To Seduce a Sinner (Legend of the Four Soldiers #2)(82)

“It’s possible.” Jasper shook his head. “What would he be doing in Paris?”

“Seeing the sights?”

Jasper arched a brow. “When we are enemies with the French?”

Munroe shrugged. “Some would see my correspondence with my French colleague as subversive.”

Jasper sighed, feeling weary. “It’s a mare’s nest. I know I’m chasing possibilities that are vague at best, but I can’t forget the massacre. Can you?”

Munroe smiled bitterly. “With the memories engraved on my face? No, I can never forget.”

Jasper tilted his face to the breeze. “Why don’t you come visit us, my lady wife and me, in London?”‹Lon"><

“Children cry when they see me, Vale.” Munroe stated it as an unemotional fact.

“Do you even go to Edinburgh now?”

“No. I go nowhere.”

“You’ve imprisoned yourself in your castle.”

“You make it sound like a tragedy on the stage.” Munroe’s mouth twisted. “It’s not. I’ve accepted my fate. I have my books, my studies, and my writing. I am . . . content.”

Jasper looked at the other man skeptically. Content to live in a big drafty castle with only a dog and a surly manservant for company?

Munroe must’ve known that Jasper would argue the point. He turned back toward the mansion. “Come. We haven’t broken our fast, and no doubt your wife waits for you inside.”

He strode ahead.

Jasper cursed and followed. Munroe wasn’t ready to leave his safe nest, and until the stubborn Scot was ready, there was no use arguing. Jasper only hoped that Munroe would budge in this lifetime.

“THAT MAN IS sorely in need of a housekeeper,” Melisande said as their carriage drove away from Sir Alistair’s castle. Suchlike’s head was already nodding in the corner.

Vale shot an amused look at her. “You didn’t approve of his linens, my heart?”

She pinched her lips together. “The musty linens, the dust on every surface, the nearly empty larder, and that horrible, horrible manservant. No, I certainly did not approve.”

Vale laughed. “Well, we’ll stay on clean sheets tonight. Aunt Esther said she was eager to see us on our return trip. I think she wants to hear gossip about Munroe.”

“No doubt.”

Melisande took out her embroidery and sorted through her silks, looking for a shade of lemon yellow. She thought she must have a few strands left, and it was the perfect shade to highlight the lion’s mane.

She glanced at Suchlike to make sure the maid was asleep. “Did Sir Alistair tell you what you wanted to know?”

“In a way.” He stared out the window, and she waited, carefully threading her needle. “Someone betrayed us at Spinner’s Falls, and I’ve been trying to discover the man.”

She frowned a little as she placed the first stitch—no small feat in a bumping carriage. “Did you think Sir Alistair was the man?”

“No, but I thought he might help me figure out who was.”

“And did he?”

“I don’t know.”

The words should’ve held disappointment, but Jasper seemed cheerful enough. Melisande smiled to herself as she worked the lion’s mane. Perhaps Sir Alistair had given him some peace.

“Blancmange,” she sai‹man lid a few minutes later.

He looked at her. “What?”

“You once asked me what my favorite food is. Do you remember?”

He nodded.

“Well, it’s blancmange. We had it every year at Christmas when I was a girl. Cook colored it pink and decorated it with almonds. I was the youngest, so I had the smallest dish, but it was wonderfully creamy and delicious. I looked forward to it every year.”

“We can have pink blancmange every night for supper,” Vale said.

Melisande shook her head, trying not to smile at his impulsive offer. “No, that would spoil the specialness of it. Only at Christmas.”

A happy thrill went through her to be planning a Christmas with him. There would be many Christmases with him, she thought. She couldn’t think of a more wonderful prospect.

“Only at Christmas, then,” Vale was saying across from her. He was solemn, as if settling a business contract. “But I insist that you have an entire bowl for yourself.”

She snorted and found herself smiling. “What would I do with a whole bowl of blancmange?”

“You could make a pig of yourself,” he said, perfectly seriously. “Eat the entire thing at once if you like. Or you can hoard it, just looking at it and thinking how good it will be, how creamy and sweet—”

“Nonsense.”

“Or you can eat but one spoonful every evening. One spoonful, and me sitting across the table looking on with envy.”

“Won’t you have your own bowl of blancmange as well?”

“No. That’s why yours will be so special.” He leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest, looking well pleased with himself. “Yes, indeed. I pledge an entire bowl of pink blancmange to you every Christmas. Never let it be said that I am not a generous husband.”

Melisande rolled her eyes at his foolery, but she smiled as well. She was looking forward to her first Christmas with Jasper.