Page 81 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
“Off to London,” Heath replied before clarifying. “He came in while you were sleeping and told me not to wake you. He knows that you love me, Penelope.”
Her lips thinned, “I would never deny it, even if it brought down his lofty ways.”
“I love you too,” he uttered. “But you have to get to bed, Penelope, and I need to go downstairs and assess the damage.”
She stood and tugged her dress. “Ah, um…goodnight, Heath.”
Watching her go, he pressed the heels of his bandaged hands to his eyes, got up, straightened his shirt and left. He went back to his empty, barren room to disrobe and lay in silence.
Forgive me, Penelope…forgive me when I break your heart, were the last words running through his mind before he drifted off.
One day leeched into the next and the next…and the next. Before he knew it, almost a week has passed with the Earl in London, and Penelope was getting frustrated. He did what he could to calm her, but nothing seemed enough. The hugs did not linger, and the kisses were too short.
On Sunday, a lone letter—more of a note rather than a letter—arrived informing her that the Earl was fine and that they were working on clearing up his accusation. Sadly, he got a letter too, a notification from Lord Wethington that his time at the Allerton house was up.
“What’s that?” Penelope had asked while he folded the letter.
“Just another letter from the Magistrate confirming that I am cleared,” Heath tucked the letter into his inner pocket. The words,you are being recalled to London for a case inScotlandrang through his mind like death knell announcing his mirage of reality he knowingly created had come to an end and the time had come for him to tell Penelope all.
He attended to dinner and when it was over, leaned to take her plate, and whispered in her ear, “Meet me at the library, tonight.”
Since the stables were gone, the library was the only room that offered them privacy. Her golden eyes looked at him quizzically before she smiled and gave her assent. Breathing out softly, Heath shoved to the back of his mind the words he was preparing to say to her and went about his duties until he closed the shutters, doused the lamps and went to change out of his livery.
Aside from that night, he was never going to need it again, so he folded them and rested each piece on top of the dresser. Mind heavy and heart aching, he went to the library with faltering steps. At the cracked door, he forced himself to enter.
Two lamps were lit, and Penelope was sitting, legs crossed to the side and a book on her lap. Not saying a word, he sat beside her, trailed his hand up to her cheek and brushed under her eye with a bandaged knuckle. Her innocent eyes were dark ochre in the lamplight and he felt a dagger pierce his heart.
“Sweetheart, I need to tell you something.” He was fully prepared to spill his secrets when she interrupted him
“Let me ask you one first,” she said while opening the book. “What are these?”
He looked down and his breath froze in his lungs. Inside her book were his lock picks and he suddenly wanted to slap himself for forgetting them. He did not need to ask her how she had found them or why but was grateful she had. Mr. Gastrell had told him that his room had been searched. If they had found these, he probably would be back in London.
“They are my lock picks,” he said calmly.
“Why do you have lock picks?” She asked while snapping the book closed.
The carefully-rehearsed speech in his mind was forgotten and the harsh truth came out. “Because I am an Agent for the Crown, and I was sent to investigate if your brother was a traitor.”
She lurched away from him and scuttled to the other end of the couch with a horrified look on his face. “You what?”
He meant to go closer, but she pressed herself into the arm so tightly that he stopped. This was what he had feared. Dropping his hand, he clenched it over his lap. “A few months ago, Westminster was aware of a sect of dissenters with illegal connections to France. Your brother was the common connection between all of them, Swanville included. And then the killing of the Viscount and the shooting of Sir Stratham only made him look guiltier.”
“So…you’ve…you’ve been lying to me all this time?” Pain and betrayal were thick in her voice. “Is your name even Heath?”
His eyes clenched tightly as pain rebounded through his chest, “I am Heath, but Heath Murray, not Moore.”
“And…h-how—” she stuttered. “How old are you?”
“Six-and-twenty,” he said tightly. She was slipping away from him and he could feel it.
“Did you find anything on my brother?” Her voice had gone distant a bit bitter. “A plan to break Napoleon out of Elba or something of the like?”
“No,” Heath said sharply, a bit too sharply, and instantly regretted it. “No, nothing like that.”
“But you think he’s a traitor.”
“No. I do not. Yes, your brother is innocent of involvement. He is easily influenced. but he is still a loyalist. I already reported that to my overheads in London.”
