Page 96 of No One's Bride
She heard the trudge of heavy footsteps as he mounted the stairs.
“The past is like a tired babe,” Mr Daventry said in the tone of a wise seer. “It continues to taunt us until we put it to bed.”
Ailsa noted Michael’s grimoire left open on the table. Dare she read the message? Would it be a terrible breach of a man’s privacy?
Mr Daventry ran a finger over the foxed page. “One would almost think Denton left it open on purpose. Strong men give the impression they don’t need help. But the clues are often less than subtle.”
It was a cue to read Michael’s private missive.
“Lord Denton’s welfare is my only concern,” she whispered, hesitating before picking up the small spell book. “I’m in love with him.”
“I know.” He spoke like she had every reason to worry.
She began reading.
The message wasn’t as coherent as Mr Hibbet’s letter.
Stolen from a sailor in a foreign land.
Kept hidden.
They’re passing secrets in spell books.
Sickness prevails.
A fever.
Trouble afoot.
Trust you to act.
Good Lord! It was a plea for help. A request that had gone unanswered for years. No wonder Sebastian had left so abruptly.
“Michael knew something but struggled to convey the message without alerting anyone to the truth.” If he’d survived, he might have spoken to the authorities.
Mr Daventry read the message. “Denton shouldn’t be too hard on himself. Even to the trained eye, the markings look like sorcerers’ symbols. I found a similar book once but dismissed it as nonsense.”
Yet she felt the problem was far more complicated.
“I should go to him.” Soon Mr Chance would return and demand they leave the premises. “I’ll be but a moment.”
She left Mr Daventry questioning the Murdens and climbed the stairs to Sebastian’s temporary bedchamber. All was quiet. He wasn’t throwing clothes into a valise. He wasn’t stomping about the room in a vile temper. Wasn’t cursing every man to the devil.
Ailsa found him sitting in a chair in the dark room, his head buried in his hands, every breath laboured.
“Sebastian.” The door creaked as she pushed it open, but he did not raise his head and meet her gaze. With tentative steps, she entered the room. “Sebastian. Whatever ye think ye’ve done, it’s nae yer fault.”
She knew why he blamed himself.
Grief had stolen upon him like a thief in the night. Guilt gnawed away at his conscience, punishing him for not tackling the matter sooner.
Seconds passed.
The heaviness of his burden hung in her chest.
The need to soothe him, to take away his pain, forced her forward.
“Sebastian.” She laid a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t recoil. Then she could not stop touching him, stroking his hair, his broad back. “I’ve read Michael’s message.”
