The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(48)

“The room wasn’t always mine, I admit. But I chose not to change it when I had the opportunity.” This was a subject he never spoke about. Of course, he never allowed anyone inside his bedchamber to see the decor either. “It’s like being in a garden,” he mused in a rare moment of honesty.

“And gardens are peaceful escapes from life,” she murmured, completing his thought. “I understand, quite well actually.”

“Good.” He glanced away from her and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. The discomfort of having exposed so much of his private world to her in such a short period of time made him anxious to move. He couldn’t allow his guard down any further, or things would get uncomfortable between them during her stay. He should go. He had responsibilities. Pushing back from the table, he stood. “Do you need anything before I—”

“You’re leaving? Where will you sleep? Am I not to stay here…in your bed?”

“You are,” he replied as he moved to the fireplace to stir the coals. He couldn’t look in her direction while she was discussing staying in his bed, not if he wished to keep this a business matter. “There are adequate accommodations in my dressing room.”

“It can’t be that adequate. It’s your dressing room, after all.”

“Don’t concern yourself with any of that.” He couldn’t stay here with her now that he’d completed his task of supplying her food. He’d felt his guard slipping already while they dined together. He needed to leave.

“I can’t allow you to—”

“I’ve slept there many nights,” he cut in, already halfway to the door.

“Why?”

“If there isn’t anything else I can get for you, I’ll go,” he said, ignoring her question. He’d placed enough details of his life out for her examination tonight without adding more to the list. “I have a few things to see to this evening. I should allow you your privacy. I’ll see myself back in later to go to my dressing room for the night.”

“I don’t want…” she began, but her voice trailed away when he didn’t stop to argue with her.

“Try to get some rest.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob, turning back to look at her for the first time since their discussion of his bedchamber. She looked lost and small across the room in that sea of flowers. But across the room is exactly where she needed to stay if he was to continue on as he was. “Good evening, Isabelle.”

He turned and left the room, not slowing his pace until he’d reached his desk in the library—the one place where his life made sense. On some level he knew nothing could distract him from what he’d left behind in his bedchamber, but the faster he could repair Isabelle’s situation, the faster he could return his life to its usual patterns. No matter how empty his home would be once she was gone.

*

Isabelle wasn’t where he’d left her. Reginald Grapling smiled as he listened to the man who’d delivered the news to him. “And the confession note?” he asked.

“Gone. We didn’t see a sign of her or the note, sir. Did we?” The young man turned to his fellow, who stood turning his hat around and around in his hands as if it were his job to do so.

“The place was empty when we went back for the statue you said you wanted.”

“All is going to plan then,” Reginald mused as he turned to admire the artwork that now leaned against various walls in the small rented room. “Did you load the statue into the carriage?”

“We were unable to move it through the side door of the museum…sir.”

“It’s neither here nor there. Leave it.” The statue had been a fleeting desire to increase his take in the heist anyway. That wasn’t what mattered just now.

What mattered was his bait had been taken.

Only one man swept in and took control of any situation, repairing every detail for those around him. It could be counted upon like clockwork. So predictable. “St. James,” he muttered with a chuckle.

He’d pull his men back now, increase his watch wherever he’d put the girl. And while he could have hidden her away anywhere, he wouldn’t place Isabelle in some safe house on the outskirts of town. She was inside headquarters. And if his ranks were thick in that section of town, they’d be thin elsewhere.

Fallon St. James didn’t rule London—not anymore.

Reginald turned back to the room. The two young men were still standing in front of him, awaiting his instruction. “Are you ready for the next move in our game?” he asked them. “Because I am.”





Eleven


Dear Lord Knottsby,

I have new information regarding your daughter’s condition. Apologies if my earlier missive was concerning to you on an already-troublesome day. Lady Isabelle is awake now and is as well as can be expected after surviving a strike to the head. Fear not, as I am seeing to her safety. I hope that you will see to your other pressing issues from the day and allow me to handle this situation in your stead.

I had her head wound looked after and now have her hidden from any prying eyes. She will remain safe here until the danger has been eliminated. I will have word spread as best we can that she left town to visit family in the country in order to protect her reputation given the events of the week. Her stay is comfortable, but a few dresses wouldn’t go amiss. You may send her things with the gentleman delivering this note; he’s been instructed to wait. Further information to follow in the morning. Rest assured, I will do what I must.