The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(45)
Duty, responsibility—he would focus on the ideals that had been at the center of his life for so long. Everything else would sort itself out, if he could only remain in control.
Fallon stared down at the last sentence of his letter for a moment before he folded and sealed the paper, stamping his signet ring into the wax. Other such rings indicated a title passed down from father to son for generations, but Fallon’s was different. He enforced order from this desk, and his signet ring, unlike others, was earned, built from determination and a certain disregard for how society should be run. “Responsibility,” he whispered to himself. “This is what you do.”
He could survive caring for Isabelle, and he would. Looking at the seal on the letter, he gave a nod of satisfaction to the stamped SHS that now made the document official. He rose from his desk, scooped up the letter, and moved toward the door, making a mental list that he would write down later: find the other copies of the confession letter, recover the missing paintings, haul Reginald Grapling from the shadows, and make him pay for what he’d done to Isabelle.
Finding and destroying the copies of the letter would be the first step in all of this mess, right after he fed the lady he’d “kidnapped.” He almost laughed. She would view their situation in those terms, not that he could blame her for her interpretation.
He’d had to step away to get some air after the kidnapping conversation. The pain he’d seen shining in her eyes when he’d told her she couldn’t leave had cut him to the bone. And before that, when she’d touched him… Even now she was lounging in his bed. He climbed the stairs, attempting to banish that last thought with every step. He’d given her father his word. He owed it to Knottsby to keep that word. Duty, responsibility, maintain control.
He would care for her, spending far too much time with her in his bedchamber in the process. If it were necessary for him to step away for a few minutes in order to keep his sanity, that’s what he would do. Fallon had made his choice nearly twelve hours ago when he’d scooped her up off the floor of the museum. Now he must see it through.
I will do what I must, he repeated to himself. They were words he lived by, but today, scratched out on the paper by his own hand, they held more meaning than ever before.
He’d already made use of the few minutes he’d stepped away to update Isabelle’s father on her condition, but Fallon needed to get back to Isabelle now. Was she safe even here? Grapling’s network was larger than Fallon had originally assumed. Fallon could well have a security leak within his own home. Until Grapling was captured, the extra guards he’d stationed around headquarters would remain in place, Isabelle would remain in his bedchamber, and the fewer details she knew about the danger she was in, the better. Grapling’s threats of violence if Fallon revealed the man’s identity could still be in play, and Isabelle’s life couldn’t be risked—not again.
Of course, none of his efforts would matter if he allowed her to starve, and she hadn’t had a bite since before her ordeal began this morning. Had she eaten at all today, or had she been too busy grieving for Brice on his wedding day?
He was halfway down the hall that led to his bedchamber when he spotted Mrs. Featherfitch leaving the service stairs, a tray piled high with various foods. “Excellent timing,” he said by way of greeting the woman. He took the heavy tray from her hands and replaced it with the letter. “Have Smithwick take this to Lord Knottsby. He knows where his home is. And tell him to wait for a response before returning to headquarters. Knottsby will want to send over a package.”
“You’re taking dinner in your suite of rooms instead of at your desk in the library as usual. At rather a late hour as well. Not to mention the amount and variety of foods you requested including a dessert and wine,” she mused, appearing to watch him for some sort of clue.
“Was there a question hiding in that acknowledgment of my dining preferences this evening?”
“No, only an observation.” She brushed her hands on her apron but made no move to leave and clear the way for him to unlock his bedchamber door.
“Observe if you wish. So long as nothing you see is repeated to the other staff members.”
She waved away his comment on silence, eyeing the tray between them. “At least you’re eating. And with sweets no less.”
“Men can change, you know,” he returned in an attempt to alleviate the woman’s suspicions.
“Ha! If that were true, I’d have you eating every morning and sleeping a bit more. All the work you do isn’t good for the soul, you know.”
“I appreciate your concern. See that Smithwick gets that letter out this evening. It must reach its destination tonight and in the usual fashion.”
“No passing it off to a footman. I know. I have been suffering you gentlemen for a few years now.”
“That you have.”
“But you still aren’t going to share with me what all that food and your change of schedule is about, are you?” She raised a brow at him and waited. “I didn’t think so.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Featherfitch.”
“Same to you.”
Fallon shifted the tray of food in his hands and unlocked the door, slipping inside before his housekeeper could spot Isabelle inside the room. Kicking the door closed with the heel of his boot, he braced himself for the evening to come. By the look of Isabelle, sitting in the center of his bed with crossed arms and an even crosser face, it was going to be a long evening indeed.