Eleven

Dear Lord Knottsby,

I have new information regarding your daughter’s condition. Apologies if my earlier missive was concerning to you on an already-troublesome day. Lady Isabelle is awake now and is as well as can be expected after surviving a strike to the head. Fear not, as I am seeing to her safety. I hope that you will see to your other pressing issues from the day and allow me to handle this situation in your stead.

I had her head wound looked after and now have her hidden from any prying eyes. She will remain safe here until the danger has been eliminated. I will have word spread as best we can that she left town to visit family in the country in order to protect her reputation given the events of the week. Her stay is comfortable, but a few dresses wouldn’t go amiss. You may send her things with the gentleman delivering this note; he’s been instructed to wait. Further information to follow in the morning. Rest assured, I will do what I must.

—St. James

• • •

Fallon signed the bundle of documents in front of him and handed the stack off to the man waiting at the corner of his desk. “See that this reaches Lord Elandor with the treasury,” he stated, watching as one of the newer members of the secret society stuffed the papers into his pocket and turned for the door.

The young man had been filling in where necessary until Fallon could fully assess his strengths. It was one of the many roles Fallon filled for the Heirs—that of assessing people for proper utilization. Some men were an instant fit, like Ash Claughbane, his new partner in the steam engine industry, but others required some guidance. If only he hadn’t failed so miserably years ago at assessing Grapling’s character, Fallon’s current situation would be quite different. Isabelle wouldn’t be upstairs in his bedchamber. He wouldn’t be considering returning to check on her at this very moment, nor would he have been thinking about it every other moment thus far today…

He shook off the thought and focused on the young man now leaving his library. Soon Fallon would have to find a more permanent position for the man. Fallon could tell by the sharp look in his eye that he could take on more for the organization. Hopefully this time Fallon wasn’t being deceived. His mind returned to the woman three floors above him, unable to return to her home, injured, stolen from, and all done as part of some sort of revenge against the Spare Heirs—against Fallon. He grimaced to himself as he scrawled out a note to follow up with the young man who’d just left the room and another about taking Isabelle some food as well as the trunk her father had sent for her that now sat in the corner of his library.

Fallon had slipped past Isabelle last night and again this morning while she slept. He hadn’t had as much good fortune as she when it came to rest last night, but his lack of sleep had given him more time to set his plan against Grapling in motion. He was already receiving updates on the search for the man, the art, and the other copies of the incriminating letter. The search had proven fruitless so far, but his team was only hours into the job.

There were fewer men than he’d like stationed around London, but with constant communication with them, Fallon was free to manage the operation from headquarters—and check in on Isabelle throughout the day. It was customary to check in frequently on someone suffering from a head wound. At least that was how he justified his actions to himself today. Tomorrow was another story.

He read through the report in front of him. He should take Isabelle some tea at least. She would surely be awake by this time of day.

A second later, the door opened amid the sound of heavy footsteps. Fallon didn’t have to look up to know who had entered—even his boots were loud against the floor.

Fallon tensed at what he knew awaited him once he looked up from the reports on his desk. He owed the man some type of condolences for the mire his wedding had become. But what was there to say? Fallon didn’t know where to begin. His friend hadn’t even wished to marry and was now the center of the talk in town after that wedding hadn’t happened. And Hardaway was enduring it all for the sake of a lady’s reputation and the future of the Spare Heirs. This couldn’t be mended with a simple Sorry, ol’ friend. Tough break, that. It was best to keep the man distracted until the scandal settled down. Hardaway was always happiest when he was busy with work.

Fallon sighed and glanced up at Hardaway. “Have you had any luck at all finding Grapling’s known associates?”

Hardaway sat down hard in the chair and glared at Fallon from across the desk. “No ‘How’s your day? My, my, Hardaway, my friend, you were left at the altar in front of most of London society only yesterday morning. Are you certain you’re ready to return to your work?’”

“Was that supposed to be me?” Fallon asked as he shuffled the pile of papers in front of him into a stack and set them aside for something to keep his hands busy. “I would never say ‘my, my.’”

