The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(66)

Thirteen


Kelton glanced up and down the hall. His information had led him to these rented rooms, meant for those who were only passing through London or, in this case, those who didn’t wish to be seen while here. “Grapling,” he whispered, knowing he was getting closer to finding the man.

Kelton took a step back, then shoved the door open with a great heave of his shoulder. Stumbling inside, he searched the room. Empty. Only the furniture that would have come with the room remained. Grapling had already left.

Just when he’d turned back from throwing open the single drawer on the only table, he spotted something lying on the dusty wood of the floor.

“Careless of you,” he whispered, moving toward what appeared to be an envelope. “Perhaps too careless.” He bent and picked up the abandoned parcel, eyeing it. A string of letters and numbers were written in small, precise handwriting across the surface. It was a code—their code, the one they’d used in the early days of the Spares. Was he meant to find this, or had it been slipped under the door after the room was emptied? He scowled at the envelope for a second and began translating it as fast as he could.

Delivery Instructions. Open Immediately Upon Receipt.

Then he tore it open, anxious to read the only piece of evidence that Grapling had left behind, even if had been left behind with the intention of taunting or misleading the Spares in some way. Right now, aside from endless questions around town about forgeries and the exporting of stolen art, this trail was the only one they had to follow.

The enclosed confession letter needs to reach the Head Librarian at the British Museum. A hack will be waiting for you in the side alley beyond this building. Instructions have already been given to the driver. You will arrive at the museum via the side entrance. Ascend the stairs and make your way to the workroom at the end of the hall. Between the hours of one and two, the staff will be called away on an errand. If you are seen, keep moving. Place the letter on the oak desk in the corner. Your payment will be made in the usual fashion.





—G


? ? ?

It was nearly evening again, and Fallon had yet to return to Isabelle or the miserably narrow bed in his dressing room. He nodded to one of his men as he left the drawing room and moved toward the stairs.

He was always moving. He hadn’t stopped since he’d left Isabelle last night, and he hadn’t stopped thinking about her either. He’d thought about her while he discussed the Spares’ interest in the upcoming legislation with the Marquess of Elandor until early morning. He’d remembered what she felt like in his arms while he sat alone in his carriage for the ride back to headquarters. And when he’d returned, he’d kept her in mind while discussing Grapling with the men who’d just come back from searching the city.

Fallon had to find that bastard—not only to save Isabelle from certain ruin but also for the men who had been involved from the beginning years ago. He shook off the continuing irritation that the man had vanished again so easily in Fallon’s town. His own blasted town! He controlled more of London than anyone outside of the Spares suspected. The fact that Grapling was still on the loose, here where Fallon was strongest, pointed out that he still had weaknesses in his network even after all of these years. At least Brice had turned up with another of the confession letters this morning. One left, but it was one too many.

His eyes narrowed on the stairs ahead of him as his boots fell hard on each step. He’d examined and refined every one of his processes and mapped the entire city searching for holes in his defenses. He’d even met with his key men until early afternoon, cross-referencing their reports for possible oversight. And while the problem with Grapling persisted, day-to-day activities within the Spare Heirs continued, all requiring his attention. He enjoyed his work, truly he did. But there were times when the burden of it weighed heavy upon him. This was one of those times.

He paused and released a harsh breath, gripping the stair rail at his side until his knuckles turned white. He couldn’t allow this situation with Grapling to destroy every life it touched. Fallon had worked so long to ensure security for the men of the Spare Heirs Society and the longevity of the organization itself. He would keep on as he always did, and somehow he would see this situation resolved. The gears on this club would continue to spin and whir just like Claughbane’s steam machine. Life would go on. Isabelle would once again be safe to attend events and be seen in public without risking her freedom. And then she would be…gone from his home.

His speed increased as he moved down the hall toward his bedchamber. By the time he reached the door, he had the key already in hand and threw the door open. She sat at the small table by the window, surrounded by papers and small plates of food. Her back was turned as she studied something in front of her.

Isabelle’s hair still trailed down her back in soft blond waves, as it had since he’d washed it last night. He’d spent the better part of the morning thinking of the silken sensation of her hair against the palm of his hand, the softness of her skin beneath his fingers, the curious gleam in her eye just before their lips met. He turned back to close the door with a soft click, tamping down the fire that burned hot with every thought of her.

The waters with Isabelle needed to be carefully tested. Even if she had kissed him last night, she was here for her own protection. She shouldn’t need protection from him, no matter how he wanted to rush into things, to savor every second he got to spend with her alone in this room. He had to move forward with caution, or she could get hurt. She was beautifully idealistic, innocent, and perfect when compared to his soiled life. If she suffered as a result of all of this, it would be the same as if he’d harmed a baby chick or perhaps a fluffy rabbit.