Chapter Twenty-Five
Nick considered himself to be a man of utmost control. He was a patient man, whether in gaining the trust of a potential informant or breaking a spy’s spirit. Desire, rage, love, hatred—these were dangerous emotions that must be tightly tethered.
So it came as something of a surprise to him how willing he was to toss aside a marquessate in exchange for a single kiss. He had as good as promised Adelaide to Montrose, yet somehow he couldn’t rid himself of the urge to claim her for his own.
It was fortunate that his sense of self-preservation had returned, although a very specific part of his anatomy regretted the sudden change in circumstances, having no interest in marquessates and a great deal of interest in kisses.
He shifted uncomfortably.
His driver continued to stare straight ahead. The man’s unflappable nature was the reason Nick had hired him. Other than the briefest glance sideways upon Nick’s unexpected arrival next to him, Thorne gave no indication that the situation was out of the ordinary.
“We are nearly to Epsom,” Thorne said. “Do you know the direction?”
“I’ll have to ask the lady.”
“Very good, sir,” Thorne said pertly. “Shall I stop the carriage, or do you intend to return the way you came?”
Nick glared. “I could, you know.”
“I have no doubt, sir.”
Nick was tempted to prove it, just the same, but then thought better of it. “Stop the carriage, Thorne. Perhaps the lady would like to stretch her legs.”
The carriage stopped, and Nick jumped down to open the door for Adelaide. He found her fast asleep, a book splayed open on her chest. Clearly she had not missed his company in the slightest.
“Adelaide,” he said, more roughly than he intended.
She stirred and stretched, her breasts arching against the book until it fell to the floor. She opened her eyes and blinked sleepily at him. “Are we here already? The time passed so quickly.”
“Less quickly for those of us who spent the last hour on an uncomfortably hard bench, rather than slumbering peacefully on velvet cushions,” he couldn’t resist saying. It wasn’t her fault he had been forced to leave the carriage, but he wanted her to feel bad, just the same. Then she would look at him tenderly and perhaps touch his forehead or stroke his arm, and he would let her soothe him.
Instead, she picked up her book and examined it carefully for any sign of harm. Finding none, she returned it to her small traveling case. “Perhaps you should have the driver’s seat upholstered so it is more pleasant.”
“Thank you for your concern, but I don’t intend to spend much time there in the future.”
“I meant for Thorne’s sake.”
Thorne made a noise of surprise. Nick turned sharply to him. “Thorne doesn’t mind. He likes to suffer.” But he made a mental note to order cushions.
Adelaide took Nick’s offered hand and stepped from the carriage. Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “This is not Epsom. This is a field. A very pretty field full of buttercups and daisies, but still just a field. Why have we stopped?”
“We are no more than a mile from town. I thought perhaps now would be a good time to tell me why we are here.”
She frowned at the buttercups.
He waited. She wanted something he could provide, and in return he requested information. He could coax or bully, but he would rather not. He wanted her confidence. How fortunate, then, that he had mastered the art of interrogation. It was simply a matter of leading her to believe she wanted to tell him.
Nick walked several steps away, giving her space to come to him. He plucked a buttercup, then another. He held their delicate stems, studying them. It helped, when asking another for a confession, to first confess oneself. Even something insignificant could bring about feelings of camaraderie.
“When I was just a lad, I used to make buttercup and clover crowns for Freesia. I can’t fathom how I managed to tie such small knots.”
“Your fingers were much smaller then, and likely more nimble. Here.” She stepped toward him, her hand outstretched. He dropped the flowers into it. She quickly tied the end of one stem just below the yellow head of the second, forming a chain. “There you are. Would you like me to make you a crown of your own?”
“No.”
She laughed, and he knew she was close to telling him.
She glanced around. “I likely passed through this very field when I left Epsom for London. There were no buttercups then, of course. It seems very long ago.”
He wondered why, as it had scarcely been two months, but did not ask.
She took a deep breath. “One of the maids at the abbey took a liking to me. When I told her I did not wish to return home, she gave me the name of a woman in Epsom who took in girls like me. I sold some bits of jewelry and some clothing, and that was enough to purchase my fare and some food.”
Barely, he thought, remembering her near-gaunt appearance. If only he had gotten that damned letter!
“Why did you not wish to return to Northumberland and your family?” he asked.
“I did not think I was welcome.” She stooped to gather more buttercups.
He sensed there was more to it than that, but she did not explain further.
“I stayed with Jane for a year, and then it became imperative that I find work. I went to London—”
He whipped toward her. “Work?”
“I was able to help Jane with her farm, but only a very little, and certainly not enough to earn my keep. In London, I had hoped to find employment as a seamstress.” Her fingers deftly knotted stem to stem, lengthening the buttercup chain.
Before he could wrap his mind around that appalling concept, she continued, “Alice had arrived in London at almost the same moment, and that was when I mistakenly believed you were courting her. I went a bit mad at that. Why did you never tell me you had a twin?”
“It did not seem important at the time. Why did you never tell me you had a twin?” he countered.
She paused, considering her answer. “All my life I had been part of a matched set. For the first time, with you, I was just Adelaide. I—I liked it. Not forever, you understand, but it was quite nice for a short while. I suppose you understand that better than anybody.”
He started to nod his agreement, but when he pondered the question, he found to his surprise that he did not. “No. I haven’t been half of a pair in more than a decade. Our separation, after the tree incident, was not a relief at all. It was rather wrenching, actually, as if someone had torn a limb from my body. I didn’t feel whole without Nathaniel any more than I could have felt whole without my right leg.”
She laid a gentle hand on his arm and looked at him with dark eyes full of tenderness. “I’m so sorry, Nick.”
He was filled with the strangest yearning to lie down and place his head in her lap and let her comfort him. He would tell her everything—how he had cried like a baby the first night, and that every day he had waited for a letter that never came, calling him home again. She would soothe the scabbed wounds of his soul. It was—
Dear God.
It was like hurtling over a cliff on a runaway coach.
Who was interrogating whom?
He shook off her hand, ignoring the hurt on her face. “Never mind that. Is Jane the friend we are to see?”
“Yes.” She looked at the flowers in her hand. She had tied the last to the first, so they now formed a circlet. With a flick of her fingers, she dropped it to the ground. “Shall we continue, then?”
For a moment, he had believed she would crown him with buttercups. But that sort of foolishness was best left to children and lovers, and they were neither of those things.
He hesitated only briefly before following her to the carriage.