She turned from the painting she’d so carefully carried up to her room last night and studied the rest of the chamber again to try to divine where Mrs. Wesley might have stashed a random piece of paper. Where she herself might have slipped one in a stupor. Where amid her things Papa might have folded one.
She had searched her three books, her trunk, even the spaces under the furniture in case a page had fallen and fluttered there. If only she could ask Mrs. Wesley—if only Rosie had been able to offer some insight—if only Papa had left it somewhere prominent—but no.
She was alone with her questions and her fears. Alone with her future.
A shout of laughter from below made her catch her breath. Perhaps not alone, but how wise was it to become attached to the Lanes? They were on opposite sides of a war.
Though Papa had been the one to send her here.
They were spies.
Though arguably the only ones who could help her evade or outsmart Uncle Gates.
They would not want her here forever.
Though her mind conjured up Thad’s voice, his whispered bid that she promise to stay. Had it been a jest? Dare she trust her perception of the gleam in his eyes? Or was he just doing as he always did—saying exactly what he knew she needed to hear, giving what she needed to receive? As he did with absolutely everyone?
And why did her heart twist? Why did it hope she was more to him than that? Why did her feet even now pull her toward the door, toward that laughter? Toward him. Always toward him, it seemed.
Foolishness. She knew it even as she gave in to the tug and exited her room.
The family had already made their way to the breakfast table, and it was young Jack eliciting the laughter. His face liberally smeared with oatmeal, he held a slice of apple in front of his mouth and said, “Look, Grandmama! I have a smile.”
Gwyneth couldn’t help but put on one of her own, though she meant to keep it aimed at the boy and not to direct it toward Thad. Somehow, though, her gaze swung his way. His was already on her, and it twinkled with good humor.
Mrs. Lane laughed at Jack. “And what a handsome smile it is.”
Thad stood and pulled out Gwyneth’s usual chair for her. “My lady.”
“Oh, I am not a…” She trailed off at his mischievous little grin and slid into her chair. Of course he knew she was no titled lady to deserve such a greeting. American he may be, but he was no fool. “Are you being deliberately gauche, Captain Lane?”
“Never.” He scooted the seat in, and his hand rested for a moment on her shoulder.
Jack had flipped the apple slice over and now held it above his lip. “And now I have a moustache!”
It was all Gwyneth could do to swallow past the catch in her throat. Her shoulder felt warm long after Thad regained his own seat.
She could only imagine the scolding Aunt Gates would give her each time he touched her unnecessarily. And given that warm feeling, ’twas a scolding she needed. The Lanes may have accepted her into their family for the time being, but she ought not be getting any ideas about Thad. No matter how bright were his eyes. No matter how compelling was his smile. No matter how her heart trilled at his every touch…or the fact that she felt completely safe when in his company. The point still remained that when all this was over—the war and her uncle’s schemes—she would have no place here.
And that was assuming she lived through it.
Mr. Lane passed her the plate of biscuits, soon followed by the eggs and sausage. Though they no doubt thought they were being discreet, each of the Lanes watched to see how much food she ladled onto her plate. She had already learned that if she didn’t choose for herself what they deemed “enough,” someone would slip on more when her attention was elsewhere. Except for Rosie, who didn’t bother with subtlety and added more overtly.
And because she was beginning to look more like her old self and less like a half-starved, sickly waif from the streets, she could thank them for their efforts.
“Have you plans to paint today, Gwyneth?” Thad’s voice came under the next laugh from Jack, quiet and warm.
The desire swelled, moving from mind to heart to hands. In her ears crashed a symphony of waves on the hull of Masquerade, the waters gleamed turquoise before her mind’s eye, and the sky… She cast a dubious gaze at the window, where dark clouds brewed overhead, and let go the fingers of the muse. “I daresay not today. Even if the rain holds off, the light is not good.”
“You are welcome to come with me then.” Mrs. Lane set her cup of steaming coffee down, smiling. “I plan to fit in a quick trip to the shops before it rains. Amelia mentioned a pressing need for salt and a few medicinals.”
Jack bounced in his chair. “May I come, Grandmama? May I?”
Mrs. Lane leveled a stern gaze on him, though Gwyneth had no trouble detecting the sparkle in her eye. “Only, my darling boy, if you give me your word that you will beg for neither a sweet nor a trinket.”
Jack’s face scrunched up, but at length he heaved a sigh worthy of a man ten times his age and picked up another apple slice. “All right. I shall still go.”