Page 115 of The Lyon Returns
“Better?” he asked, his voice gruff.
“Yes, Gideon,” she answered.
He closed his eyes and held her—his wife. What would he not do to keep her safe? Absolutely nothing.
Gideon rose earlythe following day. He had much to accomplish, and saw no point in staying abed as sleep evaded him.
They’d arrived home well past midnight. He’d awoken a slumbering Gwen, and helped her from the coach. Inside, he escorted her to the stairs and watched as she ascended en route to her bedchamber.
She had glanced back once when he had not followed, a silent question on her face, and he explained he had something he wanted to take care of before turning in.
He had stalked to his den, poured himself a liberal quantity of brandy, dropped into his chair behind his desk, and retrieved the leather-bound journal in the top drawer.
He wanted to get his thoughts down about Dirk, and record all that he could recall about Rory’s claims of short falls in his inventory—when the so-called discrepancies began, and any interactions he remembered between Rory and Dirk. Jotting down details, he recalled Rory had been the one to suggest the privateer company Gideon had hired.
He hadn’t meant to write anything about Gwen. He never recorded romantical gibberish. Not once had it occurred to him to do so. He was not a flowery poet like the one her blasted husband had befriended.
And yet, the words began flowing like a flooding stream. At first, just a few drops, then a trickle and then finally, it rushed forth in a gush of words he could not contain. He wrote of the awareness he had of her from day one, of her beauty, even garbed in one of her gowns purchased with the sole aim of dulling down her innate loveliness. He marveled over her clever brain and keen insights—into him, his thoughts, his preferences, for God’s sake, from the quality of thefurniture he purchased to the caliber of liquor he kept on hand.
He lamented over his seeming obsession with her, his uncharacteristic craving for her touch, his devastating weakness. He confessed to having knowingly and willfully married her before God and man, out of his own selfish desire to keep her.
Then he closed the book, stowed it in the top drawer, downed the remainder of his brandy, and made for bed. He had not stopped at Gwen’s door. He had not knocked on the adjoining door. And then, he had not slept for thoughts of the woman separated from him by one thin wall.
As the sun burned off the horizon, he headed for the mews, saddled one of his mounts, and went for a hard, mind-cleansing ride. Then he made for the customs hall. Time to get some answers.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“What do youmean he’s gone?” Gideon demand of the customs office clerk. “He’s on a break, off for the day, on holiday? Speak, man.”
The young man’s eyes bugged in response to Gideon’s temper.
He was getting nowhere. He asked himself how Gwen would handle the situation, then sent the man a genial smile. “What is your name?”
“H-Harry Fitzsimmons, sir.”
“Harry, I would like to speak with Mr. Rory on a rather urgent matter. You say he’s gone. Bygone, am I to understand I should come back later today?”
Harry shook his head, appearing to relax. “He quit, sir, a month or so ago. Up and retired. Claimed he got some sort of inheritance from an ailing aunt and was looking forward to living a life of leisure. As for where he might be now, I can’t say.”
“Very good, Harry. You’ve been most helpful.” Gideon let himself out of the office and strode for the curb, frustration speeding his steps. Apparently he’d be hiring the runner who’d located Mrs. Kennedy again.
On the street, he reached into his pocket to retrieve some coins, tossing them to the urchin who’d volunteered to keep an eye on Gideon’s phaeton, then hefted himself onto the box. With a snap of the reins, he started for the fashionable neighborhood where Brice and Lady Mary resided.
Unfortunately, he’d promised to accompany Brice in calling on Lloyd’s this morning to apprise them of the Home Office’s decision to close the file on its investigation into Gideon’s possible involvement in the stolen rifles. Having Gideon along to weigh in on the matter likely had merit, as it would apply no small amount of pressure on the insurance company to close their own investigation and pay out.
Brice, as always, needed funds—especially now that he’d taken up with Mrs. Trent. Not that Brice’s arguably negligent financial practices concerned Gideon one way or the other. He did, however, feel a certain amount of gratitude toward Mrs. Dove-Lyon who had provided him the means to come home.
The means.Gideon snorted. She’d bloody matched him. She’d offered to do so numerous times, and Gideon had always turned her down flat. Now, he was exceedingly glad he had—not that he would admit that to anyone, much less the Black Widow of Whitehall.
He’d get her money for her, though. With Bessie, money talked.
In all, ithad not taken more than a quarter of an hour for Brice and Gideon to conclude their business at Lloyd’s. Gideon might be able to track down the runner after all.
The Lloyd’s’s agent with whom they spoke had assured them an enquiry would be sent to Sir Phillip and, after they received confirmation that Gideon was incontrovertibly cleared, they would close theinvestigation and process the claim.
“I knew they would dance to your tune, Gid,” Brice said once they stood on the paved walkway outside the posh office. “I never knew a man luckier than you.”
Gideon shrugged. “The fact I’m walking around a free man does lend credibility to my claim of innocence. I find it interesting you keep calling that factlucky.”
