Saving Persephone (The Haberdashers Book 4) (21 page)

Read Saving Persephone (The Haberdashers Book 4) Online

Authors: Sue London

Tags: #Romance, #Historical Romance, #Historical, #Regency

BOOK: Saving Persephone (The Haberdashers Book 4)
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“Do you do nothing but sit behind that desk?” she railed.

“My apologies, sir.”

Robert looked from one to the other. Bobbins seemed at a loss. Miss Grant was angry. Her hair had fought loose of its pins and made an unruly mess atop her head, she was flushed, and her chin was firmed in the way of a woman determined to spew vitriol.

“That will be all, Bobbins,” Robert said.

Miss Grant teetered a bit when the large man released her arm, but soon enough squarely faced Robert. “I thought that I could leave tomorrow and not worry about your opinion of me. In fact, that’s laughable. I
don’t
care about your opinion of me. But I refuse,
refuse
to allow you to sit in judgment of me. You, who treats even those closest to you like pawns in a chess game? How
dare
you accuse me of being anything like you? I’m not the one who torments my family members. I’m not the one who lies and manipulates to get his way. And I certainly, by all that’s holy, don’t have any blood on my hands. What makes you think that
you
can judge me? And find me wanting? I am not a spy and I did
not
betray you and your sister.”

Assuming that she was done he opened his mouth to reply, but that seemed to only send her higher into the boughs.

“Furthermore, how do you even find it in yourself to treat your siblings as you do? I would give my eyeteeth to have siblings, much less ones as fine as yours. Your training for Sabre was
brutal
. And Charlie, my God, do you have any idea how afraid of you he is?”

Now she had gone too far. He stood. “Say whatever you like about me, but don’t talk about my siblings.”

“I’m
not
talking about them. I’m talking about you.”

“Charlie is not afraid of me,” he said softly. Even he wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a plea. “He would have no reason to be. I’ve never punished him or mistreated him.”

“Dammit, Robert, do you not even know? He’s not afraid that you’ll hurt
him
. He’s afraid that you’ll hurt everyone else around him.”

“What do you mean?”

“One of the first things he said to me was that the only thing more frightening than being hated by you was being loved by you.”

Robert leaned on his palms on the desk. He felt unsteady. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re dangerous. He doesn’t like seeing people hurt. He was deathly afraid that I was some sort of black widow that would make you even worse than you already are.”

“I’ve always kept him away from… from the darker aspects of what I do. I protect him.”

She threw her hands in the air. “I feel like I’m trying to speak French again!”

He looked at her as clearly as he could. She appeared tired. Disheveled. She was obviously put out with him.

“I reviewed your files.”

“What?”

“I told Sabre I would, so I reviewed your files again. Objectively. I believe you when you say you are not a spy, that you did not betray us.”

“Because some
files
told you? What on earth do you have in them?”

“Everything.”

She stared at him as though she wanted to tell him he was speaking a foreign tongue again.

“Would you like to see them? I will dispose of them soon, so it will be your only chance.”

“Fine, yes, let me see these illuminating files.”

 

Chapter Thirty-Six

Imogen’s temper had wound down, and she regretted her impulse to come here. Especially now that she was following Robert Bittlesworth up the stairs in his townhouse. She didn’t have any particular fear, it just seemed odd. He seemed odd, quiet and hollow on the inside. Before, she had found him relatively, for her, relaxing because he wasn’t given to emotional drama. But he had always seemed to be busy inside. Now, he wasn’t.

He unlocked a door on the second floor of the house and ushered her in. Her brief suspicion that it was a bedroom was quickly foiled. Well, it
was
a bedroom, but best of luck to anyone who wanted to use it for that purpose. Every available surface was covered over with crates and papers. She poked at one of the crates nearest to the door.

“Which ones are mine?”

“This is all yours.”

Imogen had seen the wonders of the world. She had traveled everywhere, meeting people from a dizzying array of cultures. She had seen nature in all of its spectacular and varied glory. She had not, until this day, had her breath taken away. She was nonplussed.

“That’s not possible,” she finally said. “There’s not this much
to
me.”

