The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(44)
“Revenge against your father,” he corrected, studying her as he spoke. “The note makes a convincing argument against you. It claims you arranged the theft…that you wanted to be caught to destroy your family’s reputation.”
“I thought you knew me,” she muttered. She stared up at him, her eyes beginning to pool with tears.
“I do. But that hardly matters with this information written in ink in a hand that could easily be yours.”
“It does matter.” She relaxed a fraction. He believed her. She would hold on to that one small shred of hope in this mess. She had St. James. He was on her side in whatever battle she now found herself in, and together they had better odds than her facing this alone. “It matters to me that you believe me,” she clarified.
“What I believe is there are three more copies of this note that aren’t accounted for. Others don’t know you.” He held the paper up for her to see. “You could be taken to prison over this. If the handwriting matches your own… You aren’t safe as long as the other copies exist.”
“Sniff it,” she demanded with every bit of strength she could summon.
“Excuse me?”
“Smell the note in your hand.”
St. James raised the paper to his nose and breathed in. With a questioning look in his eye, he glanced at her, sniffed it once more, and shrugged.
“What does it smell like?”
He glared at her as if her head wound was far worse than he’d imagined. “Paper.”
“Exactly. I keep dried lavender in the drawer with my correspondence to give my notes a pleasant fragrance. Those who receive my correspondence appreciate the effort.”
His cheek twitched as if he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite make a full go of it. “Unfortunately, I doubt your name will be cleared of all wrongdoing based on scented paper. For now, you should rest.”
“I should return to my home,” she countered. She’d been inside his bachelor residence for a damning amount of time already, without adding spending the night on top of it. “My family will be concerned for me already. I have to let them know I’m safe. And I have to find who stole the paintings. I have to speak with Victoria to be certain she’ll survive. There’re a great many details to see to.”
“No.”
She shifted on the bed beneath his arm. “I must have misheard you. It sounded as if you said no.”
He met her gaze with a businesslike stare. “I did. You can’t leave.”
“Why not?”
“Because it isn’t safe for you to go. I knew when I brought you here how this would have to proceed. I knew you wouldn’t be pleased, but it had to be done.”
She was in his home, in his bedchamber, and she couldn’t leave? What did that mean? “I’m sure I’ll be fine once I arrive at home,” she said, searching his face and trying to understand.
“No. I won’t allow you to do that. If you leave here, you’ll be in danger, and I can’t…I can’t allow that to happen.”
“You won’t allow me?” She drew back as far as she could while reclined against pillows. “Are there locks on the doors and bars covering the windows?”
“Yes.” He gave her a severe look, his eyes narrowing in warning. “The door is locked and will remain so. And so you’re aware, you’re on the fourth floor of my home, quite a distance from the ground. There’s no escape from this room. Therefore, I suggest you don’t attempt it.”
“What?” She looked up at him in disbelief. “I must contact my family. They’ll already be in a state of worry. I can’t stay here.”
He couldn’t be serious. He’d locked the door? He was her friend. Friends didn’t do this to friends. He was going to hold her here against her will? That was… There was a word for it. But it couldn’t be. Not him. Not her friendly pirate. “Mr. St. James! Have you… Did you kidnap me?”
“That would appear to be the case, yes.”
*
Heaving a heavy breath, Fallon stared at the letter to Lord Knottsby he’d just penned, the words swimming on the paper. “Blast!” he bellowed to the empty library as he leaned forward to brace an arm on his desk. The back of his hand brushed against the heart-shaped locket he’d pulled from his pocket earlier. He’d fallen for it—a classic distraction he should have seen for what it was weeks ago—a lie. And all the while Grapling was working on a plot of revenge. Fallon slid a drawer open, threw the blasted trinket inside, and slammed the drawer.
This day had been among the most tormenting he’d ever known, as he’d waited, unsure if Isabelle would live. He hadn’t left her side while she slept aside from the brief meetings he held in the hall outside the room to send a message to Knottsby, begin the search for the other letters, set extra guards around headquarters, and track down all known forgers. He should be thankful. Isabelle was alive—beaten, angry, and in his bed with her life torn apart while he sat here making arrangements with her father, but alive nonetheless.
He blinked away the image of her collapsed on the museum floor that had haunted his thoughts all day.
Fallon had made the correct decision, hadn’t he? He’d acted on impulse to be sure, but he’d done the only thing he could in the situation. No plan. No organization. Thankfully it looked like Isabelle would survive, but would he? Three floors above his head, an angry woman was in his bed. And he must somehow continue on as he always did, solving the problems of those in his care. Only this time the one in his care was Lady Isabelle Fairlyn.