The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(57)

It had been the summer when she’d found that spot in the woods near their former home, the one with the moss-covered boulders by the lake. She’d spend every day that summer sitting on those rocks, reading books, hiding from everyone. It made her smile now, knowing that Fallon had read the same tale. They’d arrived on different paths, but at some point long ago, they’d shared the words in this book. They’d both lived the lives printed on these pages, and that created a bond between them.

Fallon might have more secrets than the depths of the black lake that summer, but this was special. She ran a hand over the worn cover. Whoever Fallon St. James truly was, she knew one thing: she wanted to know more.





Twelve


Dear St. James,

I appreciate your daily updates on Isabelle’s health. Her mother is quite distraught over this whole ordeal, so your ongoing news of Isabelle’s recovery is welcome indeed. We’ve spread the false tale to cover her absence, just as you asked, even when speaking with Isabelle’s sister. Do you have any new information on the artwork? I received the note with Isabelle’s forged signature upon it just as you warned me I might. Dreadful business, this. I enclosed it with this note for your safekeeping.

If you were not working to solve this matter on my behalf, I would be in severely troubling times. I will owe you for the remainder of my life for seeing to my daughter’s safety as you are doing. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with such a task. If I can assist in the search for either the artwork or the two remaining letters, do not hesitate to ask. Pass along our concern for Isabelle, if you will.

—Knottsby

? ? ?

The sun was setting behind the building across the street, casting long shadows at their feet. He’d arrived only a few minutes before, meeting Hardaway in the alley behind a row of shops, yet Fallon was already anxious to be done with their business here.

There was nothing wrong with the area. It was a rather respectable section of London in terms of typical Spares work, but he was away from headquarters, and that had him tapping his fingers against the outside of his thigh in impatience. He’d been avoiding his bedchamber and its current occupant for two days now, but this was his first time outside of the house’s walls since he’d brought Isabelle home with him. Somehow being a carriage ride away left him anxious to return even though he would keep his distance once he was back under the same roof.

She’d tried to claim she loved him. Fallon took a steadying breath and surveyed the opposite side of the street. He was certain if he stayed to hear the words two days ago, I love you would have been said. That couldn’t happen. Isabelle—in a general sense—couldn’t happen.

He forced his mind back to his current mission, leaning out to glance farther up the street. Grapling couldn’t be staying in an area this respectable, could he? He was on the run from Fallon’s men. He would be easily discovered in such a place. And this was no location for an underhanded sale of any sort. Looking over at Hardaway leaning against the alley wall at his side, Fallon questioned him. “You’re certain this is where he’s reported to meet with potential buyers to be rid of the art?”

“I already told you it was,” Hardaway said without taking his eyes from their target. “At some point, you need to learn to trust me—or anyone, for that matter. I have reliable sources in town. I’ve been at this awhile.”

“I know you have,” Fallon conceded, turning back to the brick building where the deal would supposedly happen moments from now. Meat hooks still hanging in the window suggested the place had once been a butcher’s shop, but a layer of dust and empty counters inside indicated the shop had long since closed its doors. And now Grapling was using the location to meet potential art buyers? It was the wrong location for such an activity—far from the harbor and surrounded by too many homes where someone could take notice. Experience told Fallon that they’d followed a false trail, but he said nothing more. They had to follow every possibility until they found what they were looking for. Thus far they had only two of the four confession notes—the one left at the scene and the one sent to Isabelle’s father. She was still in danger, and the artwork was still at large.

“We’ll find him, St. James,” Hardaway said a moment later.

“Any luck finding the last two copies?”

“We’ll find those as well.” Hardaway shifted beside him, bending to pick up a rock from the ground. He tossed it back and forth between his hands. “How many jobs have we pulled since we started the Spares?”

Fallon had never counted. It was a statistic he should know. He made a mental note to look it up later tonight. “I’d have to search through figures, check my files… Even counting the few from the early days before we had headquarters?”

“You and your details and exact numbers.” Hardaway shoved him in the shoulder. “An arse load! A fuck ton. More than the number of barmaids I’ve winked at over a pint.” Hardaway turned back to their watchful vigil. “St. James, we’ll sort this out as well. Enjoying your time with the lady involved at least, eh?”

Fallon shrugged, focusing on the far entrance to the brick building, making certain they missed nothing. He hadn’t enjoyed his time with Isabelle as much as he would have liked. Having her near him was driving him steadily toward madness. They could have no future together. Starting anything with her wouldn’t end well. But keeping things businesslike between them was killing him at a rapid pace.