Page 123 of The Lyon Returns
“Is that Rory?” Brice asked. He had not left the corridor.
“Yes. And it looks like he left a note.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Gwen lay inthe dark, ears straining for sounds of Gideon’s return, body zinging with an unnatural alertness that left every inch of her tense and taut.
When she heard the front door open and close, then muted voices—Higgins and Gideon exchanging words, no doubt—she flung her bed covers off, swung her feet over the edge of her mattress, and rose to wait.
Hearing the unmistakable thunk of his door bedchamber closing, she marched to the adjoining door in instant affront. He had promised her he would report to her the moment he arrived home, and he would keep his promise. She’d make sure of it.
Not bothering to knock, she opened the adjoining door and found Gideon’s large frame, silhouetted by golden candlelight, blocking her path.
Overwhelming relief surged through her. “Gideon,” she cried and launched herself into him.
He stumbled back under the impact, but his strong arms caught her.
“I must miss dinner more often,” he said dryly.
The solid feel of him, hard and lean, the elusive scent of him, warm male and subtle cologne, tempted her to hold on to him a little while longer, but she wanted answers.
She released him and took a small step back. “I was worried. It’s been hours and hours. My mind conjured all sorts of nefarious scenarios.”
He plucked her lacy white sleep cap from her head and tossed it aside in a cavalier manner, then traced her cheek with slightly calloused fingertips. She took a bracing breath, telling herself that,thistime, she would not allow him to distract her.
“As you can see, I am returned, hale and hardy—which is more than I can say for Rory.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Night cap?”
“Please.” She made for her usual armchair.
Gideon took a moment to stoke the remnant coals in his hearth, igniting a small fire before disappearing briefly into his antechamber to fetch the Madeira.
A moment later, he returned with two wine goblets, each filled with a hefty portion of the ruby liquid.
“Well, sir? What happened?” She accepted the goblet he offered.
“Brice and I found Mr. Rory’s home deserted. It appeared he gave his staff the night off in anticipation of…” He broke off and scrubbed his free hand over his jaw, eyeing her with concern. “It’s not a pleasant tale, and I worry it will stir memories you’d rather not revisit.”
She peered at him over the rim of her glass, clutching the stem tightly. “Nevertheless, I must know how this story unfolds.”
Gideon held her gaze. “We found Rory slumped over his desk. He appears to have shot himself after writing a note confessing to orchestrating the treason involving the consortium’s rifles.”
Gwen gulped a large portion of the wine in her glass. Thus fortified, she said, “I see. What did the note say?”
He stared into the fire and the stuttering light danced over his hard face. “He said he could not live with the crime against England he’d perpetrated.”
“And what of you? Did his note mention your shipments, or your friend Dirk?”
He shook his head. “The confession was terse.”
Her aroused senses had not subsided. Unable to sit still, she rose to wander the shadowed chamber, wine glass in hand. “When?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“When did he commit suicide? Had he been there for several days? Or was it hours?” She had a strong feeling it would be the latter.
