Eighteen

Rafe hadn’t expected the attack. He’d thought the old man would fall over as soon as he wasn’t propped up. The haughty leader of the French contingent must have thought the same because his attention was on Rafe, not on Fortier.

And that was his mistake.

Fortier might have been weak, but he’d also been the best assassin Napoleon had ever employed. And he struck quickly and with deadly force. Fortier knocked the leader to the ground with his shoulder and followed him down, his hands wrapping around the man’s neck. Even as Rafe jumped to action, kicking the first man who rushed to his leader’s defense, he heard the snap. Rafe knew without looking the leader’s neck had been broken. The second man came for Rafe along with the man he’d kicked—who looked decidedly angrier—and Rafe swung his pistol in the closest man’s direction. He could get off one shot and even the field, but it would still be two against one. Those weren’t his favorite odds, but he’d seen worse. He cocked the pistol and fired, bracing for the blow that would come from the other side as the man he’d not shot plowed into him.

But the blow never came. The smoke from the pistol shot cleared, and Rafe saw the man he’d shot on the ground, hand clutched to his shoulder, where the ball had hit. He swung around and saw the other man lying on the ground, hand to his thigh, where a dagger protruded.

His dagger.

He would have stared at Collette, but there was still one more man to deal with. Rafe took a step toward him, and the man turned and ran. Ha. That was more like it. Where were Neil and Ewan to see this? He’d told them he was better at fisticuffs than they gave him credit for.

Then he turned and saw Fortier had pointed a pistol at the man running away.

Rafe heaved a great sigh. Perhaps when he told this story at the Draven Club later, he would leave the pistol and Fortier out of it.

Then Fortier pointed the pistol at him. Rafe raised his hands. “You should point that pistol elsewhere, old man. I’m the rescue party.”

Fortier’s hand shook badly, and Rafe doubted he could fire straight. He had to have taken the pistol from the man whose neck he’d snapped, and Rafe was willing to wager it was primed and loaded. He wasn’t quite willing to wager his life that Fortier would miss.

“You had a pistol to my daughter’s head,” Fortier said, voice low and controlled. His hand steadied as he spoke.

Collette moved beside Rafe. “It was a plot, mon père, to fool the men who held you. Mr. Beaumont is our ally.” She glanced at him as though to confirm this.

He nodded, and he was never certain whether Fortier would have lowered the pistol or not. Before he could either fire or stand down, he was seized by a coughing fit that had him doubled over. Collette ran to him, her arm going around his shoulders. The pistol clattered to the ground as Fortier covered his mouth with the back of one hand. Rafe scooped the pistol up and put it and his own into his coat. They had to leave before the river police arrived. Surely they would be alerted by the sound of pistol fire.

He moved to Fortier’s other side. “Put your arm around me, monsieur. I’ll help you up the stairs. We can’t stay here.”

Fortier shoved him away. “I am fine. Damn damp prison air. Give me another day and I’ll be good as new. I’m not so easy to kill.” But he took a step and stumbled, and Rafe caught him.

“Monsieur, are you injured?”

He shook his head. “Just need to gather my strength again. Come, help me out of here.”

Rafe glanced at Collette. Her dark eyes were large in a face that seemed drained of any color. Slowly, she put her arm around her father’s waist, and together, they helped him up the stairs to the quay. “We have to take him to the inn,” she said when they reached the top of the stairs. “He needs rest and care.”

“I agree, but it’s a long walk. We require a carriage.”

“There aren’t likely to be any hackneys here at this time of night. You’ll have to leave us and hail one a few streets over.”

Rafe shook his head. “I’d rather not leave you alone.”

Fortier made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze. “My daughter can take care of herself.” He gulped in breath. “Give her the pistol. We’ll be fine.”

Rafe’s gaze met hers. She nodded. “I’m an assassin’s daughter. I know a few tricks.”

“Such as knife throwing?” Rafe quipped, thinking of his dagger, still lodged in the thigh of the man on the riverside.

“To begin with.”

Rafe still didn’t like it. He didn’t want to leave her. He didn’t want to admit he half worried she’d be gone when he returned and he’d never see her again. But her father wasn’t well enough to travel. They couldn’t run from him.

“Fine, but we move you out of sight in case the police arrive before I return.” He supported her father again and led him and Collette to a dark doorway of a warehouse. “I’ll be back in a quarter hour. Don’t move.”

