Page 108 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
“Has Kingsley sent over your things?” Shaldon asked.
“Only the gowns I arrived with. Not the new ones, not my brushes and combs, and not the book.”
“I’ll go tonight for it,” Charley said, getting to his feet. “I’ll take Juan. He’ll know the window to access.”
“You mean to break in?” She stood. “Then I will go with you.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“For you as well. I will not sit here idly while you go climbing the side of a London house.”
Charley edged closer, his eyes gleaming. “I have some experience at that. You don’t.”
“I have climbed ship ladders. I have climbed masts. I have climbed cliffs and I know where we must go.”
“No.”
“You obstinate man. If you are going, I am going also.”
Lord Shaldon cleared his throat. “Graciela, my dear, is that the only book you possessed?”
His lordship almost lolled in his seat, as did Farnsworth.
Charley inhaled sharply and reached for her hand. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
Her heart pounded. The sonnets.
“But thy eternal summer shall not fade.”
“The book of sonnets was my mother’s. She used it to help her learn English.”
He raised her hand to his lips. “When in eternal lines to time thou growest, so long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”
Tears came then, and she could not stop them nor stop from trembling. He pressed her to his chest.
They had been at sea when Papa put the book into her hands. He could only bear to part with it, he said, if she would keep it safe until his return.
Papa’s heart had not truly broken. It had hardened with a need for justice.
Forgive me, Papa.
“Might we see this book of sonnets?” his Lordship asked.
“I will get it,” Charley said.
“No, I will go.” She stepped back and bumped the chair, almost plopping into it. He steadied her.
“We’ll be back in a moment, Father.”
Charley followedher as she ran up the stairs, her skirts raised high to show her slim ankles. He could see her as a hoyden climbing everywhere, just like Reina, outrunning all the danger around her.
Her mother had been murdered, just like his. He would not let this woman from his sight.
Her bedchamber had been set up for their wedding night, lush bedding turned down, a covered tray upon the table, an open bottle of wine breathing next to it. Francisca pushed through the dressing room door with her customary scowl.
He snagged a biscuit from the tray. “We will not need you, Francisca. You may return to Reina.”
Gracie sent him a glare and went to the bedside drawer. “We must return downstairs,” she said in Spanish. “Here it is.” She quickly hugged the maid. “I shall be all right,” she said, and headed for the door.
“She will be.” He took two steps and grasped the maid’s bony hands. “I will take care of her.”
He would. By God, he would. Tonight, he would get her through this next discovery.
