Page 53 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
“Yes. I was afraid you’d say that.”
He lifted his head, and the side of her thigh hated the rush of cold air, missed the light pressure of his head nestled against it. He turned to view her more fully, and his hands found her waist, squeezed pinpricks of heat into her with each of his fingers, even through shift and stays and gown. “There’s still the rumor we’ve put about. That I’ve a Rubens for sale. We’ll see what comes of it. Don’t cry, Fee.”
She hadn’t been going to, but he’d said her name with such tender care, and, well, now she just might.
A moan from the bed brought them both to their feet and to the dowager’s side.
Fiona knelt by her bedside and placed a hand to her cheek. “Lady Balantine. Lady Balantine, please wake.”
“My paintings,” the lady moaned. “My art.”
“Come to, my lady,” Fiona pleaded. “Please.”
Zander placed a hand on her shoulder. “Patience. She’ll come to.”
And then she did, popping upright, her waist as the hinge between two boards.
Fiona lurched back with a gasp, falling against Zander’s legs then scrambling off them as the dowager broke into a chaos of sobs. Fiona jumped onto the bed and wrapped the older woman in her arms for the second bout of tears in less than half an hour. She whispered consoling words into Lady Balantine’s ears, and Zander shoved his hands in his pockets.
“I’ve been looking for them,” he said weakly. “I’ll keep looking. We have contrived another plot, but we must wait for it to produce results.” He sounded so resolute, so sad, too, and she wanted to tackle him to the ground and demand to know the reasons for the waver in his voice.”
The door to the room burst open, and a tall, thin man with a floppy mop of brown hair flew through. “What in the devil’s name is this? Mother, who are these people?”
“Ah.” Zander pulled Fiona from the bed. “The son, I presume.”
“I am her son, but that does not answer my question.”
Lady Balantine sniffled. “Herbert, these are my friends and business associates, Lord Lysander and Miss Frampton.”
Herbert stiffened and curled his face into a sneer. “What are you two doing in my mother’s bedroom? While she wails inconsolably?”
“I was doing my best toconsoleher.” Oh how lovely her fist would feel in his face. Where had he been when his mother was so distressed? Where had he been when her paintings were stolen? Where had he been for years while his mother filled her lonely life with paintings and statuary that could not talk back to her? “You listen, Lord—”
“Not now,” Zander hissed near her ear.
“I think you should leave. Now.” The baron pointed toward the door.
But Fiona stood her ground, fisted her hands. “No. I’m not leaving unless her ladyship wishes us to.”
Lady Balantine reached for her. “It’s all well, darling. Come back later when I’ve recovered from the shock. We’ll have much to speak of.”
Zander’s hand curved round her wrist and did not loosen easily or quickly when Fiona tugged, but she tugged again, and he let her return to the dowager’s bedside.
“Are you sure?” Fiona asked. “I can stay and—”
“No. Go, dear. I need to be alone for a while.”
“Did you hear my mother?” The baron shoved a finger at the door. “Leave.”
“We are,” Zander growled. He gathered Fiona to his side and ushered her through the door, which slammed shut behind them.
Out on the street, Zander quickly helped her into a hack. For several moments, the only sounds were from outside the conveyance—the rumble of wheels, the whinnies of horses and rattle of reins. Inside the hack, they both seemed to breathe too slowly, too softly, to make a single rustle of the air around them.
But all the things she wanted to say boiled up in her, and Fiona’s body began to move. First, her toes tapped, then her fingers on the hard wooden bench. Then, her teeth bounced about on her bottom lip, and she clenched and unclenched the muscles of her legs.
“You have something to say?” Zander said. “I recognize it bubbling up in you. You can’t sit still.”
“We must talk.”