She nodded and as he walked away, Rafe had to force himself not to look back.

* * *

A few minutes later, two policemen did arrive. The bodies of the men on the riverside drew their attention, and they never even saw Collette and her father huddled in the doorway. Collette held her father to her, much as he had held her when she was a little girl. He was weak and, except for the one moment on the riverside, seemed frail. But she would nurse him back to health at Gaines’s inn. A few days of rest and good food and he would be ready to leave for America.

More coughs wracked his body, and he tried to muffle them by covering his mouth with his arm.

“You shouldn’t have come for me,” he said, his voice paper thin.

“Nonsense, mon pére. I would never leave you, not when I could save you.”

“Better for you to save yourself, ma chère. You have your life ahead of you. I’ve lived mine.”

“You have many more years ahead of you.” She clutched him tighter as though the sheer strength of her desire could infuse him with vigor. “You need rest and fresh air.”

“I’m unlikely to receive that in a British jail. I’m no safer here than in Paris.”

“I have a plan. I’ll take you to the United States. We’ll be safe there, and I hear there are vast stretches of land. The air is clean. You’ll—”

He put his finger on her lips. “Rafe?”

“Mr. Beaumont. He went to fetch the carriage.”

“I see.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the door. His chest heaved up and down, his breaths labored and shallow. Collette held his hand, her heart pounding with terror. What would she do if she lost him? Where would she go? How was she to go on without him? He was her father. He’d always been by her side, always protected her, always kept her safe. She needed him. She wasn’t ready to let him go and to face the world without him.

The clip-clop of horses’ hooves alerted her to the approaching hackney, and when she peered around the building, she could just make out the outlines of a conveyance approaching. Fog had come in as the darkness deepened, and while it served to hide her and her father, it also gave the warehouses and the quay an eerie, otherworldly look. For a moment, Collette was tempted to hide in the shadows. The hackney looked too much like what she imagined the Grim Reaper might drive on his nightly rounds.

And then it stopped and Rafe jumped out. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew him nonetheless. She’d know that confident manner in which he moved and the easy way he walked even without seeing him clearly.

“Collette.” Her name floated by on the fog.

She considered not answering. She had her father here beside her. She couldn’t give Rafe the opportunity to take him away.

“Answer him,” her father said. She glanced at him sharply. His eyes were still closed, his head still leaning against the door. “You care for him. Your Rafe.”

“His loyalty is to England and the Foreign Office, mon père. I can’t trust him.”

“Then give me to him and run. Let the Foreign Office do their worst. It’s not as though I don’t deserve it.”

“No! I would never leave you.”

“Collette!” It was Rafe’s voice again, and he sounded more urgent.

“Then answer him. I may not know him, but any man who calls after a woman like that feels something for her. He won’t betray us.”

Collette wished she could be so certain. In any case, she was a fool to think she could stay out in the damp with her father, who was already ill and needed a bed and rest. “Here!” she called quietly. Leaning out from their little alcove, she waved her hand. The indistinct shape moved toward her and finally sharpened into Rafe. “The jarvey is skittish. We have to hurry.” He bent and hoisted her father to his feet. Collette had to help because her father seemed to go limp. He groaned when Rafe tried to move him and his head slumped forward.

“Let me get on his other side,” she said, trying to move around the small space.

“No time for that. Go on ahead. I’ll carry him.”

“You’ll what?”

Rafe gestured with his arm and she moved ahead, toward the boxlike shape of the hackney and the more sinewy shape of the horse. She looked back and saw Rafe moving, her father cradled in his arms like a limp child. “Are you certain you have him?” she asked. She had not thought Rafe weak—after all, she’d seen him without his shirt and his chest was impressively muscled—but her father was not a small man.

“I have him.” The slightest strain tinged Rafe’s voice. “He’s not as heavy as he looks.”

Collette did not want to think what those words might have meant. And then they were at the hackney, and Rafe and her father were inside with her, and she needn’t think any longer.

Hours later, when dawn broke, she rose from her father’s bedside, wincing at the ache in her back. She’d nursed him all night, urging broth on him, mopping his brow, moving his pillow so his head might be supported and his coughing lessened. But nothing had seemed to help. What had they done to him in prison? A younger man might have withstood the lack of food and light, the foul air and absence of exercise, but her father’s health had paid the price. She’d given what little money they had so he might be able to buy bedding and food, but she had been in England longer than she’d wanted. He had run out of funds and been forced to sleep on the floor and subsist on meager crusts of bread and stale water.

