Page 92 of Avenging the Earl's Lady
“Will he die, do you think?”
“He may lose a toe, an insignificant appendage, but with good care, there should be no infection.His boot partially shielded him.”He paused, pushing back at the anger rising in him.“It will teach him not to abuse a strong lady.”
She nodded.“What of the Major?”She clutched her hands at her waist.
“The Major will not plague you or Penderbrook ever again.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“There was a yacht waiting for him in the Pool.He’s on his way to Spain.”
“He escaped?”She cried.
He reached for her hand.“No.He is in the custody of a powerful Spaniard whose son he killed in a duel.”
“Oh.”Her head whirled with the news.How could a woman ever hope to keep up with a man like this?She swallowed hard and searched his face for deception, finding none.
“His captor is a friend of the Duquesa’s father.”
“Oh.You…you discussed this in one of your liaisons with her?”
“Yes.”He paused, his gaze thoughtful.“But no—they were never liaisons.She is an ally, not a lover.”
And now she knew he was lying.She pulled her hand out of his grasp.
“Isawyou with her, with my own eyes.”
He blinked.
That was all.One did not catch the Spy Lord often in one of his lies, and of course, he was unlikely to confirm or deny the truth of her assertion.
But she would get the truth, about the Duquesa, about the duel, about her son’s poisoning, about everything that had happened that day, and then she would gather her things and leave.Like Jenny, she had no use for a faithless man.
“Do you kiss all your allies with such passion?”
He swiped a hand over his face.“Jane—”
“None of your lies, Shaldon.”
“But, Jane—”
“You may make love to whatever allies you wish.I am not sleeping in your bed,oryour late wife’s.I am going home.”
Home.As soon as the word left her mouth her heart fell.She had no true home, only a dilapidated cottage in Ireland she couldn’t afford to repair.
But she would find a home.She would return to Gerrard Street for the time being until she could arrange other lodgings.
A knock at the door brought servants with trays, giving her time before she needed to say more, beforehecould plague her again.
As the servants left, another figure slipped in, pale-faced, hair in disarray, but otherwise perfectly dressed and groomed.
She went to him.
He bowed and said, “Mother.”
The cascade of emotions on his face, the pasty color, they had nothing to do with his illness—his poisoning.This was abject misery.
“I heard you were injured.I’m sorry, Mother.I meant to defend your honor and I failed.”
“Please, my dear,” she said, “come and sit down.”Only two chairs graced the table.She should eject Shaldon from the room.
“Penderbrook,” Shaldon said, “fetch the extra chair from the dressing table.Come, my lady.”He took her elbow and steered her to her seat.
Quentin shook his head.“I will stand.I came only to say goodbye.”He bit his lip.“I must leave England.I am ruined.”
