Page 61 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
She swallowed bile and shook her head. “Will I ever be free of the memories?”
Graeme’s hand paused and he drew her closer. “Yes. We’ll create new memories, good memories, to wipe out all of the old bad ones. But not tonight. Tonight you sleep.”
“Maybe,” she mumbled.
Maybe it could be true. She nodded and finally slipped off into slumber.
Graeme waited until he knew she was sleeping, and then waited a while longer, watching her in the dim light.
He would have made love to her right then and there if there’d been more than the slightest acquiescence. A passionate woman lay underneath all the layers of fears and bad memories.
It had taken a supreme act of will on his part to pause, but it had been anger that drove away the last of his lust.
Not anger at Blythe. Never at Blythe, no matter what document she’d burned or who she’d slept with, willingly, or as he suspected, unwillingly.
He’d forgive her. After all, he was the one who’d got her into that travesty of a marriage.
If Archie wasn’t already dead, he’d have him by the throat. He’d beat his peacock of a cousin to a pulp. He could do it, too. He’d learned when to exercise diplomacy and when to apply his fists.
He slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb her, and found his coats and his shoes, guessing that it must be only an hour or so until dawn. Moving quietly to the desk where the lamp stood, he pulled on his garments and noticed a letter lying open.
I believe I’ve found the person you’re seeking though I’ve not spoken to her in person. As you suspected, her lodgings are in Soho, on a not quite respectable street.
He unfolded the rest of the letter and read on, then returned it carefully to the desk.
Blythe was keeping more secrets.
Anger flickered briefly in him and then died.
Of course she would confide in her brother before confiding in him. He still hadn’t earned her trust. But he would. And he’d wait for her to realize that she trusted him. Hadn’t he waited fifteen years for her?
That business about the East End—her brother had found names of pawn shops. She was pawning a piece of jewelry to get money, and there was a negotiation to be conducted. Blythe’s brother had also found Lunetta Casale, and the woman wanted money in exchange for the will.
Or was there some other reason the woman would blackmail Blythe?
Graeme moved quietly to the bed and watched her. Her breathing was heavy, and regular, convincing him that she was truly asleep and not pretending.
What had her life been like? She was a woman with secrets, and he wanted to uncover them all.
He found his way to the corridor, and none too soon. As he neared his bedchamber, he heard footfalls behind him and turned. Blythe’s brother was staggering toward her door.
“Captain Lynford,” he said in a whisper.
Lynford paused, one hand braced on the door, the other on the knob. “You’re up, Chilcombe?”
“I was checking things. You spoke with the Runner who’s here tonight?”
“Cheeky cockney? Yes. Wouldn’t tell me squat. Said I must ask you.”
Graeme nodded. “Let Blythe be. She’s sleeping. Come to the library and I’ll fill you in.”
Frowning, Lynford approached and staggered again, his hand to his mouth.
“Damn if I’m not going to hurl,” he said.
With Graeme’s help, Lynford reached his own room just in time.
“Bloody hell,” he said, when he’d finished spewing. “I didn’t think I drank that much.” He fell back on the bed.