He slept, and she hoped his rest would last. Sleep would heal him—peaceful sleep—that and a new start. The ocean breeze would revive him when he was strong enough to travel. She moved to the window and parted the curtains. In the early-morning light, the world looked new. Carriages passed, men and women went about their shopping, dogs snatched at dropped food, birds sang, and, in the distance, the ships’ white sails waved on the Thames. Everyone went on about their lives as though the world was not in turmoil, as though everything was the same as it had always been when, for her, nothing would ever be the same again. She had gained her father, but she would lose Rafe. How was it possible her heart should be so full and yet she felt as though her chest were being ripped in two?

She looked at her father. He was so pale, his hair so white, that he seemed part of the pillow. Under his eyes, dark shadows looked like bruises blossoming and his cheekbones were sharp and stark. She was encouraged by his quiet breathing and his lips were no longer blue. At least the broth and rest had begun the healing process.

“Oh, Papa,” she murmured. Now that he was asleep, she could allow the tears to fall that had pricked her eyes since she had seen him the night before. She swiped at the moisture on her cheeks and closed her eyes, closing her hand on the drapes to keep her knees from buckling. She had to be strong. For him. All of the sacrifices they had made could not be for nothing. She had to leave London. Her father had wanted more for her than a prison cell. He’d wanted peace and happiness, and perhaps they could find that in the United States.

A quiet tap on the door interrupted her thoughts and she crossed to it quickly. Mr. Gaines stood in the hallway, and not wanting to wake her father, Collette stepped outside and closed the door behind her.

Gaines took in her face. “How is he? Or should I not ask?”

“Better. A little better.” She tried to smile and look as though she believed it.

“I spoke to another captain I know, and he has agreed to take you to the United States. He’s sailing for a place called Pennsylvania. I haven’t been there myself, but I’ve heard of it. Large cities there, so a person might easily lose herself. Society too, if you have a yearning to see the theater or a museum.”

“When does he leave?”

“Tomorrow at the earliest, but if his cargo is not all loaded, then the day after.”

“Thank you.” Collette swallowed. “I cannot accept. My father isn’t well enough to travel. I must stay with him until he improves or…” She trailed off. She did not want to add or we are put in prison.

“I understand. Nevertheless, the captain will hold the cabin for you. If circumstances change, you go aboard. In a few months, all of this will be a distant memory.”

That was what she wanted. She wanted Rafe’s smile, his violet eyes, his soft lips—all of it—to be a distant memory. She wanted to stop hurting, to stop feeling the pressure in her chest and the sting of tears behind her eyes. In the room behind her, she heard her father cough. “I have to go to him.”

Gaines nodded. “You let me know if there’s anything else you need. More of that medicine I sent? More broth?”

“Yes, thank you.” She would take all of the help she could.

Gaines turned to go, and Collette grasped his hand in hers. His was large and dark and the fingers roughly callused. But they were strong hands, good hands, honest hands. He squeezed her hand back. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “Thank you for your kindness.”

“It’s my pleasure, miss.”

Her father coughed again and she released Gaines, turning to go back into the room.

* * *

Gaines stood outside her door for a long moment, then looked at Rafe’s door. “You hear all of that?” he asked.

Rafe pushed his door open. There was no point in pretending he hadn’t had it cracked, hadn’t been eavesdropping. “Enough.”

Gaines crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Seems to me the lady is eager to be rid of you. Will you let her go, or will we have a problem?”

Rafe narrowed his eyes. “If there’s a problem, it’s mine. And you can mind your own business, Gaines.”

Gaines shook his head. “She’s in my establishment. That makes her my business.”

Rafe didn’t have a quick retort ready.

“I may be wrong—never have been before—but I think it’s the father you’re after.” Gaines waited. When Rafe didn’t argue, Gaines rocked back on his heels. “The father is no threat to you. He’s weak as a kitten. When I was a slave in Georgia and one of ours got to this point, we dug the grave. Of course, she’s strong enough to fight for him. He may yet pull through. Either way, she’ll be on that ship to Pennsylvania, and if you try to stand in her way—their way—you’ll be sorry for it.”

