Page 56 of The Spy Who Loved Her
“He might, now that you’ve taken to minding your speech with morecare.” In fact, Chris’ diction had never been quite so clear. His natural accent and pattern of speech had served him well over the years, seen him in good standing within the low places he frequented, where more genteel speech would have marked him as an outsider and therefore unworthy of trust. Rafe thought he’d preferred it that way. That he had wanted to set himself apart, even in his speech.
Perhaps he no longer did.
Chris gave a little shrug of his shoulders. “Wouldn’t reflect well on Em, now, would it, to have a brother who sounds like he was born in an alley.”
Rafe didn’t expect that she would mind a great deal. But for some reason, it mattered to Chris. He said, “I see.”
A curious silence fell over the table. Chris was waiting for him to ask the question. He was going to be disappointed.
With a longsuffering sigh, Chris said, “I haven’t seen Dannyboy this evening.”
“You won’t. His mum sent him off already.” The woman had been in a poor humor, snappish and shrill. Dannyboy had appeared to take it in stride, but he suspected the lad had been more hurt than he had let on.
Chris slid one fingertip around the rim of his glass. “You’re still sending him to Em’s?” he pressed.
“Yes,” he said. And nothing more.
“Christ,” Chris snarled, with a fierce scowl. “You’re not going to ask after her, are you?”
Rafe peered down into his glass of whisky, avoiding Chris’ eyes. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”
“You don’t want to know?”
“Not particularly.” In fact, he was rather certain he knew all too well already. To hear it confirmed would make it all the worse. “I knew it would come to a bad end. I told you as much.”
“You did.” Chris hunched his shoulders, a wordless expression of remorse. “Would that I had listened. Things might’ve turned out differently for you both.” He heaved a sigh, eloquent in its depth, its weight. “She’s made no progress on Ambrose’s journal, and finds it vexing in the extreme. She sent a note round to me—more demanding than friendly, so it’s safe to say she’s still furious and likely still to be for some time to come. But she doesn’t want to waste her efforts on work that has already been done. Of course, I haven’t any notes of my own to send to her—”
“I have.” Though they would make sense only to him,those pages and pages of attempts he’d made already. He’d have to wrestle some sense out of them, somehow. “I’ll put it all together. Send it along to her with Dannyboy.”
“You truly aren’t going to ask?”
“What purpose would it serve?” Rafe cast back the last of his whisky in one swallow. “I already know, Chris. I knew what the consequences would be from the beginning, and the fault is my own. I could have refused.”
“You did,” Chris said. “You did refuse.”
“I could have meantit.” In fact hehadmeant it—just not enough. Not enough to resist the temptation of that which had never before been within reach. He had latched onto the excuse that Chris had provided, his baser nature, hisselfishnature rising to the fore. Anything to be close to her, even for just a handful of moments.
Better to be unknown to her than to be hated by her. He had known it even then. But he had allowed himself that oneindiscretion, that oneencounter nonetheless. Perhaps he had even convinced himself, after a fashion, that it was a forgivable sin. One night, he’d thought—just one, and he could content himself with only that.
He’d lied even to himself, and Emma had been the one to suffer for it. There was nothing he could do for it, but to do his damnedest to extricate her from the situation into which he had placed her. And then to let her find whatever measure of peace she could while he quietly exited her life. It was the least she was owed; no arguments, no fuss.
“I haven’t got the damned right to ask, Chris,” he said. “You, of all people, must understand that.”
With any luck, he’d go back to being invisible. He’d grown accustomed to it, after all.
Chapter Nineteen
The first of Emma’s new gowns had been delivered, and as lovely as they had turned out, the enjoyment she might have taken in them had been soured. She fingered the cerulean blue froth of silk that comprised the skirt of one as she tucked it back into its place in the depths of her dressing room. She had intended to bury them there to be forgotten behind the long row of mourning gowns, but the vibrant colors glowed even in the shadows, mocking in their intensity.
What a damned fool she had been. Even her clothing was evidence of her folly; a closetful of gowns to mourn a man who had not deserved it, and a fresh batch to please another who had never truly cared for her. What was wrong with her, that she was so determined to seek love from those incapable of giving it?
It was in moments like these, the silent and still ones that came after the house had settled for the evening, that she felt most haunted. At least Ambrose’s ghost had had the courtesy to leave her bedchamber sacrosanct. Now, however, she saw echoes of Rafe everywhere she looked within it. A sorry state of affairs, but there was the hope, however faint, of a brief respite within a glass of brandy.
Her feet carried her down the stairs, and she turned the collar of her dressing gown up against the chill in the air as she headed for the green salon. There were a few hours left before dawn, and she had a sheaf of notes to sort through before she could make another attempt at cracking the cipher.
Neil had left a lamp burning upon the desk, God bless him, and a tray of biscuits and tea. The last week had seen her down in this room for hours after dark, and he had done his best to ensure the time that she spent in her labors had been as pleasant as he could make it—even if he had not even the vaguest sense of what had kept her so occupied.
But the tea would keep a while longer. She snatched the stack of papers from where she had left them within the drawer of the desk, and began tosort through them as she headed for the sideboard near the window.