“Of course there is. This section is personal history,” he said, running his hand over one set of crates, “and this one is since coming to London. Well, coming to London this time. As I recall, you were also here in ’05 between terms at school.”

Now that he was warming to his topic, he seemed inclined to explain it all to her.

“All of this is about me since I came to London?” She asked, pointing to one section.

“Yes, well, those are the most detailed notes.”

She pulled out a sheaf of papers at random and began reading. Barely believing what she saw, she flipped through the pages. Then she pulled out another set, to see how they compared to the first. “Is this every ball I attended?”

“Yes, but the true detail doesn’t start until after I met you. People’s recall of events erodes quite quickly if you don’t capture it immediately.”

“This is every man I danced with. Every person I talked to.”

“Yes.”

She set the papers down. “Robert. This is disturbing.”

She could see him considering her words, deciding how he would deal with them. He thought so quickly that it was only a flash, a glimmer.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It will all be burned soon.”

She looked around the room. “Although I’m glad to know that it won’t stay here, it is disturbing to know all of this existed at all.”

“Why? They are merely facts.”

She laughed. “Merely
facts?”

He grew silent and she could sense him trying to find the words that would make her understand. “Facts can help predict behavior, but they aren't- They aren't
you
. They're a reflection of you.”

“Is that all you ever see, Robert? Reflections?”

Imogen realized that Robert was now the one who felt like he was speaking a foreign language. He was a man quite used to order and control. Logic and consequences. Now he felt compelled to have her understand why he had gathered a mind-boggling amount of information about her, and he was unequal to the task. She sensed when he surrendered to his inability to express it. That was when she felt his loneliness, his desolation. She experienced a wave of sorrow for him.

Beneath the darkness in him, she sensed that boundless love. He tried so desperately to hide it, even from himself. But
that
was what had driven him to Normandy, his love for the Haberdashers. He would do anything rather than face that truth. Even accuse his lover of betrayal.

As he balanced on the precipice of emotional pain, she thought he would withdraw. She had never seen anyone willing to submit to the pain, to abandon themselves to it. She thought he would walk away. Instead, he pulled her close for a kiss. Like a drowning man desperate for air, he was desperate for her to be his balm. Her sympathy, her humanity, overwhelmed her.

 

* * *

 

Robert thought that Imogen would resist his kiss, but she didn’t, reminding him of those languid, sensual days at the cottage. It felt as though he had never known a time when he didn't recognize her taste, her scent. His hands roamed over her silk-clad body and she pressed against him. Not playing the wanton this time, but simply drawing closer to him as though what little separated them was intolerable. The kiss lingered, like enjoying the slow sips of superior liquor. Just as he recovered enough of his senses to consider how best to take her to his bed, she stepped away.

“I must go. I leave for Scotland in the morning.”

He didn't know what to say.
Don't leave? Stay with me tonight?

She shook her head and took another step back. “I know my way out.”

She didn't flee. Imogen Grant was far too sophisticated, too worldly, to run from a lover she no longer wanted. He listened to the sound of her half-boots as she descended the stairs, then the sound of the door closing as she left.

He built up the fire in the room. A room he had reserved for Charlie, in fact, that the man never used. Once the flames were sufficient, he set about fulfilling his promise to burn all the papers, with a bottle of Scotch to keep him company in his work. Reading each of them one last time before the flames ate them.

 

* * *

 

Imogen heard a knock on her door. Polite, but a bit hasty. She had been reading a novel and marked her place. “Yes?” she called out.

“Im, there's a man outside in the street calling for you.” Her cousin Violetta sounded anxious. “Harold sent for the night watch, but I thought you should know.”

There was only one man in London who came to mind, but the idea that Robert Bittlesworth would make such a fool of himself was so laughable that she did, in fact, laugh. She picked up her robe and called out, “I'll be right there, Vi.”

Her cousin was still waiting for her in the hallway when she emerged, and they walked down the stairs together to join Harold Chester at the parlor window.

Chester put an arm over his wife. “Deuced strange behavior,” he commented.

