“Papa.” Philly’s voice carried enough urgency to steal everyone’s attention. A mass of bubbles rose from one of the glass containers.
Mr. Lane rushed back to the table. “I look forward to visiting with you later, Gwyneth.”
Tucking her hand in his arm again, Thad pulled her back toward the door. “Welcome to life with the Lanes.” He cast one more frowning glance at his father, though it was colored with amusement. “He is not usually so articulate among unrelated females. Perhaps...”
Gwyneth waited for him to finish his thought, but he said no more. He merely delivered her into another softly lit room and indicated the simple but pleasant appointments.
“Make yourself at home. I have moved a fair selection of books in here in the last few weeks, and there is paper and whatnot in the secretaire.”
“Thank you.” She released his arm and took a few steps inside before her feet refused to budge anymore. Looking over at him, she found he had retreated to the doorway and leaned into it in what must be his habitual way—the only way to keep from knocking his head against the lintel.
Her throat tightened, and swallowing did nothing to ease it. She had to curl her fingers into her palm and force a smile.
Thad studied her a moment more and then nodded. “If you have need of anything, you can risk interrupting my father again or else find my housekeeper, Rosie.”
The weakness started in her knees. He was leaving, leaving her to fend for herself. “Where are you going?” Gwyneth slapped a hand to her mouth, her cheeks burning at the sharp look he sent her. Around her fingers she muttered, “I beg your pardon.”
Of course he was leaving. She had arrived unannounced and was a veritable stranger besides. He could not be expected to interrupt his plans. And it didn’t matter. She was safe here. The Wesleys slept just up the stairs, and Mr. Lane and his daughter were right across the hall.
She slid closer to the circle of lamplight and locked her knees to keep them from buckling.
His gaze went from questioning to fierce. “Why did your father send you to us, Miss Fairchild?”
“Miss Fairchild” again—had his manners returned, or had his friendly feelings simply fled? Gwyneth shrugged, not trusting herself to open her mouth lest more mortifying nonsense spill out.
Thad folded his arms over his chest. “Forgive me for asking, but you can surely understand my curiosity.”
Her fingers slipped from her mouth as her arm fell to her side, heavy and useless. “I…I do not know.”
He pushed off from the door and took a few slow steps toward her. Towering above her so much that craning her head seemed insufficient, and she had to back up. Her legs bumped into some sort of cushion.
“Do not know, Miss Fairchild, or will not say?”
Her legs gave out, and she sank to the cushion of the sofa. “Do not know. Truly.”
He narrowed his eyes and leaned down, boxing her in. “Did he send you here to observe our goings-on and report back to him?”
The words pierced and lit a fire that exploded within her. She shot to her feet again, shoving him away and surely spewing flame from her eyes, it consumed her so. “How dare you! You accuse me of spying? Do I strike you as so baseborn a creature, sir? So vile? I am a gentlewoman, the great-granddaughter of a duke and granddaughter of two earls! To even think that—I say it again, sir. How dare you!”
The fierceness left his eyes, but no apology filled them. Nor did any good humor touch the half smile he sent her way. “How innocent you are.” He shook his head and turned to the door. “Good evening, Miss Fairchild. I will see you at breakfast.”
Whatever had pulled her taut released her when he strode away. She sank to the couch once more.
Innocent, he said. She was innocent.
So why did her hands feel stained with blood?
Six
Thad let himself in through the back door, humming an old maritime ballad as dawn kissed the horizon. Given the brilliant shades of crimson and fuchsia and the heat still weighting the air, a thunderstorm would likely roll through before day’s end.
Smells of coffee and bread greeted him when he stepped into the kitchen. He met Rosie’s arched gaze with a grin. “Good morning, Rosie Posy.”
His housekeeper may have been a speck of a woman, but she knew how to pack a wallop into her every look. “Were you out all night again, Thaddeus?”
’Twas like having two mothers, except the other one understood why he must be out at all hours seeking information to pass along to Tallmadge. “Only half of it. The other half I spent helping Alain with Jack.” He slid over to the stove to peek in a pot.
She swatted him away with a dish towel. “Did he have trouble settling home?”
Thad indicated the coffeepot, brows raised. When Rosie handed him a mug, he took that as permission to pour himself a cup. “He awoke when we went back there to exchange news and would not be consoled.”
“Poor mite.” Rosie poured something into the pot, and the sweet smell of maple came drifting upward.