The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(41)

“Everything will be all right. I’m going to take care of you. I’ll sort this out in no time. I’ll fix it. It’s what I do. I care for an army of gentlemen. I have a doctor on staff. If anyone can retrieve paintings, it’s me. I’ll make this scandal disappear for you. I know you would prefer it if a knight saved you, but there were none available today. I’ll have to do. You’ll be all right, Isabelle. You’re safe now.”

When he turned the corner, his driver spotted him and jumped down to open the carriage door. He asked no questions, only watched Fallon grow near with wide-eyed concern. His men knew better than to ask. It’s why this would work. He could care for Isabelle at headquarters, hide her there until matters were solved.

No one would pry. No one would find out. And if they did…he would have to put a contingency plan in place. He glanced down at the lady in his arms. Her father wouldn’t like any of this, but he could be made to understand. The gravity of his actions weighed on his shoulders even more than the woman in his arms. It must be done.

“Back to headquarters. She needs to be seen by Dr. Mathers. Tell no one else of this.”

“Yes, sir,” his man replied as Fallon climbed inside the carriage, still holding Isabelle against his chest.

As the carriage began to move, he wrapped his arms more tightly around Isabelle. Holding her as one might hold a sleeping child, he cherished every faint beat of her heart against him.

“Not much farther now,” he murmured into her hair as he pulled her close. “You can make it. Stay with me, Isabelle. Please stay with me.”





Ten


Dear Lord Knottsby,

I know this has been a troubling day, but I must inform you of your daughter’s current state of health. I found Lady Isabelle unconscious at the British Museum and brought her to a safe place. There was a theft. The artwork is gone, and a letter of confession was left behind. Worry not. I have the letter in my possession—one copy of it at any rate—and I’m already tracking the others. The man behind this action will pay for his crimes. Mathers is seeing to Lady Isabelle now. He says all we can do is wait for her to wake. I’ll inform you when I know more. Apologies if this is brief, but I must return to your daughter now.

—St. James

? ? ?

Isabelle stretched her fingers and toes against the soft bedding and curled onto her side. Why did her head ache so? Had Victoria forced an entire bottle of champagne down her throat? No, that wasn’t right.

She hadn’t seen or spoken with Victoria in more than a week. She’d gone to the museum…

The sound of a thousand door knockers as something hit her head. Everything had gone black. Victoria’s wedding. She had to get to Victoria’s wedding! What was the time? She blinked her eyes open and tried to sit before falling back into a pile of pillows, her skull pounding, threatening an imminent explosion. What began as blurry shapes slowly sharpened into focus.

Where was she?

She stared up into the canopy of a large bed, but it was not her own. As she turned her head to the side, her cheek pressed into soft fabric. It was the color of red roses after the heat of the summer sun had faded their blooming color to the deepest pink imaginable. Her mind careened through every bedchamber decor in her family’s home, her friend’s homes, but she had no memory of seeing this place before. She wasn’t sure of the time of day, but judging by the presence of a lamp turned low beside her, the rest of the room in darkness, it was nighttime. But that couldn’t be.

Floral-printed draperies were drawn over the window at her side, falling into puddles on the flower-covered rug. In fact, everything was covered in flowers. Floral upholstery, walls… She ran her hand over the surface of the bed, which was—of course—also covered in tiny embroidered flowers. It was lovely but entirely unfamiliar.

Her gaze settled on the glow of the lamp, seeking answers from the light of the glass-encased flame. That was when she noticed the cup of tea still steaming on the table and the empty chair pulled close to the bedside, as if someone had been watching over her as she slept and had just stepped away.

Was someone here with her? What was this place? The last she remembered was the pain in her head and falling to the hard floor.

“Am I dead?” Her voice croaked as if she’d never used it before.

“No. Thankfully not,” came a male voice from the far side of the room.

She gasped and pulled herself up a bit against the pillows. Why was there a man with her in a strange bedchamber? Had he hit her on the head and brought her here? Her mind reeled with questions, each punctuated by the pain in her skull.

Coals from a near-dead fire sprang to life in the grate across the room, lighting a tall silhouette. The man dusted his hands off and turned toward her. “You did have me worried there for a bit though.”

Blinking into the haziness that was the other side of the room, she forced her eyes to adjust to the light. There was something familiar about his deep voice, the confidence in his movements, but she couldn’t make sense of any of this. “Whose bedchamber am I in?”

“Mine.” St. James came into focus as he moved to her side, but his answer was no answer at all.

This room couldn’t belong to St. James, and she couldn’t be lying within it. None of this was real. It was all a dream caused by the bump on her head. She must have hit it quite hard to envision herself in such a place, with St. James of all people. It was rather amusing, really, aside from her throbbing head. That part wasn’t amusing at all. But the setting she’d placed St. James in did bring a smile to her face.