Angel In My Bed (19 page)

He straightened just as David smashed him in the jaw, landing him back on his arse in the slush. “On the other hand.” He stood over the sprawled man. “I have no such problem, Rockwell.”

 

David slammed shut the bureau drawer and looked around the library. Having no clear thought as to what he might be looking for, he continued to methodically search each of the rooms in the town house, seeking anything of value that
would help him decipher Pamela's activities these last few weeks. Moonlight spilled through the windows behind him. Having found nothing downstairs, he made his way to the second floor.

Pamela's private desk in her boudoir was a repository for bills, receipts, and invitations. Thumbing through each one, he noted nothing beyond the pale—except a slip of paper with a single address. He held it to the moonlight, then tucked it into his coat pocket before searching her armoire and dressing room for a dark wig. He discovered that she had wigs, but none of them dark.

He made his way to the window and edged aside the drapery. As he watched, the clouds parted and moonlight painted the rooftops a chalky white. The street was nearly deserted. Wherever Pamela was, it was better that he had not confronted her tonight. His gut feeling warned him to tread with cautious step. Yet, another part of him realized that neither Ian nor Pamela trusted him any longer.

A low fire burned in the hearth behind him and, without willing it, he was suddenly thinking of Meg, wondering if she had returned to Rose Briar with Nathanial. He looked down at his hand. A slim shaft of light slanted across the locket he held in his palm. David hadn't thought it possible so many forces could collide without leaving a crater in his gut.

For the first time in his life, his duty was no longer clear, as something inside him, something that lay hard and unbending in the center of his being, snapped. His thoughts so at odds with honor and integrity, he nearly laughed aloud. Not in the manner of a man who reflected on his past but of one who pondered his future and realized he had to make a choice. For, until now, doing the right thing and doing what
was honorable had always been the same in his mind. He didn't know how to separate his duty from the two.

Nor did he know, as memory presented him with a picture of Meg's future, how to save what he had so carelessly thrown away nine and a half years ago. Kinley, Ian, and Pamela—whatever their respective missions might be—worked at the center of an intricate organization spanning oceans. If David helped Meg to run again, neither of them would ever be free for as long as they lived. And they had a son to consider.

He had facilitated Meg's capture. Yet, knowing without quite understanding what had happened, David realized his mission had changed.

But for a single brass sconce, the hallway remained darkened. Keeping to the shadows, David descended the stairs and let himself out the back door where he'd entered. He needed to find the sharpshooter, sure that the man who'd held that rifle also held all the answers—and maybe the key to Meg's freedom. He wasn't so much afraid of his heart as he was afraid of making a promise to her he couldn't keep. But David understood the game better than Rockwell thought. Only the difference now was that he wasn't willing to trade his soul anymore for his country.

 

“I do not wish to go to London, Mother.”

Victoria placed a finger on the spot in the storybook from which she was reading. Sitting on the settee with Nathanial, a glass of milk in her hand, she looked down at her son snuggled against her and, utterly flummoxed by the declaration, frowned.

After leaving Sir Henry that evening, Nathanial had been inordinately quiet—no longer the exuberant boy of that
morning with fearless dreams of challenging Ethan Birmingham to a sword duel. She had done her best to keep a happy face, yet, from the mournful mood hanging over the meal that night, one would have thought the world had already ended.

“Don't you want to see the city? It's all you and Peepaw used to talk about.”

He stared morosely at the strawberry tart in his lap. “Not if you aren't there.”

“What has suddenly brought this on?”

“Is Lord Chadwick my father?”

Meg choked on a sip of milk. Snatching a serviette from her lap, she dabbed her lips and coughed. “Is this what you and Peepaw spoke about today?” she rasped.

“Peepaw said I looked just like him. Everyone I meet says that.” Nathanial's eyes, so much like his father's, lowered as he traced a circle on the tart. “Do I, Mother?”

“Nathanial…”

His jaw set in sullen defiance, he thrust out his chin. “I already know the truth.”

