Page 123 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
She gripped her hands tightly and held back her words, watching the Captain’s lips curl as if he had just sucked a lemon.
“How will you get away?”
Outside, a carriage rattled to a stop in front of the house.
“You must leave it to me, and you must go now. I am not as helpless as you think.”
He followed her to the door. She noticed the servant had left it ajar.
He frowned at the open door, but in the hallway, no one lingered. A maid popped out from another room and showed the Captain the way. Graciela watched him go as far as the door.
She all but groped her way to the back of the house and the garden exit, as if swimming through fog. She stopped, took a breath, and looked around her. Rare sunlight splashed into the corridor through the open ballroom door, lighting a few random dust motes. All was in order in this orderly house. The distant sounds of servants at work cleaning were hushed, but it was from contentment, not fear.
Llewellyn wanted her to leave here, to cross the wide ocean on his ship, and set herself up in his bed. When would he want to have her?
Tonight, probably, in his inn room. And once she put herself into his hands, what would become of Reina? Perhaps he would sit a distance off in a squall and watch her baby sink to the bottom of the ocean, just as he’d done with her father.
Graciela hurried along. Her little girl’s smile, even her frown, was an anchor, and Reina was waiting for her.
Charley exitedhis carriage just as a departing visitor reached the bottom steps in front of Shaldon House and turned to walk to a waiting hackney.
He would recognize the hair, the gait, the clothing anywhere.
His heart kicked up. Captain Llewellyn was leaving Shaldon House, alone. That cocky swagger might not signify anything. Gracie might have been ensconced in the nursery. Perry might have entertained the man. Or his father.
The Scotsman watched Llewellyn silently.
“Follow him,” Charley said.
He took the bundled book and pulled a long rectangular box from the seat.
Inside, a footman opened the library door for him. Kincaid, Farnsworth, and his father still wore the clothing from last night, neck cloths sharply tied, coats buttoned.
Their work, however was put aside. They sat talking. Plotting.
“Where is Gracie?” he asked.
“We haven’t seen her," Farnsworth said.
He dropped his packages upon the table and slid the bundle over to Kincaid. “Your man retrieved this from the fireplace.”
Kincaid unwrapped it, his lips curving up.
“Well?” Charley asked. “What did you find?”
“Nothing conclusive,” Farnsworth said. “And you?”
“Kingsley claimed he burned both books. He will be tearing the house down to find the book of sonnets.”
Shaldon looked toward the window. “He will turn up his own guilt.”
“Why was Llewellyn here?” Charley asked.
Three heads came up. They hadn’t known about the visitor.
His breakfast curdled in his stomach. “I saw him leaving as I arrived. Where is Gracie?”
Kincaid pushed back his chair, went to the door, and spoke quietly to the footman.