“Nice to know you care, St. James.”

Fallon eyed his friend. Fallon did care, but he also knew what Hardaway most needed. It hadn’t slipped Fallon’s notice that his friend had stayed the night at headquarters.

Hardaway stayed in his room here only when he was having difficulties with his father. It was an easy bet that he’d stay tonight as well. It couldn’t be pleasant to have everyone whispering your name as you passed.

“This outcome was never my intention,” Fallon stated. Public humiliation wasn’t an easy thing to endure. On the other hand, he’d known Hardaway for years, and the man was made of tougher material than what town talk could rip apart. Still, he didn’t like seeing his friend in such a situation. “What can I do to help matters?”

Hardaway batted his question away without a reply and tilted his chair back on two legs to prop his boots on the edge of the desk.

“I hear you’re still up to terrorizing the local taverns. Wild time of it last night?” Fallon asked, changing the subject.

“All to mend my broken heart,” Hardaway said with a hand clutched over his chest.

“I wasn’t aware that barmaids had that ability.”

Hardaway chuckled. “I’m back today, ready to focus on a proper job.”

“I thought you might feel that way. We have a mess that needs to be sorted quickly and quietly.”

“My specialty.” He lowered his chair to the floor with a loud thud and leaned forward.

Fallon raised a brow at Hardaway’s claim that he could ever be quiet about anything but didn’t contradict him. He needed his friend’s expertise just now. “It’s Grapling.”

“Right you are. It doesn’t sit well with me that such a weasel of a man is still evading our men. If we don’t find him soon—”

“He resurfaced yesterday during your—” Fallon broke off, searching for less painful words than the obvious ones.

“Go ahead, then. Say it. During my blasted wedding.”

Fallon worked to choose his words, eyeing his friend as he considered the consequences of every line of conversation from this point forward. “He stole a roomful of art from the British Museum. There was a lady involved,” he finally said.

“A lady?” Hardaway asked in alarm. “Was it as it was before? Did she live? St. James, how are we to cover up the murder of a lady? We can’t. We shouldn’t, at any rate. And with the authorities involved…there goes the secrecy of the entire Spare Heirs Society. A title, a public laughingstock, and now my club? My work? Damn, I need a drink.” He rose from his chair and stalked across the room to the decanter Fallon kept filled for his men.

“Calm yourself. The Spares hasn’t seen its last day yet. She’s alive, and we’re avoiding the mess of authorities. For the moment, anyway.”

“Who is she?” Hardaway asked, returning with a glass in his hand. “How the hell are we supposed to keep a—I’m assuming—horribly injured lady quiet? Not to mention hiding a heist at the blasted British Museum? Ladies talk, St. James. They aren’t like you with your secrets and glares.”

“I need you to retrieve copies of a letter. I put Haperly on inquiring at the Post, but—”

“But I’m better at document retrieval?” Hardaway asked, the recent fire clearly still on his mind.

“You’re the best we have. Check with the usual publications first to stem that issue, then question everyone involved with daily activities at the museum. Remind Mr. Jasper of our continued patronage and convince him in any way you can to keep the theft quiet. He’s the head librarian—it’s his reputation at stake as well.”

“That should be an interesting conversation, seeing as how you had that brawl there only last week,” Hardaway cut in.

Fallon ignored the reminder of his moment of impulsive behavior and continued. “The copies of the letter we’re searching for…they’ll be forgeries. How many skilled forgers do we know?”

“Five, counting Sims and Gordon.”

“There are three copies of this letter that are unaccounted for at the moment. We need all of them and to keep more from being written.”

“What’s this letter about? Something like that hardly seems important in light of the circumstances. Grapling, an injured lady, and a theft—and you want me to spend the day finding copies of a letter?”

There were things Fallon could hide from everyone, and then there was what Fallon could hide from everyone but Hardaway. He should have known that from the beginning. Simply because he couldn’t tell Isabelle or her father about Grapling didn’t mean he needed to keep silent with Hardaway. He had to tell someone the full story, and Hardaway should know it. If Fallon sent his friend in search of the evidence against Isabelle, Hardaway would discover the truth anyway. “These are Grapling’s words, not Lady Isabelle’s,” he said passing the letter over the desk to his friend.

