The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(43)

“You took a nasty hit to the head,” he murmured.

“I recall. Pieces of it anyway. But my sister’s wedding…”

“There was no wedding. Your sister fled the church.”

“Victoria fled her wedding?”

“She didn’t marry Hardaway,” he confirmed.

There was a tension in his jaw as he watched her reaction to the news, but she wasn’t certain what she thought of this new development. Kelton Brice and Victoria were not married. Perhaps it was the hit to the head, but she found herself more concerned for her sister than pleased that the gentleman she long admired was once again a bachelor.

“Poor Victoria,” she muttered, and she saw the tension leave St. James’s gaze in an instant. She knew he didn’t approve of her interest in Lord Hardaway. He must have been relieved not to have to listen to her talk about his friend. Fortunately for him, she had far too many things to think about above a former love interest’s availability.

“When your sister ran out the doors, I left to find you,” St. James continued.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“I know you,” he said simply, looking into her eyes.

“I’m glad you do,” she finally whispered. They both fell silent as the oddly intense moment wrapped around them. Her heart was pounding as she gazed up at him.

What was happening? She was overwhelmed from the events of the day. That was all.

She was supposed to take Mr. Grapling’s advice and find serenity in her favorite pieces of art this morning. Victoria was supposed to wed Lord Hardaway this morning. Instead, Isabelle had hit her head. She still didn’t understand anything that had led up to this moment, and now she was here with St. James. He was looking at her, and she couldn’t pull her gaze from his. Everything was at once warm, soft, and compelling her to stay.

“I’m so confused,” she muttered.

“I’m afraid that’s your head injury.” He eyed a spot on her forehead as he spoke. “You were seen by my doctor while you slept. You may need to be seen to again tomorrow if there isn’t any improvement. As it happens, I have some experience with such things. It should heal nicely.”

“You have experience with wounds?”

He didn’t answer, only examined her forehead.

“Was it bad? It hurts like the devil.” She lifted her fingers to the spot that ached and encountered soft linen covering her hair. Apparently she’d been hurt badly enough to warrant such treatment.

“You were bleeding when I found you. It was…” He paused, watching her for a second before he released a sigh and reached for the bedside table, producing a folded piece of paper. “I’m glad you’re awake.”

“What is that?”

“The note I found on the floor beside you at the museum.”

“Does it explain what happened? Things are a bit foggy in my mind. Is it an apology note from someone for accidentally hitting me over the head perhaps?”

“No.” He tapped the folded piece of paper against his thigh as he watched her. “I need to know if you had anything to do with it.”

“No. I didn’t.” Even with an addled mind, she knew she hadn’t written the note. “What does it say?”

“You haven’t looked at it. I already suspect what occurred, but I need to be certain, without a doubt, before I proceed any further.”

“Proceed with what?” Why was he looking at her with a wary eye like that? “What does the note say?”

“It’s your written confession to the theft at the museum.”

“Theft? What theft? St. James, what are you talking about?” She tried to sit up but couldn’t find the strength.

Why was he asking her about a confession? She hadn’t taken anything. She would never… Someone had stolen from the museum and claimed she’d done it? The entire situation threatened to swamp her there in the pile of feather pillows.

She took a breath, then another, focusing on St. James’s face. His dark-brown eyes were the color of rich soil, the kind that would grow multitudes of flowers. His jaw was covered in the stubble of his unshaven beard. Seven hours. The tea and chair at her side. He’d looked after her while Victoria was somewhere in town not married and a thief escaped with artwork. She’d been looking at the painting of the castle on the hillside when she’d collapsed. Her head pounded as she forced herself to breathe. She needed an anchor as life stormed around her, and right now that tie was him. She reached for him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt where it covered his forearm.

“Settle down,” he said, placing his other hand on her shoulder and soothing her nerves. “You’re all right now. I’ll get this sorted. I shouldn’t have upset you. You need to rest. You took quite the blow to the head. It’s too much for you just now. Perhaps in the morning…”

“St. James, what was stolen from the museum?” she asked, somehow already knowing the answer. She needed to hear it all the same.

He watched her for a minute, clearly gauging his words and choosing how to handle her. “Your grandfather’s art collection was gone when I arrived.”

Gone, just like that? She’d likely been the last one to see it, to enjoy it. She closed her eyes, trying to remember the morning. She’d been standing in the largest of the upper rooms when a blinding pain split her head. Her knees had buckled, then nothing. She opened her eyes and looked at him, needing him to understand, to believe her. “I didn’t steal my own grandfather’s art collection. I cared for those pieces. I volunteered there. I had a duty to look after those paintings. I would never take them. And for what reason, money?”