Rafe wanted to tell Gaines that he was the one who would be sorry, that he had powerful, even dangerous friends. But he wouldn’t ask Ewan or Jasper to bring Collette back to London so the Foreign Office could throw her in prison. She wasn’t any threat to king or country, and Rafe wasn’t about to stand back and watch as she was hung as an example. The best place for her really was far away—far away from England and from him.

Once the Fortiers were gone, Rafe would return to Draven and report that Fortier was dead and his daughter had disappeared. And what did it matter if he lied as long as Fortier was no longer a threat? Rafe would be reprimanded for losing her, and Draven probably wouldn’t give him any more assignments. That was fine with Rafe. He’d go back to his life before Collette. He’d spend his days at the club and his nights surrounded by beautiful women. He could take his pick from the bevy of widows and courtesans, and maybe with a woman on either arm and too much wine, he’d forget Collette’s smile, her scent, the sound of her voice.

Rafe looked back at Gaines. “I won’t stand in her way.”

Gaines studied him. “You look like a man who just lost his life savings at the tables. Do you want some advice?”

“No.” Rafe slid back into his room and closed the door. Gaines’s foot caught in the opening just before it closed. “Move your foot or lose it.” Rafe shoved the door hard. If the pressure pained Gaines, his face didn’t show it.

“You could go with her,” Gaines said.

“To America?” Rafe laughed. “It’s barely civilized.”

Gaines shrugged. “You might be surprised.”

“Besides, if I went to the Americas, which I have no intention of doing, I’d have to marry her.”

Gaines kept his gaze steady.

“I am never marrying. I have two elder brothers and a handful of nephews. I have no need to marry.” Nor did he want to marry. Wives were notoriously unreliable. Look at his own mother. She’d left his father without a word. Rafe preferred to be the one leaving, not the other way around.

“Men have committed deeds far more foolish for love,” Gaines said quietly.

Rafe felt the words like a punch to the sternum. “Undoubtedly, but I’m not in love.”

“No? Then you wouldn’t mind if I tried to persuade Miss Fortier to stay. I’m not married, and she’s brave, beautiful, and intelligent. I wouldn’t want a woman like that to slip through my fingers.”

Rafe’s hands were around Gaines’s neck so fast that he couldn’t remember moving. He slammed the man against the wall across from his room and put his face a fraction of an inch from Gaines’s. “If you so much as look at her—”

Gaines raised his brows. Behind him, Collette’s door opened. Rafe released Gaines immediately and stepped away, straightening his coat.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, her gaze darting from one to the other.

“Nothing,” Gaines said.

“Why do you ask?” Rafe inquired.

She frowned. “Perhaps because your hands were around his neck.” She nodded at Gaines.

“Just a discussion. I’ll fetch the medicine for you, miss, and be right back.”

“Thank you.”

When he was gone, Rafe looked past her and into the bedchamber. “How is he?” He immediately regretted asking.

Her eyes filled with tears. “Not well enough to travel, so if you were hoping to drag him to London so you might collect your reward, you will have to wait.”

Rafe took a breath. He deserved that, he supposed. He had been ordered to find out what he could about Fortier. If he brought the assassin in, Rafe would have been praised and rewarded. Perhaps given a knighthood.

And he would have never forgiven himself for losing Collette’s affection.

The war was over. Ewan and Neil and Jasper had killed plenty of Frenchmen. Hero or traitor was a point of view, and Rafe couldn’t see one side clearly any longer.

“I have no intention of taking him or you anywhere,” he said. “I’m not your enemy.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m not always certain.”

“No, I won’t.”

Her lips pressed together in annoyance.

“May I come in? Perhaps there’s something I can do to help.”

“You have experience in sickrooms?”

Rafe thought of the men who hadn’t made it back from France and the men of his troop who’d been wounded but didn’t die immediately. Then there were the men like Jasper and Nash. Men who had been wounded so badly that he hadn’t known if they would survive. “I know something of them.” And without waiting for more permission, Rafe pushed past her.

Fortier lay on the bed, a small form under the counterpane. His white hair was almost the same color as the pillow, and his skin was pale and sunken. But Rafe had seen men on the precipice of death more times than he liked to remember, and Fortier still had life in him. As Rafe stood at the foot of the bed, Fortier coughed, raising a handkerchief to his mouth reflexively as he did so.

Collette went to her father’s side immediately, dipping a cloth into the basin of water beside the bed, wringing it out, and then placing it on his forehead. Fortier’s eyes fluttered, but otherwise, there was little response.