“Grapling’s words… Lady Isabelle? My former intended’s sister?” Hardaway grabbed the note and unfolded it. A mixture of emotions crossed his face as he read the words, but the last expression matched Fallon’s own: determination. He tossed the note back onto the desktop with a low whistle. “Enjoy the outcome of your selfish concerns…those were the last words the authorities said to him at his sentencing before he was imprisoned. That conniving bastard. We have to find him. Art theft is bad enough. This?” He nodded toward the note on the desk. “This is personal.”

“Indeed.” It was more personal now for Fallon than it had been just a few days before, though he would never admit it.

“She was almost my family, St. James. And her father… I’m certain he isn’t pleased.”

“He doesn’t know that Grapling is responsible, and we must keep it that way. Word is being spread that Lady Isabelle left town yesterday. The family is blaming her absence on a visit to an ill aunt. But we need to find the other copies of that letter, wherever they may be.”

“No one will be suspicious of her sudden disappearance as long as they’re all still talking about the giant blunder that was my damned wedding,” Hardaway grumbled.

“Good.”

“Good? Have a heart, man.”

“It’s good if the gossip stays focused on her sick aunt and your wedding as opposed to getting closer to the truth.” The truth would end in either Isabelle’s imprisonment or her marriage to Fallon, and neither were good options.

“She isn’t consoling her sister somewhere, then, is she? Is she terribly injured? Don’t say near death. Grapling is a right nasty piece of work. She could still be in danger if he can get his hands on her, not to mention the potential of being hauled off to prison for theft.”

“Lady Isabelle is safe.”

Hardaway narrowed his eyes on him. “What have you done with her? Not some moldy safe house, I hope. I had to stay in that one in Bath last year. You remember? I’m still trying to forget the experience. It had rats, St. James, rats! Large ones. I think one crawled on me while I slept. Little claws… That place isn’t fit for a lady. I know the wedding didn’t go through, but we were almost family. I won’t stand for her sitting alone or worse, with the likes of one of the Spares, while we investigate this mess.”

“She’s quite well.”

Hardaway eyed him in a way only a friend since childhood could do. “You didn’t.”

“What?”

“You brought her here, didn’t you? You never have trusted the men to do their jobs. Damn. St. James, you know you can’t do everything yourself.”

“I couldn’t allow Grapling to get that close to killing her again,” he answered honestly.

“Then we better find that bastard. She can’t stay in the guest rooms here forever. The men will find out. This is a bachelor residence of the worst variety.”

A moment passed, and Fallon said nothing. What was there to say?

“St. James, tell me you put her in one of the guest rooms.”

“As opposed to…”

“Some dungeon beneath the kitchens you’ve never told us about, complete with bars on the door to keep your enemies at bay.”

“She’s well cared for, Hardaway.”

“It doesn’t matter how many cherubs you have painted on the ceiling, it’s still a dungeon. She’s a lady! I know you don’t care for such nuance, but—”

“Stop your yelling. I saw to the matter myself. She’s well settled abovestairs.”

“Oh.” Then a moment later his eyes widened. “Oooh. Is she now?” Hardaway chuckled.

Fallon stared his friend down across the desk. “We need to get those letters, Hardaway.”

“Very well. I know you’re fond of your secrets. At least she isn’t pining over me, her lost love.”

“I’m not above hitting you.”

“Hmm, a sensitive subject, I see.” He laughed and stood, leaving his empty glass on Fallon’s desk. “I’ll get your confession notes, and then we can sort out Grapling for good.”

Fallon watched him leave before returning to his work. Isabelle was simply another mission for the organization, a matter to handle. His friend had the wrong idea entirely with his laughter and knowing looks. Five minutes later, when he’d read the same line of text over seven times without knowing what it said, he sighed and stood from his desk. “Blast you, Hardaway. What the devil do you know about it?”

