But he knew that it was his responsibility to inform her of Thomas’s death. No matter how angry he was with her—and truth be told, he didn’t know what he felt just then—Thomas had been his closest friend. Even if Edward had never met Cecilia Harcourt, he would have traveled to Derbyshire just to deliver her brother’s ring into her hands.
But he wasn’t ready to see her yet. He wasn’t ready to see anything other than the bottom of another glass of brandy. Or wine. Or even just water, so long as he was having it alone.
So he went to the Fraunces Tavern, where he’d be far less likely to see a friend than at the Devil’s Head. They didn’t do a brisk business in the morning. A man could sit with his back to the room and if he was lucky, he wouldn’t have to say a word for hours.
When he got there, the barkeep took one look at him and silently handed him a drink. Edward wasn’t even sure what it was. Something homemade, maybe illegal, definitely strong.
He had another.
And he sat there in the back corner all morning long. Every now and then someone would come and replace his glass. At some point a maid set a slice of crusty bread in front of him, presumably to soak up the spirits. He tried a bite. It sank in his stomach like a rock.
He went back to his drink.
But try as he might, he could not seem to intoxicate himself to the point of oblivion. He could not even make himself forget. It didn’t seem to matter how many times his glass was refilled. He’d close his eyes in a long, heavy blink, thinking that this time everything would go black or even just gray, and maybe Thomas would still be dead, but he at least wouldn’t be thinking about that. Cecilia would still be a liar, but he wouldn’t be thinking about that, either.
But it didn’t work. He could never be that lucky.
Then she arrived.
He didn’t even need to look up to know it was she when the front door opened and a bright slash of light fell across the room. He felt it in the air, in the dank, saturnine knowledge that this was the worst day of his life. And it wasn’t going to get any better.
He looked up.
She was standing by the door, close enough to a window so that the filtered sunlight touched upon her hair like a halo.
It figured she’d look like an angel.
He’d thought she was his angel.
She didn’t move for several seconds. He knew he should stand, but he thought the alcohol might finally be catching up with him, and he didn’t quite trust his balance.
Or his judgment. If he stood, he might walk to her. And if he walked to her, he might take her in his arms.
He’d regret that. Later today, when he was thinking more clearly, he would regret it.
She took a wary step toward him, and then another. He saw her lips form his name, but he heard nothing. Whether it was because she made no noise or he just didn’t want to hear, he’d never know, but he could see in her eyes that she knew something was wrong.
He reached into his pocket.
“What happened?” She was closer now. He had no choice but to hear her.
He pulled out the ring and set it on the table.
Her eyes followed his motions, and at first she did not seem to grasp the significance. Then she reached out with one trembling hand and took the ring within her fingers, bringing it to her face for a closer inspection.
“No,” she whispered.
He remained silent.
“No. No. This can’t be his. It’s not so unique. This could belong to anyone.” She set the ring back on the table as if it had burned her skin. “That’s not his. Tell me that’s not his.”
“I’m sorry,” Edward said.
Cecilia kept shaking her head. “No,” she said again, except this time she sounded like a wounded animal.
“It’s his, Cecilia,” Edward said. He did not move to comfort her. He should have. He would have, if he did not feel so dead inside himself.
“Where did you get it?”
“Colonel Stubbs.” Edward paused, trying to figure out just what he wanted to say. Or not. “He asked me to apologize. And offer his condolences.”
She stared at the ring, and then, as if a tiny pin had been jabbed into her, she looked up suddenly and asked, “Why would he apologize?”
It figured she would ask. She was clever. It was one of the things he loved best about her. He should have known she would immediately latch on to the part of his statement that did not quite fit.
Edward cleared his throat. “He wished to apologize for not telling you sooner. He couldn’t. Thomas was involved in something very important. Something . . . secret.”
She clutched the back of the chair next to him, then gave up all pretense of strength and sat. “So he knew, all this time?”
Edward nodded. “It happened in March.”
He heard her gasp—a tiny sound, but filled with shock. “He sat with me,” she said in a bewildered whisper. “In the church, when you were still unconscious. He sat with me for hours one of the days. How could he do that? He knew I was looking for Thomas. He knew . . .” She brought her hand to her mouth as her breath started coming in heavier gasps. “How could he be so cruel?”
Edward didn’t say anything.
Something in Cecilia’s eyes sharpened, and the pale green of her irises took on a metallic edge. “Did you know?”
“No.” He gave her a flat, direct stare. “How could I?”
“Of course,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” She sat there for a moment, a hopeless statue of baffled grief. Edward could only wonder at her thoughts; every now and then she seemed to blink more rapidly, or her lips would move as if she might be forming words.
Finally, he could take no more. “Cecilia?”
She turned slowly, her brows drawing together as she asked, “Was he given a burial? A proper one?”
“Yes,” he said. “Colonel Stubbs said he saw to it himself.”
“Could I visit—”
“No,” he said firmly. “He was buried in Dobbs Ferry. Do you know where that is?”
She nodded.
“Then you know it’s far too dangerous for you to visit. Far too dangerous for me to visit unless I’m ordered to do so by the army.”
She nodded again, but this time with less resolve.
“Cecilia . . .” he warned. God above, he could not even contemplate chasing after her into enemy territory. That area of Westchester was a sort of no-man’s-land. It was why he’d been so surprised when Colonel Stubbs had said he’d gone alone to meet with Thomas. “Promise me,” Edward growled, fingers biting into the edge of the table. “Promise me you won’t go.”
She looked at him with an expression that was almost puzzled. “Of course not. I’m not a—” She pressed her lips together, swallowing whatever she’d thought to say in favor of: “That’s not the sort of thing I would do.”
Edward gave a curt nod. It was all he could manage until he got his breathing back under control.
“I imagine there is no headstone,” she said after a few moments had passed. “How could there be?”
It was a rhetorical question, but the pain in her voice made him answer, anyway. “Colonel Stubbs said he left a cairn.”