“You see,” she said quietly, “he is too weak to travel.”

But she would heal him. She was a determined woman, and she’d decided her father would live. The old man had little to say on the matter. The problem was that she could not wait for him to recover. If she waited, the matter of Fortier’s life might be taken out of Rafe’s hands.

“I’m sorry,” Rafe said. “But you can’t afford to wait. You have a day or two at most. Then you are both in danger.”

She whipped to look at him. “Don’t threaten me. If anyone tries to touch him, I’ll kill them.”

She’d probably try it too. How many days, how many months had she been dreaming of seeing her father again? And now she had him back, and he was ill and weak. She dipped the cloth in the basin again and wrung it out.

“Let me help you,” Rafe offered.

“I think you’ve helped quite enough,” she hissed pressing the cloth to her father’s brow.

“Collette,” the old man whispered.

“I’m here, mon père,” she said tenderly. “I’m right here. I won’t leave you.”

“Good girl.” Whatever else he intended to say was lost in a barrage of coughing. Someone tapped on the door just as Collette struggled to help her father sit up so he might be more comfortable. Rafe went to the door, growling when he opened it to see Gaines.

“Go away.”

Gaines didn’t look any happier to see him. “This is medicine. Give it to her from me. The maid will bring broth.”

Rafe looked at the vial, then at the man before him. He held out a hand, and when Gaines dropped the vial into it, Rafe closed the door in his face. Fortier’s head was higher on the pillow, and though he struggled to breathe, he had ceased coughing. Rafe crossed to the bed. “Medicine.” He handed it to Collette.

“It will help him sleep,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears of appreciation.

Rafe was suddenly glad he had answered the door. If she’d looked at Gaines the way she looked at him, Rafe would have had to kill the man.

“Thank you.” She took it and opened the stopper. “Can you hold him up while I feed him some from this spoon?”

Rafe swallowed. He couldn’t very well say no. He moved to Fortier’s other side and propped the man up. He weighed almost nothing, his bones protruding through the thin shirt he wore. The old man’s head lolled to the side, and Rafe steadied it as Collette poured the liquid onto the spoon. She pressed the spoon against Fortier’s mouth, and when she slipped it inside, Rafe allowed Fortier’s head to tilt back slightly so the liquid might go down his throat.

“Drink this, mon père,” she said as she poured another dose on the spoon. Rafe repeated his actions. Who would have thought he would be sitting on the bed beside Napoleon’s most notorious assassin and helping spoon-feed him medicine? Three years ago, he would have killed the man without a second thought.

Three years ago, he didn’t know Collette.

“You can lay him down,” she murmured. Rafe did so and stepped away again. Collette tucked her father in and mopped his brow. Rafe retreated to the back of the room and tried to stay out of the way. Soon her father’s breathing sounded less labored, and his chest rose and fell in a light sleep. Collette continued to hold his hand and mop his brow, but eventually her movements slowed. Rafe knew she must have been exhausted because he was hardly awake on his feet. He barely breathed as she rested her head on the mattress beside her father’s arm. After a little while, her breathing grew regular and deep, and he crossed to her, lifted her, and carried her through the door adjoining their rooms. He lay her gently on the bed, pulling the coverlet over her.

She murmured softly, and Rafe sat beside her and pushed the hair back from her forehead. “My papa used to do that,” she said quietly, her eyes still closed. “And when I cried because he had to go away”—she swallowed—“to do his work, he would always tell me the same story.”

“What was it?” Rafe asked, his fingers threading through her long tresses.

Her eyes fluttered but remained closed. “Once there was a girl whose father was a shepherd. When the sheep had eaten all the grass in the fields near their home, her father would take the sheep to the mountainsides to graze on the sweet, green grass there. Her father would often spend months in the mountains with the sheep, and the little girl missed her father dearly.”

“Go on,” Rafe said, stroking her gently.

“One day, the little girl’s mother, seeing how lonely the child was, gave her daughter a small sack of potatoes to carry to her father, who had been living off what he could forage in the mountains and would appreciate heartier fare. The five potatoes were heavy for the child, but she carried them diligently out the door and to the mountains.

“But then, as she climbed, she became weary. She stopped to rest, and when she set the sack beside her, one potato rolled out and down into a ravine. She had to cross a stream to reach her father, and she lost her footing on a slippery stone, and two more potatoes fell out of the sack. Then she was chased by a ram, and she dropped the potatoes and the ram gobbled them up.”

