Page 29 of Tales of a Society Nothing

“Do you want to marry?” Ambrose asked.

“If I can find the right woman.”

Ambrose nodded and thought for a long moment. “If you do find her, put your pride aside and never let her go.”

Slorach’s expression turned pained. “Good advice,” he said.

Ambrose agreed. If only he could follow his own counsel.

***

MARGARET WAS EXHAUSTEDby the time they finished dinner. She had worked with Ambrose and Mr. Slorach examining the ledgers all day. They’d found what they needed to support their theory that Vanderville had paid men to not only discourage the formation of a union among his workers at the Liverpool factory, but also to target union leaders for attacks of their homes and families. They’d have to travel to Liverpool to interview Vanderville’s associates and corroborate their theories. Mr. Slorach was leaving for Liverpool in the morning, and Margaret and Ambrose would go over everything again, then meet with magistrates and judges to conclude their business here in London before following.

The assassin was in custody, and Margaret wanted to question him about any other jobs Vanderville had hired him to complete. She already suspected he’d killed one of Vanderville’s former servants, the man Ambrose had hoped to meet the night he’d been stabbed. Who else had paid him to ply his trade in death?

She had a thousand questions about the mission, and she focused on those rather than the question she really wanted answered—was this the end of her marriage?

Ambrose had barely glanced at her all day, and when he had, she noted the presence of that furrow he always got between his brows when he was worried. He must have asked her if she wanted to lie down a dozen times. Now that she was ready to lie down, she supposed she should be thankful he had asked and not ordered.

Not that she would have listened.

She smiled at herself in the mirror at the dressing table where she sat. Ambrose had given her the larger of the two main bedchambers, and she’d bathed, changed into clean clothing, and was finishing plaiting her damp hair so she would not wake with it in an impossible tangle in the morning. Ambrose’s bed chamber was across from hers, and she jumped at every sound on the other side of her door. Considering how insistent he’d been that she rest, she doubted he would come to her. Part of her was disappointed. And part of her wondered if it wasn’t for the best. If this truly was the end, perhaps a clean break was better.

They had the night they’d shared in Seven Dials. No need to dredge up more emotions by spending what they’d both know was one last night together. She’d rather their last night be one filled with passion and not bittersweet attempts to say good-bye.

Of course, they didn’t have to say good-bye. She could go to him now, pound on his door, and tell him she never wanted to be apart from him again. She could promise to be the wife he always wanted—the kind who organized dinner parties and tried to court theton’s favor. She might never have children, but she could shepherd his nieces and nephews through all the rituals of Polite Society. She could make a life, an ordinary life, and when he retired, they could grow old together, strolling the fields where they’d played as children.

All she had to do was go and knock on his door right now to make all of it come true.

Margaret turned and stared at her bedchamber door. She tried to rise, tried to force herself to take the first step. Her uninjured hand clutched the dressing table, her fingers digging into the soft rosewood so hard she feared she’d have splinters under her nails. She loved Ambrose. She loved him so much that it was as though a part of her was missing when they were apart. Walking through the world without him felt as though she’d constantly forgotten something vital and necessary. She might check her reticule for her book and her coin purse, feel for her hat, check for her cloak, but even though she had remembered everything, something was still missing.

She’d felt the lack for years, and it wasn’t until she’d walked into the flat in Seven Dials and he’d pointed his pistol at her that she’d felt that missing part of herself click back into place.

Now he would be gone again, and the sense of emptiness would return.

As much as she hated the hole his absence created, she couldn’t ignore the magnetic pull of her life as a Royal Saboteur. She’d always felt the pull of something...somethingmore. Even when she and Ambrose had first married, and she’d felt so happy and complete, there had been the feeling of something pulling her, not necessarily away from Ambrose, but toward it.

It had been easy to resist the tugging when she didn’t know what it was, what was pulling her. But the first time Ambrose had described one of his missions to her, shown her how to decipher a code, given her a message to deliver to a confederate, Margaret had felt the undefinable tug sharpen and clarify. She’d known she was meant to be an agent. She’d known it like she knew her own name or what she looked like in a mirror. She’d tried for months and months to help Ambrose know it.

But he had wanted a wife at his side, not another agent. Even as he praised her abilities, he held her back. She believed him when he said he wanted to protect her and keep her safe. But he was also a man of his time, and though a few other women had made a name for themselves as agents for the Crown—Baron’s own wife, to name one—Ambrose didn’t want that for his wife.

Yes, she had finally left him and succumbed to the attraction of a career as an agent, but he was the one who obliged her to make a choice. Even now, it was she, not he, who had to choose.

Margaret forced her hands on the dressing table to relax and release. No decisions had to be made tonight. She was tired and overwrought and overemotional. She picked up her book and padded to bed. She’d read for a few minutes and then sleep. She could forget about her problems for a little while. They’d still be there in the morning.

***

RAIN POURED FROM THEheavens the next day, and Margaret and Ambrose waited as long as they could for the skies to clear before they were forced to venture out. They spent most of the day with the local authorities, answering questions and then making their own inquiries.

By dusk, the deluge had slackened into a steady drizzle. Ambrose stood with Margaret outside the jail where the assassin was held. “If you go back to the safe house and start on the report, I’ll finish up here.”

She nodded. “Fine, but I need to go to Seven Dials and collect my things. I can fetch yours as well.”

“No,” he said quickly. “You’re not to go to Seven Dials alone. I’ll go. You return to the safe house and start on the report.”

Margaret gave him a look then slowly adjusted her spectacles. Ambrose closed his eyes and seemed to be searching for patience. “I’m sorry. I would prefer if you didn’t go to Seven Dials alone. If you must go, we’ll go together.”

Margaret sighed. She took both of Ambrose’s hands in hers and leaned forward, kissing one cheek then the other. He’d shaved his beard at the safe house, exposing his chiseled cheekbones and unyielding jawline. On a whim, she kissed that stubborn jaw. She loved him, even the parts she didn’t like. She had really hoped one of them might change.

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