The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(47)

“The things it said about my father… I don’t like discord. This could be the start of a battle that will rage within my family. You don’t know how he can be. He could believe I wrote those awful words.”

“He won’t.” Fallon almost reached across the table to grab her hand and comfort her, but he caught himself.

“He believes the worst of my mother. Why not believe this as well?”

“Lack of scented paper.” Fallon couldn’t explain further. Isabelle couldn’t find out the truth about the Spare Heirs or her own father’s past dealings with Reginald Grapling. Not only would those answers lead to questions he couldn’t answer, but Isabelle could be killed. He couldn’t bear the thought that Grapling’s reach could extend as far as this bedchamber, but there was too much at stake to dismiss the man’s threats. As much as he would like to destroy any affection she might harbor for Grapling, Fallon must keep silent. The image of Isabelle’s limp form on the museum floor filled his memory, no matter how he wished he could banish it. “You simply have to trust me.”

“It was shameful to read…as if I’d voiced the worst of my thoughts about my family. Whoever wrote it… How did the thief know all of that? The penmanship truly did look like my own. Perhaps I am responsible for the theft and I simply struck my head and can’t recall. I could be mad. It happens to people on occasion.”

He leaned forward, studying the trouble evident in her eyes. “You didn’t write that note. Those weren’t your thoughts. You know what’s true and what isn’t.”

She nodded and stared down at the table between them for a moment. “I would never say such things aloud, much less write them in a note someone could find and read. I would never steal from my family.” She looked up at him, unshed tears pooling in her eyes. “But I did think something similar when I first learned of Victoria’s wedding. There was some truth there.”

“There was no truth there,” Fallon countered. It was only after the words were out of his mouth that he heard the harsh edge to his voice and sighed, leaning back into his chair. It was a commanding voice meant to cease an argument between men. This was different. “The person who wrote that note tried to kill you. That same person stole the artwork you look after and left you for dead to be blamed for the theft. There is no truth in anything there, my lady, only deceit.”

Isabelle fell silent for a minute as she finished her glass of wine. “Isabelle.”

His fists clenched and unclenched beneath the table, and he stared at her. While he wanted the use of her name, wasn’t that yet another layer of proper social conduct vanishing from between them? She was already dining in his private quarters and confiding her secret thoughts.

He shouldn’t encourage anything that diminished his control over the situation. He had the Spares to oversee. She was a distraction from everything he should be focused on. He couldn’t allow himself to feel anything for her. She would imprint herself on his life simply by existing here in his world. If he succeeded and solved this scandal for her, she would be returned to her father’s care. All would return to normal for both of them, and the light she brought into his life would be extinguished. Though it was his job to protect her, in the end was he not the one who needed to be protected?

What would be left of him when she was gone?

If keeping her here wasn’t wise, using her given name while doing so was lunacy. In spite of all of that, he parted his lips and murmured the most beautiful word in the English language. “Isabelle. You may call me Fallon.”

“Once a pirate kidnaps you, I believe using given names is acceptable,” she mused, returning her wineglass to the table as she spoke.

“You know all of this is for your own protection.”

Isabelle waved away his comment, a hint of a smile brightening her face as she studied him. “Fallon St. James.”

“Yes?” He wasn’t certain, but he was taking this sudden lack of sullen glares to mean she was becoming resigned to this arrangement. If he were wise, he would welcome her cross statements and sadness as a way of keeping distance between them, but where she was concerned, his usual wisdom didn’t exist. Instead he leaned forward, basking in the warmth of her sunny disposition.

“This is your bedchamber,” she stated.

“We already established that, but then you do have a head wound.”

Lifting her hand to touch the upholstered panel on the wall beside her, she traced the edge of a flower depicted in purple thread. “This room with the flowers. Is where you reside.”

He sat back in his chair, knowing where her curiosity was leading the conversation. “Do you have a question about it?”

“No.” She looked around, studying every detail of the room. “It’s only that you don’t seem the sort to have such an abundance of flowers around him. You don’t even dance.”

“What does dancing have to do with the decor? Are you feeling well? I can send for the doctor again.”

“I’m as well as I could be under the circumstances, I presume. I’m surprised is all.”

“That a gentleman who doesn’t dance and lacks a heartfelt smile has flowers in his bedchamber?” he asked, filling in the gaps for her.

She returned her gaze to his. “This is a bit more than one arrangement on a side table, Fallon.”