“When did this come?” she managed to ask.
“A young beggar came round. Said he was given a six-pence if he gave the letter to Mrs. Markham.”
Georgina swallowed. “Thank you, Suzanne.”
The maid lingered, her deep, brown eyes clouded with what appeared to be a blend of pity and compassion. “You are a good woman, Mrs. Markham.”
You are a good woman, Georgina Wilcox.
She fought the urge to clamp her hands over her ears and drown out the words.
I’m not. My misery is testament to my lack of worth.
“Thank you.”
Suzanne left, pulling the door closed behind her.
Georgina looked at the ivory envelope and the leather volume. She first opened the book, her fingers flipped through the pages, then stopped. A single piece of parchment had been tucked inside. Mindful that she sat in the window in full view of anyone who happened to be in the gardens on this miserable spring day, she stood and crossed over to the hearth.
A small fire popped and hissed, though the flames failed to warm her.
Georgina set the book on the mantel then opened the single sheet she’d retrieved from inside the copy of the cleric poet Pádraigín Haicéad’s work.
A note will arrive. Fox and Hunter will request a meeting at Ye Olde Bookshop.
You are to go. They will be looking for 3 names. You are to give them the following: Marcus. Roberts. Mooring. You know no further details than those names found in a secret compartment in your husband’s chambers. Burn this when you’ve committed it to memory.
Georgina crumpled the orders into a tight ball and threw it into the blaze. The orange and red flames nipped at the edges of the paper before swallowing the sheet.
She gave herself another moment in front of the fire to gather her courage. But she could not ignore the second missive, though she knew what it contained. Georgina broke open the non-descript seal with badly shaking fingers, withdrew the note, and then she began to read.
My dearest Georgina,
I hope you’ve thought hard on what I said. Your husband does not deserve your loyalty, and I believe you know that. We are looking for three names. These men are members of The Brethren of the Lords, the secret organization your husband belongs to. If you obtain the names, you are to meet us in three days at the spot we last met.
Ever Yours,
Jamie
She tossed the parchment onto the embers and the charred remnants of the duke’s note.
“Hello, wife.”
Georgina cried out and spun around.
Adam leaned against the wooden frame, his arms folded under the broad-expanse of his muscular chest.
Fear rivaled joy. The damning scrap of paper being licked apart by the flames crackled.
“A-Adam.” She tossed her chin back, though, determined to not be cowed by the steely set to his jaw.
He shoved away from the door and kicked it closed behind him.
Georgina remained rooted to the floor and prayed the note from Jamie would be destroyed by the time he reached her.
Adam stopped before her. His towering form cast a shadow over her. He snagged a strand of her hair and rubbed the curl back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. “You appear guilty of something, wife.”
How did he manage to make the word “wife” sound like a curse?
She snatched the strand back, wincing at the tug on her scalp. “According to you, I’ve been guilty since first we met.”
He inclined his head. A smile played on his lips. “Ahh, how very true.” He peered over her shoulder into the fire. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but when he looked at her, his gaze was curiously blank.
She gripped the edge of her skirts. “What do you want, Adam?”
He clasped her cheek with his right hand and caressed her.
In an attempt to stop him, Georgina touched her fingers to his wrist. “I said what do you want, Adam?”
He bent down, and the potent bite of whiskey was so strong on his breath, she nearly tasted it. “Is that an invitation, dear wife?”
The haze of passion lifted. Georgina slapped his hand away. “You are drunk,” she said, the words bearing more than a faint trace of accusation.
He sketched a mocking bow. “As I have been since I discovered my lovely wife is a—”
“Have you come here merely to hurl insults at me?” She had wronged him, but she would not grovel, nor would she spend the rest of her life wallowing in shamed remorse. “I’ve not seen you in a fortnight. Something must have prompted you to seek me out.”
*
Adam stood in silence. A log crumpled in the hearth, sending off a smattering of sparks and embers. His wife was nothing if not astute.
He had sought her out, and not to exchange barbs. Against his logic and better judgment, he missed her. He missed the sound of her voice, the satiny smoothness of her skin. He even missed the defiant tilt to her chin when she challenged him. Loneliness, greater than anything he’d known during his captivity, gripped him until he felt like an empty shell of a man.
In the dead of night, when he returned from his clubs, he would wander up to Georgina’s chambers and sit at the edge of her bed, watching as she slept. Every night, her head thrashed violently against the pillow and a piteous whimpering escaped her lips. And every night, he would stroke the sweat-dampened strands of hair off her brow until she stilled.
When dawn broke over the horizon, he’d slip from her rooms, his wife none the wiser, and head to his office to waste his hours trying to convince himself he was wrong about her. Georgina could not be a scheming temptress sent to trick secrets out of him. He had to be wrong. When he managed to convince himself of it, he’d reach for the damning file and punish himself with the truth of her birth.
Then he’d reach for the bloody bottle of whiskey.
Part of him wondered—if, on that day they’d first met, she’d confessed her real identity, would he have felt this same, gnawing resentment?
His gaze wandered from her luminous eyes and came to rest on her fragile neck.
I wrapped my hands around her flesh. I very nearly choked the life from her.
At the memory, tightness settled deep in his chest and spread through his body.
The answer was simple—he’d never have trusted her. Nor, following his assault, had he given Georgina any reason to believe he’d not do her harm if she shared the truth with him.
She brushed away the lone curl that had a tendency to escape the serviceable knot at the nape of her neck and continued to stand there in silence.
He’d never met a person capable of such utter stillness. The women he knew were besieged by what seemed like an insatiable need to talk over any stretches of quiet. Not his wife. What had been done to her that she should have learned to stand as quiet as a forest creature hiding from encroaching hunters?
The niggling of doubt came again. Mayhap her role with Fox and Hunter was less clear than he’d assumed?
He shoved the hope aside. It was only desperation that made him see castles in the sky.