He went to the corner and hefted Isabelle’s trunk from the floor. If he couldn’t focus on work at the moment, he could take the opportunity to feed and clothe his newest responsibility. Slowly he made his way out of the library and up the stairs, to where she waited for him.

Dropping the trunk in the hall outside his door, he sank to the top of it for a moment. What had Knottsby sent over for Isabelle’s stay, a large box of stones? After three flights of stairs, he needed a moment to catch his breath. Whether the need for a rest was from carrying her trunk or because he had to walk inside this room with it as soon as he stood was debatable. “She’s a job, nothing more,” he whispered to the empty hall.

Standing, he unlocked his door and pulled the trunk inside. What he found on the other side of the door, however, stopped him cold.

Isabelle was leaning against the windowsill and staring back into the room, barefoot and rumpled from sleeping in her dress from the previous day. She’d removed her own bandage, and the look on her face was one of the deepest sort of agony. He crossed the room to her in an instant. He shouldn’t have left her alone, even to rest. “Is it your injury? I’ll send for Dr. Mathers immediately.”

He was already lifting a hand to the wounded area when she replied, “My head isn’t aching like it did yesterday. I believe it’s healing.”

Fallon pulled back, his hand falling to his side as he studied her. “What’s troubling you? Is your stay that unbearable already? I had some of your things brought around. I want you to be comfortable while you’re here.”

She looked up from her intense study of the rug at her feet, meeting his gaze for the first time since he’d stepped into the room. “Happiness grows from love, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know that I’m an authority on the matter,” Fallon hedged. He knew Isabelle to be a lady quick to fall in love, but it couldn’t be with him. Suddenly uncomfortable with standing so close to her while alone and discussing love, he moved to one end of the sofa and sat, facing the fire. That would surely be a safe distance.

Unfortunately Isabelle followed him and sat down at his side to continue their conversation. “Love hasn’t brought me happiness.” Pulling her feet up beneath her, she wrapped her arms around her knees and continued. “I thought I’d found love, Fallon. I thought…but I’m far from happy. It brought me only heartache and bitterness toward my sister.”

He shifted beside her, unsure what to say. Of all the confrontations and discussions he’d had successfully over the years, nothing prepared him for chatting about love with Isabelle.

“If one finds love, one will find happiness,” she continued on, unaware how out of his depths he was. “There will be no fighting, no hurt. But I’m hurt. Horribly hurt.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and stared ahead into the dying flames of the fire.

Against all he knew was wise, he adjusted his position and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. He couldn’t sit by and allow her to be in pain, physical or mental, and do nothing to offer her comfort. She’d called him a friend, hadn’t she? Surely this was within the realm of friendly behavior. Only a second later, she leaned into him as if she’d done so a thousand times before. And he grazed his fingers over the soft skin on her upper arm just beneath the short sleeve of her dress as if it was the most natural, easy action he’d ever made. It was so simple, so easy, and that made it that much more dangerous.

This is not the way to keep her at a safe distance, Fal. But he ignored the warning.

“I always thought love would be the golden light that daydreams are made of. It would shine all around me, and my days would forevermore be filled with joy. But I find I’m left rather empty—after Hardaway and then my attempt to be open to finding a new love with Mr. Grapling.”

“You love your sister,” he countered.

“I do. And she betrayed me. My heart aches from it.” Isabelle sniffed and curled even closer to his side.

Had her sister truly betrayed Isabelle? Ladies were expected to do as their families required of them. And Fallon had made certain that her family had required Victoria to marry Hardaway. It had been the best solution to his problem at the time. It was his job to keep the Spares operational, and he didn’t regret his actions. Now, however, sitting with Isabelle, hearing how deeply the matter had hurt her, was…less than ideal.

Guilt assaulted him, making him glad Isabelle wasn’t looking up at him just now. But even if he hadn’t forced the marriage to occur, she still wouldn’t be with Hardaway. What hold did the man have on her? And more irritating still, when would that hold end? The entire subject filled him with the restless need to get up and pace the room or stir the fire, but he didn’t move. Perhaps if Fallon could help mend things between Isabelle and her sister, it would ease his mind. Finally he asked, “Did your sister have a choice in the matter?”