Imogen almost couldn't believe what she was seeing. The night watch had arrived and Robert was struggling with them in the street. He broke free and shouted “Imogen!” as he ran in precisely the wrong direction. Imogen covered her mouth with both hands.

“Do you think you should talk to him?” Violetta asked.

“Of course she shouldn't talk to him!” Chester said in his typical gruff tone. “He's drunker than three cats.”

“Isn’t that Bittlesworth? The one from that dinner weeks ago?” Vi asked. “I didn't realize he had a
tendre
for you.”

“I didn't realize it either,” Imogen admitted.

“You know this will be your last chance-” Vi started sadly.

“I'm leaving in the morning,” Imogen interrupted. “My apologies for the disturbance he's caused, but the night watch seems to have it in hand. Good night.”

She turned and walked back up the steps.

 

Chapter Thirty-Seven

When Robert awoke it felt like his head was in a vise. He ached everywhere. Cracking his eyes open a bit, the light seemed blinding. There were
noises
everywhere, and each one of them impinged on his skull like a tiny anvil. He desperately tried to remember what he had been doing last, because he had no recollection of the torture that had rendered him insensate.

“You had an eventful evening, didn't you?”

The voice seemed louder than a thousand church bells, but he recognized it. His superior, Home Secretary Sidmouth. What on earth had he done that made the Home Office torture him for information? And what information had he given them? He finally pried open his eyes enough to look about. He lay on a bare cot. The walls were the dim, dank stone of any of a thousand rooms throughout the government, with the only difference being the door made up of steel bars that stood open behind the Secretary.

“Sir?” he rasped out.

If possible, Sidmouth's expression soured even further. Having worked for the man for three years now, Robert knew what he liked and disliked. Sidmouth liked results. He avidly disliked embarrassment. The man seemed driven not to repeat the embarrassment of his removal as Prime Minister some years ago. “I believe you meant to address me as 'my lord.’”

If Sidmouth was emphasizing his title, then things were dire indeed. Robert tried to sit up. “My lord, if I have a moment to get my bearings.”

“That won't be necessary,” Sidmouth said. “I came to confirm that you were indeed in as bad of shape as they reported. As of this moment you are on indefinite leave. Turn over your work to Cottswold.”

Robert wasn't sure if the sense of the world going sideways was more due to his struggle to rise or the Home Secretary's words. “Sir. My lord. If you grant me a moment.”

“No, Bittlesworth, we are long past that. Good day.”

The Home Secretary walked out before Robert had even risen to his feet. He finally made it up, leaning on the wall for support. As no one had closed the door to his cell, he determinedly tottered toward it, gaining strength and steam as he went. Once out in the hallway he saw Charlie rushing toward him.

“They wouldn't let me back here until Sidmouth left,” his brother said in a rush, looking over his injuries.

Robert saw that Charlie had a violent red mark across his cheek, indicating there had been a scuffle. “Not that you didn't try, eh?” He went to pat his brother's shoulder but his balance was such that he had to hold on instead.

Charlie slipped an arm under Robert's and took on a good bit of his brother's weight. “Let's get you out of here, shall we? Then I'll take a look at these injuries.”

“What happened?” Robert asked.

That slowed Charlie's step for a moment. “You don't remember?”

“No. The last thing I remember was Imogen leaving and then burning some papers.”

Charlie snorted and said under his breath, “You might want to add this morning's paper to it.”

“What happened?” Robert asked again, more urgently.

“Do you remember the time that Gideon was so drunk he challenged Lord Pemberly to a duel with carrots?”

Robert had a sinking feeling. “Yes.”

“It was probably on the order of a thousand times worse than that. You went looking for Miss Grant last night and woke the entire neighborhood.”

“I need to sit down.”

“You'll sit when we get to the carriage. Do you need me to carry you?”

“Good God, no.” Robert struggled against his brother to stand on his own two feet. Whatever it was, he would face it. He had always faced everything in life, even as a child. He was strong. He would recover from this embarrassment. He hurt from head to toe, but walked out to the street with his head high, his bearing erect. Once in the carriage, however, he hunched over with his head in his hands. His brother left him to his silence on the ride home.

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