A gentle touch on her chin drew her gaze up again. Mrs. Lane’s eyes glistened. “I believe that would be to your uncle, Gwyneth. Which means Thaddeus is right. You are involved because your family is involved, and because you are fleeing that family.”
Thad ducked back under the door frame, a piece of paper in hand. “There is a reason your father entrusted you to us, sweet. He must have thought that, together, we could best Gates.”
Together. Together with a family that had more secrets than London had soirees. Together with this man who made her insides a jumble of trust and frustration, fascination and fear.
A man who would be the target of each and every British rifle if they knew who he was and what he did.
He held out the paper. “Any light you can shed on this would be welcome.”
Ought she? But this was from Papa, and he would have sent nothing to compromise England. She took the page, ignoring the trill of awareness when her fingers brushed Thad’s. Her head began to shake only a line or two in. ’Twas Papa’s hand, sure enough, but the message made no sense. All the right names were mentioned—Mama, Uncle Gates, even Gwyneth—and the sentences made sense as mere arrangements of words. Just not as facts. “This is all wrong. Every bit of it.”
Mrs. Lane sighed. “That much we realized. Have you any idea what he could mean by it? We have tried codes, known counter liquors for invisible ink, everything.”
Invisible ink? Codes? She lowered the paper so she could better stare at the Lanes, first the couple and then the son. What family dealt in such things?
Thad leaned against the table beside her. “Did he send anything else with you? Some sort of text he uses as a key, perhaps? A book, another letter? Anything?”
Gwyneth frowned. “In all honesty, I can scarcely recall what was in my trunk. So much of the past months has been a fog. But I know Mrs. Wesley emptied it out, and I cannot remember seeing anything in there I did not myself pack.”
Her gaze caught on one of the lines. Not on the words, but on their arrangement. The spacing looked off. A word more narrow than the rest. Papa usually had such measured script, all in a careful, elegant flow. And there, on a line near the bottom, was a touch too much space between two words.
Testament to his hurry, perhaps?
“What do you see?” Thad leaned close, peering at the letter with her.
“Just irregularities in his hand.” She pointed at the two places.
A low hum sounded in Thad’s throat. “Interesting. You notice things I do not. No great surprise from our resident Michelangelo.”
The praise warmed her, though ice rushed through her veins in the next moment. She ought not earn such accolades in this way. Trying to find hidden meaning in her own father’s words… Such secrets ought not be chasing her, such darkness ought not be lurking. She ought to be fully ensconced in her first Season, basking in the joy of a betrothal to Sir Arthur.
But he had become nothing more than a shadow in her memory.
She touched a finger to where Papa had signed his name. So familiar, those loops and lines. Like his face, his eyes, his laugh. Yet this had outlived him, this iron gall on paper, and had shown his life to be so very different from what she thought it was. In what had he been involved? What secrets had he kept until they killed him? Why had he never told her, even when matters became so dire he must send her away?
“Would you like to keep the letter?” Thad’s voice strummed across her nerves. “It does me very little good without knowing how to find its meaning.”
For a moment, she considered the offer. Considered what balm it might be to open this up and see his hand.
Considered how that balm would be negated by the nonsensical words. “I thank you, but no. It is meant for you. You ought to keep it. I…I will go look through all my things to make sure he did not include anything that could help us.”
And she would. But what she really wanted to do was put those new brushes in her case and run her fingers over the bristles to get to know their shape and structure. Then to pick up her pencil and cure that sheet of paper of its blank state. Her hand flexed in anticipation. Later. As soon as she had kept her promise.
Thad bent down, scooped up the scattered brushes, and picked up her pencil. He held them out to her with an indulgent smile. “Which will it be?”
She reached for the whole set with a small return smile. “Both. After my search.”
Rather than relinquishing the brushes, he held them when she grabbed hold. Which, of course, forced her gaze up to his. The irises shone like amber, holding life within them. “You must remember, sweet,” he murmured, “that you needn’t feel any disillusionment on account of this discovery about your father. Every decision he made, every bit of information he withheld would have been to protect you.”
Her eyes burned, so she let her gaze drop again. How odd it was to need such a reminder. And more, to have gotten it from an American spy.
Sixteen