“Not for several hours, ma’am. Bid me good morning and then headed out. Looked right happy, he did.” The innkeeper gave her a lopsided grin as he wiped out a tankard. “He was whistling.”
It said something of Cecilia’s level of distraction that she couldn’t even manage a tinge of embarrassment over that. She glanced toward the street-facing window, not that one could make out anything other than a few blobby shapes through the warped glass. “I expected him back some time ago,” she said, almost to herself.
The innkeeper shrugged. “He’ll be back soon, you’ll see. In the meantime, are you sure you don’t need anything?”
“Quite, but thank you. I—”
The front door made its customary groan as someone pushed it open, and Cecilia whirled around, certain that it must be Edward.
Except it wasn’t.
“Captain Montby,” she said with a small curtsy, recognizing the young officer who had given up his room for her the previous week. He’d gone away for a few days and then come back and was now bunking with another soldier. She had thanked him several times for his generosity, but he always insisted that it was his honor and duty as a gentleman. And anyway, half a room at the Devil’s Head was better than most British soldiers got for sleeping quarters.
“Mrs. Rokesby,” he returned in greeting. He bowed his chin, then followed this with a smile. “A fine morning to you. Are you off to join your husband?”
Cecilia snapped to attention. “Do you know where he is?”
Captain Montby made a somewhat directionless nod over his shoulder. “I just saw him over at the Fraunces Tavern.”
“What?”
She must have sounded shrill because Captain Montby drew back an inch or so before saying, “Er, yes. I only spied him across the room, but I was fairly certain it was he.”
“At the Fraunces? You’re sure?”
“I believe so,” the captain said, his words taking on the wary tone of one who does not wish to get involved in a domestic dispute.
“Was he with someone?”
“Not when I saw him.”
Cecilia’s lips pressed into a firm line as she headed for the door, pausing only to thank Captain Montby for his help. She couldn’t imagine what Edward was doing over at the Fraunces. Even if he’d gone there to fetch breakfast (which made absolutely no sense, since they served the exact same fare as the Devil’s Head), surely he’d be back by now.
With an extremely cold meal.
And he was alone. Which meant that—well, frankly she didn’t know what that meant.
She wasn’t angry with him, she told herself. He had every right to go where he pleased. It was just that he’d said he was coming back. If she’d known that he wasn’t, she might have made other plans.
Just what those other plans might be, since she was stuck on a strange continent where she knew almost no one, she wasn’t sure. But that wasn’t the point.
The Fraunces was not far from the Devil’s Head—all the local taverns were relatively close together—so it took only about five minutes in the rapidly brightening sun for Cecilia to reach her destination.
She pulled open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dim and smoky light of the tavern. A few blinks cleared her vision, and sure enough, there was Edward sitting at a table on the far side of the room.
Alone.
Some of the fire that had been fueling her steps slid out of her, and she paused, taking in the scene. Something wasn’t right.
His posture was off. He was slouching in his chair—which he never did in public, no matter how tired he was—and his hand—the one she could see from her vantage point—was bent almost into a claw. If his nails were not so neatly trimmed, he would have left gouge marks in the wood of the table.
An empty glass sat in front of him.
She took a hesitant step forward. Had he been drinking? It certainly looked like it, although again, this would be highly out of character. It wasn’t even noon.
Cecilia’s heart slowed . . . then pounded, and the air around her grew thick and heavy with dread.
There were two things that could render Edward so altered. Two things that could make him forget that he’d promised to return to the room they shared at the Devil’s Head.
Either he’d regained his memory . . .
Or Thomas was dead.
Edward hadn’t meant to get drunk.
He’d left Colonel Stubbs’s office in a fury, but by the time he exited to the street, it was gone, replaced by . . . nothing.
He was empty.
Numb.
Thomas was dead. Cecilia was a liar.
And he was a damned fool.
He stood there, stock-still and staring sightlessly into space in front of the building that housed the headquarters of so many of the top British officers. He didn’t know where to go. Not back to the Devil’s Head; he was not ready to face her.
God above, he didn’t even want to think about that right now. Maybe . . . maybe she’d had a good reason for lying to him, but he just . . . He just . . .
He drew in a long choke of breath.
She’d had so many opportunities to tell him the truth, so many moments when she could have broken the quiet with a soft mention of his name. She could have told him she’d lied, and she could have told him why, and bloody hell, he would probably have forgiven her because he was so damned in love with her he would have pulled the moon from the sky to make her happy.
He’d thought she was his wife.
He thought he’d pledged to honor and protect her.
Instead, he was the worst sort of reprobate, a true beau-nasty. It mattered not that he’d thought they were married. He’d still slept with an unmarried virgin. Worse, she was the sister of his closest friend.
He’d have to marry her now, of course. Maybe that had been her plan all along. Except that this was Cecilia, and he thought he knew her. Before he’d even met her he thought he knew her.
He swiped his hand across his brow, his fingers and thumbs settling into place at the indentations of his temples. His head hurt. He squeezed hard against the pain, but it did nothing. Because when he finally managed to push Cecilia out of his mind, all that was left was her brother.
Thomas was dead, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it, about how no one would ever know exactly what had happened, about how he’d died among strangers, under suspicion of treason. He couldn’t stop thinking about how his friend had taken a shot to the gut. It was a terrible death . . . slow, agonizingly painful.
And he couldn’t stop thinking about how he would have to lie to Cecilia. Tell her it was something less gruesome. Something quick and painless.
Heroic.
The irony was not lost on him. It was his turn to lie to her.