The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(65)

What she felt for him was larger than the color of his coat or his ability to dance the quadrille. She knew Fallon, and she loved him.

A knock sounded at the door, making her jump. Fallon didn’t flinch but smoothed her hair from her face and placed a kiss on her forehead. Releasing her, he grabbed his shirt with a sigh and pulled it over his head.

“Remain here, out of sight.” And with that, he left her.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and watched him answer the door. He leaned an arm against the opening above his head, blocking all view into the room with his body. She smiled at the disheveled look of his untucked shirt and rumpled hair. He appeared as if he’d been enjoying exactly what he had been before the knock at the door. She bit her lip and admired his tall, lean form from across the room.

A low male voice came from the hall. What was the nature of Fallon’s relationship with his staff? Now that she knew his great secret, it made her curious.

“…He says he can only meet with us tonight. Parliament will be in session tomorrow and… Otherwise the deal… The profitability of the job will…”

Fallon glanced back to her for a second before nodding and murmuring something to the man. A second later he shut the door and moved to retrieve his discarded clothing from the chair. “I have to go take care of some business. I don’t know when I’ll be free to return. I know we were…” He looked down at the cravat in his hand for a second before his gaze met hers. “I apologize for leaving you like this.”

He was going out now? At this hour? “You haven’t eaten. It’s late as it is.”

“I’ll have something sent up for you,” he offered as he gave his hastily tied cravat a final tug and stuffed his arms in his coat.

“I’m fine. I was thinking of you,” she countered.

“I’ll survive. It’s what I do.” He shrugged his coat into place, ran his fingers through his hair to push it back out of his eyes, and gave her a quick nod of farewell. “Get some rest.”

She stared after him for a second wondering what that footman had said to make him leave so quickly. “What about you getting rest?” she asked, but he was already gone.

The man survived, as he said, on little food, even less sleep, and not even an evening to himself. What kept him so terribly busy? Why was a footman alerting him to a business matter in the dead of night? Although he’d told her some of his secrets, apparently Fallon St. James was still a mystery.

*

“Come live with me and be my love.” The words floated into the dark room and Isabelle sat straight up in bed, her eyes wide open.

Singing. She’d heard distinct singing. It had not been a dream this time. Fallon wasn’t the sort to even hum, let alone belt out a verse in the dead of night. “Fallon?” she asked anyway. Staring at the flickering light visible beneath the door—the only light in the room—she waited for an answer that she knew wouldn’t come. Fallon had yet to return.

“Shut it!” came a bellow from somewhere beyond the locked door, making Isabelle gasp and pull her knees tight to her chest. Who had that been? A servant? Surely not, yet Fallon hadn’t mentioned any other houseguests to her.

The presence of another live person should bring her peace at such a time, but it also proved that the voice she’d heard was real. She wasn’t alone.

“Who’s there?” she called out, pulling the blankets closer around her in defense against the unknown.

“And we will all the pleasures prooooove.” The deep voice sang out again, striking and holding a rather high note at the end of the verse.

Isabelle raised a brow at the closed door. Whoever was singing seemed to be quite deep in their cups. Had Fallon brought friends back to his home? It didn’t seem likely. “He left to attend a meeting. He’s still out,” she murmured to herself.

“That hill and valley, dale and field,” the singer in the hall continued.

Isabelle could now hear laughter in addition to the singing—a woman’s laughter. She drew a sharp intake of breath and strained to hear more. “What is happening in your home, Fallon?”

“And all the craggy mountains yield.” Another chirp of laughter accompanied a distant thud.

Isabelle could barely breathe. There was someone else in Fallon’s home, and he wasn’t present to see to it. Would he have mentioned a scheduled houseguest to her? Or they could be intruders! Someone was here to steal from Fallon while he was away.

“There I will make thee beds of roses. And a thousand fragrant po-ooosies.” The last word was drawn out in a poor attempt at opera.

Falsetto? “Get a hold of yourself, Isabelle,” she muttered as she watched the gap of light under the door for movement. It was only an unfamiliar house, new surroundings… There were no intruders, only foxed houseguests of Fallon’s that he’d neglected to mention to her. Yet she pulled the blankets up to her chin all the same to hide from whatever was making such a racket.

A door slammed shut somewhere in the house, and Isabelle jumped. Then all was silent. She sat, waiting, listening, and wondering if she was safe here after all. But the longer the silence extended, the more she grew irritated with herself for fearing Fallon’s friends. She was certain whoever was in the hall earlier wasn’t the violent sort.

“Intruders with a plot to steal from Fallon,” Isabelle whispered as she fell back onto the pillows behind her and stared at the ceiling. “I’ve been reading too many of the books Mother sent for me,” she muttered. “I require something else to help fill my idle hours, or I’ll never sleep again.” Surely there was something within the walls of Fallon’s bedchamber that she could do—a project of sorts. With a gasp and a smile, she knew just the thing.