She and David were supposed to do this together, but he had not returned with Mr. Rockwell from the church today. Nathanial folded his arms, looking even more like David.

“Yes, he is your father,” she answered, setting the milk aside and turning to her son. “It's true. We were going to—”

“Does Father want me?”

Protectiveness unfurling in her chest at the naked vulnerability in her son's eyes, the last thing she'd expected to do was champion David. “You listen to me, young man.” She took his hands into hers. “He wants you very much, or he would not have gone all the way to Salehurst to find you or dance with Frannie just so you could stay longer and dunk for apples.”

A corner of his mouth relented to a grin.

“Something happened between us before I came to live with Sir Henry”—her voice was quiet—“or he would have been here sooner to see you.” No longer on solid ground, Victoria wished she could blame the sudden sting of tears on anyone other than herself.

“Frannie said I was a bastard,” he said.

“Well, that is quite impossible. I assure you.”

Nathanial leaned his head into the crook of her arm. “I'm not?” The news gave her a peek at the first real spark in his eyes since they'd returned from the cottage. “Truly?”

“Truly, you are not, Nathanial.”

He took a bite of strawberry tart and smiled. “I'm glad, Mother. I like him.”

Victoria didn't quite know what to say. Although the outcome of this conversation was never in doubt, her son's response was, until she realized that except for the rare story, Nathanial had never known Sir Scott Munro. The man in the cemetery held no connection to Nathanial's world, not like a real live, flesh-and-blood father would. And David had a way of making himself the center of anyone's universe.

“Do you like him, too, Mother?”

“I…” She shifted her arm beneath his head. “Your father has many…interesting, admirable qualities. He's”—clearing her throat, she regarded her son's interest with growing frustration—“interesting. And admirable.”

“He owns a castle in Scotland.”

She could not understand why David would say such a thing.

“Ethan Birmingham's father is only a merchant,” Nathanial continued with rising enthusiasm. “My father is better than his father.”

“Don't judge people on their rank or trade, Nathanial. You know better—”

“Father will set Cousin Nellis to rights, too, Mother. You shall see. He knows how to use a sword. He practices every morning. I saw him from my bedroom window.”

Victoria sank against the cushions. With a start of surprise, she remembered the ritual kata, an ancient Far Eastern form of training. She used to watch him from their bedroom window in Calcutta. He'd performed the routine every morning before sunrise, eventually teaching it to her, until the ritual had become their own, and she'd mastered the sword.

She shut the book. “Nathanial—”

“He has a large family,” her son extolled. “With thirteen nieces and nephews. And Frannie says she heard him talking to Uncle Reuben in Old German. They all like him.”

“Did he say anything…about anything else?”

“He said my trousers were too short and I would need new clothes.” Nathanial yawned and snuggled against her. “He won't leave us, will he, Mother?”

Victoria pushed the hair from his brow. “He won't leave you. I promise.”

After putting Nathanial to bed, Victoria grabbed an oil lamp and padded downstairs, the skirt of her nightdress billowing out around her. The white wainscoting paneling in the corridor captured the shadows cast by the light. The house was eerily silent. David had not yet returned. She wanted to know if Mr. Rockwell had any idea why not.

Returning to the kitchen where she'd last seen him partaking of nourishment, she nearly collided with him as she entered. “My lady,” he said, “I didn't see you.”

Noting his limp as he stepped back, Victoria raised the light to his face. She set her thumb to his chin, narrowing her gaze on his. “Do you still have all of your teeth?”

He tested his jaw, displeasure narrowing his eyes. “Barely, my lady.”

The foyer clock upstairs began to ring the midnight hour. “Do you know where Mr. Donally went tonight?”

“He was rather irritable when we parted ways. I can only hope he isn't visiting Pamela.” Murmuring something else about walking the grounds, he left the kitchen and pounded up the stairs before she even realized he was gone.

A small hiss emanated from the lamp in her hand. “I see,” she whispered, whatever she'd wanted to say to David now lost in her hurt. “It didn't take him long, did it?”

