The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(105)

“St. James,” Hardaway said again in an attempt to draw his attention.

The Spares, he had to finish this mission. “Send for…” he began, but his mind was consumed by the woman in his arms.

Hardaway kept talking. “I’ll see to the men and send for the authorities. It’s time this man returned to prison where he belongs. I’ll make sure he receives the worst treatment possible, you can be sure. And I’ll have the artwork returned to Knottsby’s home. The doctor will be here in a few minutes.” Hardaway gave him a nod and moved away, for once not speaking a single word that wasn’t necessary.

But there were a few words that Fallon owed his friend. “Hardaway,” he called out. “Thank you. For taking charge.”

“You’ve done the same for me a thousand times over, my friend. I’m glad I can help you in return. All of us are.”

Fallon glanced around at the men under his command. Stern, sorrow-filled faces met his watery gaze. They watched as the most heart-wrenching, private moment of his life was laid out before them for all to see. But the truth these men were witness to didn’t weaken his position as their leader, as he had always assumed it would. It made him stronger. It made them stronger. He had these men at his back, just as he was there to support them.

He trusted these men, and he trusted Isabelle. If she lived, he would tell her so every day. Please live so that I might love you forever, he silently begged.

The room was silent as Grapling, his men, and the art buyer were bound, gagged, and gathered together against the far wall until assistance could arrive. Outside there was the sound of a carriage coming to a stop.

“The doctor is here. She can still be saved,” Knottsby muttered at his side, the desperation clear in his voice.

But Fallon didn’t have the strength left to hope. He hugged Isabelle to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut as he took a last inhale of her hair, pressing his lips to the top of her head. It was too late—too late for the doctor to save her and too late for Fallon to tell her how he felt for her.

“I’m so sorry. No more secrets,” he whispered to Isabelle. “I’m a wicked gentleman who has done a great deal wrong in this life, and I will love you for the rest of my days. You saved me, my lady. I wish I could have done the same for you.” He sniffed and kissed her forehead, refusing to let her go. “Rest well, my love, and dream of fairy tales with…” He choked on the emotion of good-bye for a second as a tear traced down his cheek before whispering, “Happy endings for all.”





Twenty


St. James,

The last confession letter was finally found in the incoming post for the Times. It seems he was waiting until he fled for good to have the note hit the papers. There will be no story now, of course. I left the note safely on your desk. Grapling was taken back to prison, one with higher security than before. There’s no chance of his escape. He’ll regret his actions for the rest of his life. When you return to headquarters, we can discuss any other details you require. Until then, my thoughts are with you, Knottsby, and Lady Isabelle.

—Hardaway

? ? ?

The scent of flowers surrounded her, pressing in on her senses. A garden was one of her favorite places to spend an afternoon. Isabelle shifted her head on the pillows. Pillows? What garden had soft pillows? She blinked her eyes open, her blurry vision seeing an array of colored blooms. She couldn’t be back in Fallon’s bed. A comfortable bed in a garden? Perhaps this was the end after all. “Am I dead?” she murmured, waiting to be answered by some ethereal voice.

“No. Thankfully not,” came a male voice from some distance away. She tried to shift in his direction, pain shooting through her side as she did so. “You did have me worried there for a bit, though.”

“Fallon?” she asked, but even as his name left her lips, she knew he wasn’t there.

Her father drew closer, adjusting the cloth on her forehead. “Why did you follow me? It wasn’t safe.”

“I can see that quite clearly now,” she murmured, her voice scratchy and rough. Her mother was in the room as well and joined her father at her bedside. How long had she been here? The last she remembered was the searing pain of the knife…and Fallon. He’d held her in his arms.

“Thank heavens you’re awake,” her mother said. “The doctor wasn’t certain when you would rouse…” She squeezed Isabelle’s hand. “If ever.”

Her father continued to twitch the cloth on her head this way and that until he was satisfied. However, it wasn’t her head that ached; it was her side. Still she didn’t move, only watched.

“Don’t dwell on that now, darling. Isabelle will make a full recovery.”

Darling? Isabelle looked up at her parents, watching them cling to each other, their fingers twined together. Perhaps she was dead after all. Her parents were on more-than-friendly terms, and she was surrounded by blossoms.

“Your father and I didn’t lose all hope, but it was in short supply.”

Isabelle shifted to take a closer look at the flowers and noted that they weren’t planted in dirt. They were real, arranged in what must have been every available vase in the house, filling her bedchamber. The scene reminded her of a certain other flower-covered room. Her eyes pricked with tears, knowing she would never go back there. Turning back to her father, she said, “I’m sorry I got caught up in this mess, not just following you, but the museum, Victoria’s wedding—”