Yet until he settled this matter, there would be no future with Rory. He could tell he had startled her earlier, maybe even displeased her, when he had told Duffy she was his fiancée.
Although she didn’t contradict him, he knew she hadn’t really said yes. He was trying not to rush her, but it had been hard to hear Duffy refer to her in that disrespectful way.
He supposed it was odd, even inconsistent of him, considering that at one time he had proposed to make her his mistress. But he hadn’t known he was in love with her then.
Love—the word itself was enough to scare the hell out of Zeke. Yet he could put no other name to the feeling in his heart as he gazed down at her.
He desired her, yes, an undercurrent of that was ever present. But another emotion settled deeper inside him in what he guessed must be his soul. He had never been sure he had one until he met Rory.
And how did she feel about him? The same. He was fairly sure of it, could read it in her eyes and taste it in her kiss. Why then did she hesitate to accept his offer of marriage? He didn’t think it had anything to do with the warning Tessa had given. Rory had never paid much attention to that, even when Zeke had urged her to do so.
What then? She had never said so, but it was likely something to do with his attitude over her damned balloons. He wished he could understand, but he couldn’t and it was owing to more than his own fear of heights. He had seen her come through two hair’s-breadth escapes flying those blasted contraptions. He was damned if he would risk losing her that way again.
Almost unconsciously, his arms tightened about her. The movement roused her from the half-drowsy state into which she had drifted. She looked up, surprised, noting the moonlight spilling over the pathway.
“It’s getting late,” she said. “I wonder what happened to Duffy.”
“I don’t know, but we can’t sit here on the bench all night. That’s one sure way to attract the notice of the coppers.”
They had agreed to take the chance of slipping back to Rory’s flat, when Zeke saw a hackney coach drawing to a halt at the edge of the park. Duffy leaped out, barely taking time to pay off the driver. He raced through the trees as if the police were after him.
He drew up so short of breath, he could hardly talk, sinking down on the bench. Zeke and Rory barraged him with questions. “Where have you been? What did you find out?”
Duffy held up one hand, imploring them to stop. “Over— all over,” he gasped.
Zeke frowned, finding no sense in the words. “What do you mean?”
“It’s safe, Morrison. To go home. No more police. Decker confessed to everything.”
“What!” Zeke and Rory exclaimed in one breath. Rory was swifter to accept the glad tidings than he.
She flung her arms about him. Zeke patted her back in distracted fashion. After all these harrowing events, this seemed all too easy.
“I don’t understand any of this,” he said. “I still want to see Decker.”
“Impossible.” Duffy managed to straighten, fanning his flushed face with his derby.
“Why not?” Zeke demanded. “Even if he’s in jail?—”
Duffy shook his head. “Not jail, the morgue. Decker’s dead. He shot himself through the head last night.”
Sixteen
Zeke had never realized that returning to his own house could feel so strange to him. True, the mansion on Fifth Avenue had never been exactly like a home, but he had gone over the plans with the architect, had been there at every step of the construction, was intimate with every brick, every panel that had been laid.
Why then did the place seem so alien, so overwhelming tonight despite the welcome he read in the faces of his staff? Footmen, maids, even the cook stole peeks at him and Rory from the shelter of doorways. Their eyes reflected a kind of awe. He supposed it wasn’t every servant in New York with a master who had nearly escaped facing the hangman’s noose.
Only the pert one called Maisie dared to step forth and greet him. She curtsied, dimpling with that saucy grin. “So good to have you back, sir. I told the rest of these simpletons that you hadn’t done anything.”
“Thank you, Maisie,” Zeke said dryly, but the girl was already being elbowed aside by Wellington.
“That will do, Abrams.” While Maisie retreated, Wellington made Zeke his best bow.
“Welcome home, sir. When I heard you were coming, I took the liberty of arranging a late supper by way of celebration for the safe return of yourself and—” his gaze skated doubtfully to Rory, “the young lady.”
While Zeke was touched by the notion, he didn’t quite feel as though he had anything to celebrate.
“That’s very considerate of you, Wellington, but I don’t think either myself or Miss Kavanaugh is really hungry. Just damned tired.”
