Tired? That seemed an inadequate word to describe just how drained he was, and if he felt a little lost in his own house, Rory appeared even more so. She had wanted to return to her own flat, but he couldn’t bear to let her out of his sight.
He draped his arm protectively about her shoulders and watched her weary features summon a valiant effort to smile. The devil knows, his staff had enough already to gossip about, but Zeke didn’t care. He had every intention of carrying Rory upstairs, tucking her into his own bed.
“Miss Kavanaugh will be occupying my room tonight,” Zeke announced, “and I will take the guest room.” He ignored the protest that escaped Rory. “So perhaps you could just send up a bit of that supper on a tray.”
“Very good, sir. I shall send Peter up to draw your bath.” Turning, Wellington chastised the staff for standing about and gawking. He sent them about their business, which left Rory and Zeke alone in the foyer.
They faced each other in silence. He could tell they were both feeling a little strange, but it was Rory who put it into words.
“Suppers, baths, I guess everything really is back to normal. It’s just like everyone is telling us we were having a nightmare.” Her lip quivered a little. “Only we know it was all real.”
Zeke held out his arms, and she walked into them, burrowing her face against his chest. “Yes, it was real,” he murmured. “But it is all over now.”
They had spent the last few hours at the police station with Duffy, confirming that fact. Charles Decker had indeed killed himself, leaving behind a written confession of how he had arranged Addison’s murder and of his plot against Zeke. The document had detailed Sergeant O’Connell’s role in the affair, and that he, along with the two thugs who had assaulted Zeke, were in jail themselves. Zeke had made positive identification of the two street toughs. He would have liked just a few minutes alone with the scarred one but of course that wasn’t granted him.
Zeke was no longer a man on the run, but J. E. Morrison, the millionaire, respected, soothed and patronized by the chief of police.
“Don’t you worry about any of these rogues, Mr. Morrison,” the chief had said. “The law will deal with them now.”
Zeke had had no choice but to retreat. He supposed that was the price one paid for becoming rich and respectable. One lost the luxury of settling one’s own scores.
He ought to be grateful it was all over, out of his hands, yet he felt as deflated as one of Rory’s balloons. He held Rory close, comforting her with words he didn’t believe himself.
“I guess what we have to do now, my dear, is just forget the whole thing ever happened.”
A difficult task. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could still see Addison’s youthful features contorted with the rigor of death. Obviously it was difficult for Rory too. She still seemed troubled, more edgy now than when they had been on the run.
When someone rapped the knocker at his front door, she started in his arms.
“Relax.” He smiled. “We know it can’t be the police.”
She tried to return the smile, but she still looked tense when the knocking sounded again. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
“No, that’s what I pay Wellington for. Come on.” Guiding her gently, he had her precede him up the curving stair. They were about midway when he heard the butler answering the door.
Zeke didn’t bother to look back, sure that Wellington would say he was not at home. To his annoyance, he heard the caller being admitted, the sound of a well-bred feminine accent carrying up the stairs.
Rory appeared too tired to pay any heed. She continued on, but Zeke froze, turning back. He nearly cursed aloud.
Cynthia Van Hallsburg was the last person he wanted to see. He couldn’t imagine what she was doing here so late. Garbed in a flowing opera cape of silvery satin, her diamonds winking in the foyer’s chandelier light, she appeared to have just returned from some party.
Zeke wished he had had the wit to keep on going, but now it was too late. Mrs. Van Hallsburg had seen him. She stepped to the foot of the stairs, glancing up.
“John,” she said softly.
He had no choice but to descend. “Good evening, Mrs. Van H.”
For once she made no effort to maintain formality between them. She extended both her hands, which he took. It was the warmest gesture she had ever made toward him, yet still her fingers were cold.
“I am so relieved to see you home safe. I have been through agonies since you disappeared, ringing your house every few hours. When Wellington told me you were returning, I just had to come over despite the lateness of the hour.”
Zeke shot Wellington a glare over her head. The butler beat a hasty retreat. Zeke turned back to Mrs. Van Hallsburg, summoning up a stiff smile.
“It’s very good of you to be so concerned, Cynthia. I have been through a hell— have had a bad time of it. I was just about to collapse.”
“I know that, poor boy, and I won’t detain you long. I only had to see for myself that you were unharmed and to apologize.”
“For what?”
