Page 38 of The Spy Who Loved Her
“A number. One hundred twenty-seven.” Scored there, likely, with the inkless nib of a pen. Invisible, unless one knew to look.
“What the ‘ell does it mean?”
“Haven’t the faintest.” Rafe turned a page, let his fingertips graze the surface, carefully searching, searching—there. Another light pass of the pencil. “And here. Fifty-six.”
“Lord Jesus.” Chris rubbed at his face with both hands, sinking back in his chair. “There’s one for every entry?”
“I’d imagine so.” Which was damned troubling.
“It’s not the key, then.”
“No,” Rafe said. “It’s the key to the bloody key.” The numbers must correspond to something, something to remind Ambrose of how to decipher a particular entry. And each number was different, no doubt representing a new key for each and every damned entry. There wasn’tonekey to unlock the journal—there were likelydozensof them.
They were worse off even than they had already known themselves to be.
∞∞∞
It was well past midnight when Rafe arrived at Emma’s, as he’d promised. He hadn’t noticed any of Chris’ men skulking about, but there were at least four suitable vantage points that would also provide sufficient concealment. It was possible—likely, even—that he was being observed now, by both friend and foe.
Slowly and deliberately, as if he knew no haste, had no reason to suspect he might be under observation, he slipped the key to the terrace door from his pocket and unlocked the door. He was, after all, an invited guest.
The house was dark, but he knew the way well enough. Emma’s bedchamber overlooked the terrace, and the curtains had been pulled tightly closed—no doubt the thought of someone, anyone, watching her from without had goaded her into it. There was just the faintest flicker of light from beneath her door, and he pushed it open to a room gone dark but for the dying glow of embers in the hearth.
Her bed was shrouded in shadow, and from within it he could see little more than the drape of one arm across the empty pillow beside her. Asleep already—but then hehadbeen late. Still, he had promised he would come, and so he sat down beside her, brushing back a disheveled tendril of her bright hair from where it obscured her face.
She jerked awake violently at the touch, a ragged gasp bursting from her lips.
“Easy,” he said. “You’re safe. It’s only me.”
“Rafe.” She breathed his name like a prayer, relaxing all at once. Perhaps she had fallen asleep in the waiting, but it had not been an easy one. Not peaceful, not restorative. Probably she had been plagued with all manner of nasty thoughts and restless dreams. “I’m sorry,” she said, in a sleep-roughened whisper. “I didn’t intend to fall asleep. The day has worn on me.”
He didn’t doubt it. “Has it?” he asked, as he unknotted his cravat. “Tell me of it, then.”
There was the whisper of her breath across the surface of her pillow. She pursed her lips, her lashes flickering over her eyes. “You didn’t come for conversation,” she said. “Nor to hear me natter on about my day. I shouldn’t like to bore you with such things.”
“You never bore me.” He pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it aside. “May I be frank?” he asked as he unbuttoned the fall of his trousers.
“Of course.”
“You’re exhausted,” he said flatly. “You’ve got shadows beneath your eyes, and you look in imminent danger of nodding off again.” Probably she would do at any moment—only she’d sleep more comfortably with him present than she had alone. “I came because you asked it of me, and no other reason. I have no expectations of you.” He hadn’t any right to them, besides. What time and attention she granted to him was a gift. With one hand he drew up the counterpane and slid beneath the covers beside her. “Turn over,” he instructed, “and tell me about your day. Until you fall asleep.”
She muffled a yawn in her palm, but did as he had bid, shuffling toward the center of the bed and collapsing back in a puff of silky white sheets and flounces of velvet counterpane. As he climbed into bed behind her, Emma settled back against his chest with a sigh as if his very presence comforted her. “All right,” she said “But first tell me…have you spoken with Kit?”
“I have.” He draped his arm over her waist, and she laid her hand atop his. “He’s placed men outside overnight for your peace of mind. You can sleep soundly, Emma. There is nothing for you to worry over.” Rafe comforted himself that it was not a lie, exactly—it was just that he and Chris were entirely capable of doing the worrying on her behalf. Their burden, and none of her own. Just as Ambrose’s activities had been none of her responsibility, this was not her problem to solve.
The last of the tension slipped from her spine. “Thank you,” she said. “Probably you must think me very foolish.”
“Cautious,” he corrected, sliding his arm beneath her head. “Not foolish. You had a busy day, I take it?”
A slow nod. She turned her cheek against his arm with a sleepy little sound. “Robert is struggling with his Latin declensions,” she said. “Nora has outgrown her shoes, and Colin has torn a hole in his coat. Amelia and Anna have gotten into some sort of feud and are presently not speaking with one another. Henry has acquired a dreadful cough, though the doctor says it is only a cold.”
“Good lord. You keep all of that in your head?”
“I have a great deal of help,” she said. “Nannies and governesses. Tutors for the more scholarly boys who might benefit from a university education. Josiah’s interview for admittance to Oxford is coming up. He’s frightened out of his wits, poor dear.”
“Is there any reason to expect he will do poorly?”
A small shake of her head. “He’s brilliant,” she said. “Possibly the most brilliant boy I’ve ever had. I’ve never had a boy refused, and I don’t expect him to be the first. But he is fretting about it something awful.” She laced her fingers through his. “This is quite nice,” she said. “I have always gone to bed alone. It never would have occurred to me just to—to talk like this.”
