Page 74 of The Spy Who Loved Her
“You would have no reason to know this, Your Majesty, since it was handled with all due discretion,” Sir Roger said, “but Lady Emma’s late husband was, ten years ago, discovered to be a traitor himself. Though it would have been right and just for the Crown to confiscate his monies and property, well—I found myself moved to mercy and argued on her behalf to save her from so cruel a fate.” He heaved a great sigh, allowing his shoulders to slump with his next sip of tea. “It seems it is true that no good deed goes unpunished.”
“In fact, I am aware of the particulars of Lady Emma’s unique situation,” the King said, his voice clipped with annoyance.
Sir Roger froze, shocked. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?”
“I amaware,” the King repeated. “Lady Emma told me at once. Threw herself upon my mercy, if you can imagine. We’ve had a good, long conversation about all manner of things. She has brought to my attention the existence of the most interesting book. A ciphered journal belonging to her late husband, if you can credit it.”
Sir Roger’s eyes jerked toward her, two bright spots of color burning in his cheeks. She saw the moment he had sorted it out, this gamble she had made, and still he kept his voice light, hoping even now to save his skin. “Ah,” he said. “Your Majesty, I regret that your valuable time has been wasted with such things. Regrettably, some ciphers are notoriously difficult to break. It is likely that we shall never know its true contents. Of course, I shall instruct the Home Office to give it the closest of attention—”
“No need for that,” the King said dismissively. “Since Lady Emma has managed it herself.”He shifted in his seat, turning the full weight of his attention upon Sir Roger. “Indeed, she was kind enough to give the most interesting lesson on the workings of it. I could not make out much myself—my sight isn’t what it once was, I’m afraid,” he said, with a vague gesture toward his eyes which were largely occluded with cataracts. “But my secretary followed along quite well and informs me it is all in order, exactly as Lady Emma has claimed. And what do you suppose we found within its pages, Sir Roger? A great deal aboutyou. I am given to understand you had your hand in a great deal of illicit activity during the wars. Smuggling, counterfeiting—likely it has made you a tidy fortune, yes?”
“I—Your Majesty—” Sir Roger gawped like a fish, his mask thoroughly stripped away.
With a gesture of one large hand, the King silenced Sir Roger’s stammering. “What I have seen and heard thus far is enough to hang a man ten times over, and yet I imagine that betwixt the two of us, Lady Emma and I know less than the half of it. The rest, I suppose, we shall have to learn from the gentlemen you have had held within Whitehall.” His teeth flashed in a cunning smile. “I ordered them released shortly after I summoned you here.”
“This—this has all been a dreadful mistake,” Sir Roger said, and his teacup clattered to its saucer; a humiliating display of weakness for a man such as him. His gaze darted, no doubt having noticed the footmen who had begun creeping closer.
“I do not believe, Sir Roger, that one could call treasona mistake in any true sense of the word,” the King said archly. “With such evidence against you, I cannot see any path ahead for you which does not lead to the gallows. How fortunate that the services of a hangman have already been engaged.” He gave a low chortle, rife with a dark amusement. “Lady Emma, have you anything else to say?”
“Only this, Your Majesty,” Emma said, lowering her eyes, unwilling to spare even a fraction of her attention for Sir Roger. “I understand Sir Roger considers himself something of a master of chess. I confess I have not the same talent for the game. But I do remember the most important rule: If one fails to protect the King, the game is over.”
Sir Roger drew in a fierce, incensed breath, though his fury would avail him nothing.
“Above all else,” Emma said, “I have always been Your Majesty’s faithfulsubject.”
Checkmate.
With a pleased chuckle and a gesture of his fingers toward Sir Roger, the King said, “Take him away. Put him under lock and key until such a time as he can stand trial.” He directed his attention once more to Emma, studiously ignoring Sir Roger, whose dignity had deserted him as he was apprehended and forcibly escorted from the room. “With that nasty business concluded, Lady Emma,” the King said, “do tell me—how faresJosiah?”
Chapter Twenty Six
Idon’t know what ‘appened,” Dannyboy sobbed, and the sound pierced through the strange haze that shrouded Emma’s mind as if it had come from miles and miles away. “She just fellon me in the carriage. And now she won’t wake up.”
Had that happened? Emma could scarcely credit it. It didn’t sound like the sort of thing she would ordinarily do. At least, it had never happened before. She ought to say something, perhaps protest what surely must have been a dire exaggeration.
In a moment, she would. When she could convince her lips to move and her mouth to produce any sound beyond the deep, even breaths it wanted to take.
“There, now, she’s only asleep.” Diana’s voice, pitched to a soothing tone, as one would use with a frightened child. “She’s been awake for days now. I imagine she simply couldn’t manage it anymore. She’ll be right as rain again with a little rest, Dannyboy. Nothing to worry yourself over, I’m certain.”
“Here, I’ve got her.” A masculine rumble, raspy and hoarse and barely audible past the fog within Emma’s ears.
“Rafe, your fingers!” Diana cried.
Rafe?
“I’ve had worse, Diana. Don’t fuss.”
There was the strange sense of motion that Emma had not initiated. A shaft of bright sunlight blazed against her closed lids as she found herself turned from the odd, uncomfortable position into which she must have crumpled. The fabric of her skirts and petticoats rubbed against her legs as an arm wedged itself beneath her knees, and another braced her back.
Her head tipped against a hard shoulder, her mussed hair falling into her face, the strands tickling her cheeks and chin. If she had had even the tiniest bit of energy left, she might have wrinkled her nose at acrid scent of sweatand fear that had permeated the once-fine linen of the shirt against her cheek. Probably he had not been allowed a bath in too many days. Had he come straight here instead of to his home to bathe and recover from his ordeal, then?
She could not summon the will even to crack her eyes open. Already she was slipping away again as the sunlight streamed over her face, the chatter about her fading to a distant murmur. It seemed only a moment before she was jerked toward the surface of sleep once more by the sensation of falling. No, not falling—her head touched the feathery fluff of a pillow. The warmth of Rafe’s arms deserted her, leaving her cradled by the plush mattress and the soft velvet counterpane beneath her.
“Just a bit longer.” There was the pressure of a hand upon her shoulder, turning her toward her stomach. “Diana, fetch a nightgown, won’t you?” A soothing stroke along her back, and then the gentle manipulation of buttons followed. Somewhere across the room, there was the scrape of drawers in their moorings within her dresser, the rustle of soft fabrics as Diana rooted through her things in search of a nightgown.
“I can do it.” Emma managed to dredge the words up and force them out in a slurry mumble from where her face was mashed into the pillow. “I’m awake.”
A soft laugh, half-amused, half-annoyed. “You really are not.” Her gown slipped off her shoulders, her arms slid through the casing of smooth silk, and the whole thing was pulled out from beneath her and over her head. A pull at the tapes of her petticoat and then the laces of her stays. “It’s all right. Sleep.”
