. He’d arrived before dawn to find the household very much awake, with both of Emilia’s parents still dressed in their day clothes.
Mrs. St. George’s eyes were swollen and red. “We don’t know. She vanished this afternoon.” She glanced at the grandfather clock that began to ring in the new hour. It was four in the morning. “Yesterday afternoon. I guess it is already tomorrow.” Her face was wan and lined.
St. George put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Why don’t you try to rest, dearest?”
“How can I?” Her voice trembled. “When we don’t know what’s become of Emilia?”
“I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation,” her husband said in a soothing voice despite the obvious tension emanating from his stocky frame.
“Who saw her last?” Sparrow asked.
“She left with Worsely,” her father responded. “Edmund told the footman that Emilia was unwell and that he was taking her to the doctor.”
Sparrow’s heart turned over. “Unwell in what way?”
Concern lined St. George’s forehead. “The footman who saw them leave said Emilia was unsteady on her feet.” He dragged a heavy hand over his mouth and chin. “Worsely took her out using the hidden servants’ staircase that leads from her studio to the back door. The footman caught sight of them by chance.”
The bastard. “He was trying to sneak her out.”
Now St. George looked even more worried. “I’m afraid it gets worse. Edmund has been staying with his grandfather, the duke, but no one there has seen him since yesterday morning, well before he paid a call here. And our doctor never saw them.”
A painful sensation twisted in Sparrow’s chest. What if he was too late and had failed to protect Emilia? A burgeoning sense of loss threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed it away. He needed to keep a cool head so he could find her and finally tell her what was in his heart—that he loved her unreservedly.
Fear gnawed at the edges of his stomach. He was almost out of time. Emilia was far more valuable to Worsely dead than alive. He wouldn’t fail her the way he’d failed his men in Paris. He’d find her before it was too late.
He turned to her parents, who seemed to have aged overnight, suddenly appearing older, frail, and vulnerable in their worry for their daughter. “He’s taking her to Gretna.”
A curse escaped St. George’s lips while his wife exclaimed, “Whatever for? They are going to be wed in less than a week.”
“Not exactly,” her husband informed her.
Her mouth dropped open. “What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”
“Emilia informed me yesterday morning that she intended to cry off.”
“What?” His wife’s voice rose. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Emilia wanted to tell you herself.”
Determination firmed on her face. She directed her attention at Sparrow. “You have to stop them. You care for my daughter, I know you do.”
“I love her, Mrs. St. George.” It was the first time he’d said it aloud and it felt perfectly true and perfectly right to share with the world. “And if she’ll have me, I intend to marry your daughter.”
“Oh.” The older woman put a hand to her heart as her eyes filled. “Does Emilia know?”
“I think she must have some idea,” her husband muttered, shooting a meaningful look at Sparrow.
“No,” Sparrow answered her mother, “but I intend to make sure she does.” He strode outside, where St. George’s grooms had already readied a fresh mount for him. His own animal was spent from riding to Hastings and back without proper rest.
