Page 6 of The Spy Who Loved Her
Ambrose who, even from the grave, might yet present a danger to her safety, to the very security they had wrestled for her from the precipice of a ruin she had not even been aware existed.
“Christ.” Rafe pressed his fingertips to his temples, rubbing in aggravation. “I can get the journal,” he said. It wouldn’t have been his first time housebreaking. It wouldn’t even have been his first time breaking intoherhouse. “I can get it. But I can’t—”
Couldn’t bed her. He had no rightto touch her, knowing every way in which he had failed her. He had no right even to beg an introduction.
“Haven’t the faintest idea of where she’s put it,” Chris said. “That house is too damned big. You could spend weeks searching and come up empty. No; best you take this opportunity, because it comes with an invitation.” And he was right, there. Nothing would be said were he to be caught wandering the halls if he had an invitation from the house’s mistress. “Rafe,” Chris said severely, leaning forward, bracing his arms upon his knees. “There’s no other choice.”
No. Not when the situation called for the scalpel. His stomach roiled atthe thought of adding one more heaping pile of betrayal upon the rest of it, but then—there had never been a chance for him, anyway. He’d known it years and years ago.
He’d known it from that night ten years ago, when he’d destroyed three hearts: Ambrose’s, Emma’s, and his own. Three lives wrecked in a single moment, and with just one bullet…the one he’d lodged within Ambrose’sback.
Chapter Three
Josiah squirmed beneath Emma’s perusal, straightening the lapels of his new coat, which had been delivered only this morning. The coat was perfectly-tailored, of a beautiful navy wool; a gift in advance of his upcoming interview for admission to Oxford—but it wasn’t the unfamiliarity of the new coat that caused his restless shifting. It was simple nervousness.
It was something of an effort to resist the urge to smooth his hair in a gesture of affection, but he had achieved the grand age of seventeen and considered himself far too old for such things. So she settled on simple reassurance instead. “You look so wonderfully grown up, Josiah. I’m so proud of you.” Still her voice had squeaked across a few octaves at the thought of losing him so soon; a sort of pain that was not unfamiliar, but that she did not want him to hear when he needed her reassurance instead.
“Thank you, ma’am.” This was accompanied by a jerky bow, a bit stiff. He was Emma’s oldest boy at present, though Peter was not so very far behind him. Josiah had come to her six years ago, now, after the loss of his mother. A solicitor had brought him to her door, still clothed in the somber black of mourning, and had surrendered him to her care along with a startlingly large financial contribution.
But she had learned how to manage children by then, and it had taken only a few weeks to draw him out from his shell of grief. He’d become a prize pupil in recent years, with a thirst for knowledge that eclipsed any child that had come before him.
“Josiah,” she said, and settled for placing a comforting hand upon his shoulder, “I promise you, you’ve nothing to worry for. You’ll do beautifully. Perhaps as many as ten percent of my boys show an aptitude for a formal education that would best be served by attending university—but I have never seen one rejected.” And Josiah was the brightest of them all. He was going to do brilliantly; she hadn’t so much as a single doubt on that account.
And she would be so very proud of him. He had grown into such anincredible young man, always ready to help with the younger children. He tutored them in mathematics and grammar as ably as did the governesses within her employ. The whole lot of them were the better for his presence.
But she couldn’t keep him forever. She couldn’t keep any of them forever, much as she might’ve liked to do so. The best she could manage was to love them while they were hers, and then to send them out into the world equipped to weather it.
Josiah fidgeted, his lips pursed around a question, his cheeks puffing with the words stuffed inside them. At last he blurted out, “Would you—would you sit with me, ma’am? For the interview? I don’t know that I can do it alone.”
“Yes, of course. I would be honored.” Some boys preferred her company for such things, and some wished to go it alone. Whatever their wishes, she honored them.
“It’s just that…ma’am, I don’t see why Oxford should want me.”
“Why should they not?” Emma canted her head. “Why should they not want such a bright student? Josiah, you are so diligent, so industrious—why should Oxfordnotwant to claim a student who would be such a credit to their institution?”
“But I’m not anyone, ma’am.”
“You are. Of course you are.” Her fingers curled around his shoulder in what she hoped was a heartening pressure. “Oh, Josiah. You are goingto be so much more than you could ever have expected.”
He blinked back a wash of tears as his jaw clenched behind the tight line of his lips, and for just a moment she thought he might invite that fond hair-ruffle that had been such a staple of his youth.
But a throat cleared behind her, and she turned to see Neil there, standing in the doorway. “My lady,” he said, as he held out a folded scrap of paper to her. “A message for you.”
From Kit. It had to be. That was certainly his inelegant scrawl there upon the folded paper in Neil’s hand. Her heart performed a strange little leap in her chest, though it was impossible to say whether it was anticipation or anxiety. Shifting just a bit to the side, she unfolded the paper, scanning the short note.
Midnight tonight. Tell your butler you’re expecting company.
“I’m so sorry, Josiah, I’m afraid I have to—to attend to some urgentbusiness,” Emma prevaricated. “But we’ll talk again in advance of your interview. Try not to fret too much in the meantime. You’re going to do wonderfully.”
“Thank you,” Josiah said, his voice gone just a bit raspy. “Ma’am.”
And as she turned to follow Neil, wondering how much or little she ought to tell him, she thought just a little on how very likemumthe word had sounded.
∞∞∞
In the end, she had decided only to inform Neil that she was expecting a gentleman caller. It had surprised him, she thought. Probably because what little entertaining she did was limited to a few female friends—Diana and Phoebe, mostly, when Phoebe could bring herself to suffer the shrill sounds of children that tended to echo throughout the house in the daylight hours—or else the rare charity event designed to bring more attention to the plight of London’s less fortunate children.
Other than Kit, whose connection to her Neil was well aware of, Emma had never entertained a man alone. But she had long been a widow, and widows were afforded significantly more freedom than were other women. Even affairs were permissible, provided they were suitably discreet about it—and provided that no illegitimate children came from such a liaison.
