“Nothing. For now,” Bennett said.
Adam shook his head and spun around. “Nothing? You’d have me stay married to this traitorous bitch?”
Helling flinched. His obvious reaction only fueled Adam’s humiliation.
Oh, she deserved a place on the London stage, his wife! With her trembling lips and tear-filled eyes, she could make the devil himself feel like a scoundrel and swear to protect her.
Bitterness seeped from him as he stared at Helling married to Grace. Beautiful, loyal Grace. And Adam had been saddled with a conniving woman not fit to touch the heel of her slippers.
Bennett rubbed his chin. “We could have a quick trial and have her hanged.”
Adam’s gut clenched. The other man spoke as if deciding on which cravat to wear to a soiree, not on the fate of Georgina’s life.
Bennett continued, unaware of Adam’s turbulent thoughts. Unaware or uncaring. “Should you like, we can take her with us now.”
They had come here today to claim her. They would cart her off to Newgate and execute her as a traitor. He should have welcomed it. Lined up alongside the gallows and cheered as they hanged her…but God he couldn’t. Tortured images flashed through his mind; Georgina’s lifeless body dancing at the end of a rope while a crowd of loyal subjects watched on in sick fascination. “No.” The harsh denial exploded from his lungs.
Bennett arched a brow. “No?”
Adam spun around and took a step forward. Then another. And realized…he couldn’t flee. There was no escaping this agony. It lanced through him like the edge of a burning torch held against his skin. It seared him, ate at him until his heart went up in flames…and crumbled into ash.
Except…he touched his chest and his heart beat hard and fast beneath his palm. How could it be? How when he felt dead, inside and out?
“No. No trial.” Adam’s jaw tightened. “Not yet. I’d like to spare my family the scandal. Surely ‘The Sovereign’ can make my wife…disappear in a way that isn’t so public?”
Bennett and Helling exchanged another look. “We can do that,” Bennett said after a pause. “Make her disappear.”
The silken promise threatened to cleave Adam in two. Even with all she’d done, when he tried to imagine a world without her in it, he found it a world he didn’t want to live in. Adam’s breath came in quick, gasping pants. “I don’t want her killed.”
“What do you want, then?” Bennett said with a touch of impatience.
That she should live somewhere with Fox and Hunter where they would continue to aid the Irish in their quest for independence from England? Let them all keep aiding the Irish on their quest for independence from England.
Helling came around and rested a hand on Adam’s shoulder.
He shrugged off the gesture of camaraderie. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was commiserate with Grace’s husband.
Helling spoke. “It is imperative that you continue to keep your wife in sight. Attend ton events—”
A bitter laugh escaped Adam. “With an Irish radical?”
“I’m not saying you have to present a happy fa?ade to the world,” Bennett snapped. “Your marriage really isn’t all that different from the rest of Society.”
With the exception of my deceitful wife who will hang for her crimes.
He fisted his hands at his side to keep from tossing his head back and railing like a tortured demon.
He swiped a hand over his face. “I believe we’re done here, gentlemen?”
After a round of polite bows, Bennett and Helling left.
He stood and stared at the closed door, welcoming the solitude. He was alone with the bloody file, his tortured thoughts, and—his gaze snagged on the glimmer of crystal—a decanter of brandy.
He picked up Georgina’s file, the bottle of spirits and a lone glass, and sat down to read. His lip curled.
Georgina Wilcox, born 14 April 1782.
It would appear his wife had had a birthday since they’d married. A pang of regret pulled at him. He should know such a detail about this woman who’d come to mean more to him than himself. Then, why would she mention such a minute detail when there were so many other great secrets between them?
He scrubbed a hand over his face. It all made sense. Adam had ignored so many obvious unexplained details: her cultured tone, the ease with which she’d mastered the lessons by the dancing instructor he’d hired for her.
He tossed the pages aside and reached for his tumbler of brandy.
He’d only seen what he’d wanted. It had been far easier to view Georgina as a courageous woman in need of rescuing, because it had given him strength. He’d felt less alone in his hellish prison.
Adam poured himself a healthy glassful and did what he swore he’d never do again…
He drank.
Chapter 19
A bolt of lightning split the black, late afternoon sky. The resounding boom of thunder rattled the foundations of the townhouse.
“Come away from that window, Mrs. Markham,” her maid, Suzanne, murmured.
“Georgina,” she corrected without missing a beat. An ominous foreboding surrounded her, hinting at doom. “It is a bad omen,” she whispered.
Suzanne made a comforting sound. “Come away from that window, ma’am. This is the night you’ll make your entrance into Society. Surely you must be excited?”
Georgina let the curtain fall back into place. The young maid couldn’t be more wrong.
“I need to prepare your hair, Mrs.…Georgina,” she amended when Georgina glanced back at her.
Panic crashed into her more forcefully than the next boom of thunder to rattle the windowpane. She’d been well-versed in dancing, proper deportment, and all that was expected of a merchant’s daughter. This, her entrance into Society, was something altogether different. Georgina Wilcox did not belong in this world. She was only moving forward with the pretense of belonging because of her husband.
She’d not seen him since they’d made love last evening. When she’d awakened, he’d been gone. He’d not come to breakfast. All day she’d waited for him to make an appearance, but he’d been conspicuously absent. Her pride prevented her from asking one of the servants.
Georgina wet her lips. She needed to see him. She sprinted for the door and yanked it open.
“Mrs. Markham?” Suzanne’s voice echoed around her but Georgina ignored her as she all but flew down the corridor.
She raced down the stairs as if the devil himself were chasing her, her breath came fast and heavy.
A large figure stepped into her path.
Georgina shrieked as she skidded to a halt in front of Watson.
“Mrs. Markham.” He greeted her as if she were casually strolling through the garden and not racing through the house with her curls undone like a woman bound for Bedlam.
She murmured a greeting and stepped around him. This time, she took care to slow her steps, lest she earn any more suspicious looks from the servants. She paused outside her husband’s office and then, before her courage deserted her, pressed the handle.
Georgina peeked inside.