Absently, she picked up a piece of bread crust from the floor. And started to turn when a distinct noise coming from somewhere below in the cellar jerked her around. Her hand went to her pocket before she remembered the derringer was no longer in her possession. She no longer had her knife, either.

Holding the lamp above her head, she walked through the kitchen to another room where gleaming pots and pans were stored. Silver moonlight speared the floor through an upper stained-glass fanlight set high in the wall. “Mrs. Gibson?” she called.

She walked to the door leading into the cellar, then edged it open. Zeus shot between her legs, tail in the air as he disappeared around the corner. Biting her lip to stifle a treacherous gasp, Victoria shut the door, twisted the key in the lock, and leaned back against the jamb. A chilly draft seeped beneath the door to wrap around her ankles, and she jumped away,
glaring at the door as if icy fingers had just touched her flesh. She didn't like that Zeus had scared the wits out of her.

She hurried out of the kitchen with the realization that David's absence weighed on her heart and mind heavy enough that she was beginning to fear the shadows in her own beloved house. Without pausing on the main floor, she hurried up the second set of stairs, until she stopped in front of Nathanial's room.

Her hand paused on the latch, and just when her mind caught that the door was ajar, it suddenly swung wide.

“Mother Mary and Joseph!” Her breathing labored and rapid, she confronted David. “You scared the wits out of me.”

Still wearing his long coat, he stepped into the hallway, bringing with him the chill clinging to the dark wool. “Why are you shaking?”

Victoria's wide eyes swept over him. The realization that his presence eased her mind troubled her as much as it relieved her that he was safe. “I thought you were…” She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. “An intruder.”

No sconce lit the hallway, and she could not read his eyes as he closed the door. “I wasn't expecting to find anyone stirring,” he said. “I didn't mean to awaken you.”

A stillness settled over them, and, as her alarm subsided, she became aware of the faint essence of expensive French perfume. “What happened between you and Mr. Rockwell?” she forced herself to ask.

“We had a divergence of opinion.” He walked to his room.

She followed him. “If it is about this case, I should know.”

Turning in the doorway at the end of the corridor, he looked at her, then dropped his gaze to her feet. “You aren't wearing slippers, Meg.”

She glanced at her toes, as if she didn't already know that fact. She wore heavy woolen stockings beneath her night shift.

“Tell me about Mr. Gibson,” he asked her before she could respond. “The boy Robbie's father?”

It was an odd question in the middle of the night, and she drew her brows into a frown. “He used to hire the laborers for the fields and oversaw carpenters when we needed repair work done on the outer dwellings.”

“Does he work for Stillings?”

“Not everyone who works for Stillings is bad. Some of the men do so to put food on the table.”

He laughed. “So does hard work.”

“Mr. Gibson doesn't work for Stillings. He still comes here periodically to ensure the buildings are in good repair.”

“Did he ever do work at the church?”

“Yes, I believe he did so frequently.”

Behind David, firelight shifted the shadows. She had instructed Moira earlier to light a fire in the hearth and see that the bed was turned down. Her line of sight included a glimpse of the four-poster bed and the edge of a tester canopy.

“Dare I assume you prepared my room for me tonight?”

“You may not.” She met his scrutiny. “And if you are asking whether I was worried about your welfare, the answer is also no.”

His mouth crooked a fraction. “That's not what I was asking, but you answered my question anyway.” He let his eyes roam her face in that worrisome way that warned her he was very adept at reading people. “You're becoming less skilled at lying.” He entered his bedroom and tossed his coat across
a plush armchair. “I believe that is a positive step in the right direction.”

Again, that wicked grin as he seated himself on the edge of his bed to tug off his boots, and Victoria felt a familiar quickness hasten her heartbeat as he looked up. “It isn't as important that I convince you that you are wrong, as it is that you try to convince yourself that you are right. I have the advantage of knowing the truth.”

“Now you're a seer?”