“This girl has the worst luck,” Rafe grumbled.

Eyes closed, she smiled. “And so it was by the time she reached her father, she had nothing to offer. Not even the sack. She ran to her father, who took her into his arms, crying happy tears. ‘But why are you crying, my child?’ he asked. ‘Because I lost all the potatoes I brought to you, and now I have nothing to offer.’ Her father lifted her face to his and wiped her tears away. ‘Daughter, don’t you know that you are the greatest gift? Your presence here is worth a thousand potatoes.’ The little girl cried, ‘But I’ve missed you so much. I wanted to bring you something to remind you of me.’ ‘I don’t need to be reminded, child. You are always here. In my heart. No matter how long we are separated or how far apart we may be.’

“And to this day, whenever the father and daughter are separated, the little girl, who is not so little anymore, need only look up at the sky and think of her father. She knows, somewhere, her father is looking at the same sky and thinking of her too.”

Rafe’s heart clenched. “Sleep,” he said quietly. “I’ll watch over him.”

She desperately needed sleep, and as little as Rafe wanted to stay with Fortier, he couldn’t very well leave the man alone. He’d keep watch over the man and wake her if Fortier asked for her.

Rafe sat beside the bed and stared at the assassin. He was a lucky man to have a loving daughter like Collette. When the end came, he wouldn’t die alone. Rafe felt his brow. It was warm, and he dipped the rag into the cool water in the basin and bathed the man’s face. Rafe wondered how he would die. Would he live to be an old man and die in bed? If he did, he would die alone. No one would mop his brow or sit by his side. Would he lie restless, unable to forgive himself for allowing the only woman who had ever meant anything to him to get away, or would he go peacefully, knowing he’d done what was right for both of them?

Rafe sat beside the assassin for most of the day, and when the medicine wore off, he gave him more. Rafe closed his eyes and rested, drowsing lightly until he heard the old man speak. Rafe sat up, jumping when he noted Fortier’s eyes on him. Fortier had dark eyes, like his daughter. They were clear and focused, and his face had a bit more color.

“Who are you?” Fortier asked.

“Rafe Beaumont, monsieur. A friend of your daughter’s.”

“Her lover?” His tone was an accusation.

Rafe swallowed. He didn’t know what he was to Collette anymore. “Yes.”

The old man closed his eyes. “If anything should happen to me, take care of her.”

Rafe didn’t think Collette particularly wanted him to take care of her, but who was he to deny a father’s wish—especially when that father was lethal.

“She won’t need me. She has you, but if something should happen, she has my loyalty and my pledge to keep her safe.” It was the sort of thing one said to an ill father, but Rafe was surprised to find that his heart lightened when he’d said it. The weight pushing on him seemed to lessen.

Fortier coughed again and then seemed to want to say more, but Rafe had made enough promises to this enemy of England. He rose. “Let me fetch your daughter.”

He crossed quickly to his room, stopping short when he spotted Collette on the bed. She’d curled into a ball, her hand under her cheek. She looked so young and so vulnerable. Soon she would be gone. On a ship to America.

How could he let her go? Fortier coughed again, and Rafe knelt and shook Collette gently. Her eyes opened, and she looked about her in confusion.

“Your father,” Rafe said. “He’s awake and seems a bit better.”

She threw the covers off and rushed past him without a word. He didn’t move, still kneeling beside his bed. In Collette’s chamber, he heard her quiet voice, speaking soothing words. Her father answered, his speech halting but his voice stronger.

Slowly, Rafe rose and closed the door to give them privacy. When he turned back to the bed, he spotted a crumpled sheet of paper. Collette must have had it in her hand or it had fallen out of a pocket. He lifted it, scanning the words. It was written in English but made very little sense. He noted the date was several years earlier. Why would she have kept a letter like this and who could it be—

Rafe inhaled sharply. She’d mentioned a missive in English. A coded missive that would prove her father had been forced to work for Bonaparte. She was right that it would not exonerate him, not in the eyes of the Crown. But perhaps it might be enough for reasonable men to believe the man was not a threat.

Rafe secreted the paper in his coat pocket and then gathered his things. Quickly, he strode out of his room, down the stairs, and out of the inn. When he reached the coach yard, he ordered the carriage made ready. Thirty minutes later, he was on the road to London.

He didn’t look back. After all, he’d given his oath to Draven, and he would keep his word.