“I would have refused to marry the man I knew she loved,” Isabelle murmured.

A muscle near his eye twitched at her continued proclamation that she loved blasted Hardaway, but he didn’t otherwise react. Instead Fallon shifted to meet her gaze. “She did just that.” Aside from believing herself in love with his most unsuitable friend, Isabelle had the wrong of the situation where her sister was involved. Victoria hadn’t betrayed Isabelle at all. “Isabelle, she didn’t marry Hardaway. It only took her time to come to the same conclusion as you. She was doing what your father required her to do in the beginning, but in the end, she couldn’t go along with those plans.”

“Hmmm, I hadn’t considered it in that light. But that would mean… Am I the reason why she fled the church? I’d assumed…knowing Victoria’s opinion on marriage…”

Fallon didn’t answer, since he didn’t know the truth behind the lady’s actions, but he rather suspected Isabelle had something to do with Victoria running away.

“If that is true, it’s a rather large weight lifted.” She released a heavy sigh and sank back against him once again.

Fallon stroked the outside of her arm and stared into the fire. Her cheek pressed to his chest as she leaned against him, her legs curled up beside her. How long had they been here? It was the middle of the day. His men would be looking for him. Yet he didn’t make a move to leave.

“He should have demanded my hand instead, come to my rescue,” Isabelle said as if it were part of an ongoing conversation, seemingly unaware that they’d been sitting together in companionable silence.

“Who?”

“Hardaway,” she explained, sitting up just enough to meet his gaze. “The lady’s true love always comes to her rescue in the end, but he didn’t even put up a fight about marrying my sister.”

“He certainly drank himself into a stupor over the news,” Fallon recalled.

“Did he mention me?”

His answer would only cause her further pain. He wanted to take her hurt away. But perhaps it would be like a piece of metal being taken from a wound. It hurt like the devil as it happened, but it allowed the wound to heal. Fallon watched her, debating the issue for another moment before answering. “No. He didn’t mention you.”

“Oh.” She frowned up at him, her cheeks growing pink with the knowledge. “He didn’t think of me when he arranged to marry my sister,” she confirmed, her words thick with emotion. “He didn’t think of me at all.”

Isabelle was worthy of all the happiness life had to offer. She should never be made to feel less than perfect. She was full of life and was everything bright and beautiful in the world. He would do anything to take that look off of her face.

“I thought of you,” he offered, wanting to help her, to fix this. He never spoke so openly to anyone. What was happening to him?

“What did you think?”

“I considered how hurt you would be,” he admitted, keeping to himself the part where he was responsible for setting everything in motion. “I knew you fancied yourself in love with Hardaway.”

A fine line formed between her brows as she looked up at him. “You don’t think my love was true?”

“Do you love him still?”

She studied him, saying nothing.

Had he offended her? Honesty was somewhat new to him, certainly where ladies were concerned. Perhaps she was correct and he was in the wrong. He’d only had one example of love in his life, but he knew it had been love. He missed her even today. “I loved someone once. Not in a romantic fashion, but love nonetheless. I love her still. It doesn’t end. That’s love.”

“Perhaps I never had love to begin with. It seemed so close at the time. Do you think there’s a chance I could still find it? Perhaps with Mr. Grapling? My notions on the romantic sort of love apparently aren’t as clear as they should be.”

He tensed at the mention of the man’s name. No, there was nothing that even resembled love between Isabelle and Reginald Grapling, but Fallon remained silent on the subject. “My notions aren’t as clear as they should be either,” he said instead.

“Will we figure it out one day?”

“You will,” he promised, stroking his fingers down the back of her arm as he spoke. “You desire love in your life.”

“You don’t? Of course you don’t. That would complicate your businesslike bachelor life, wouldn’t it?” She gave him a playful nudge and smiled at him.

“It would indeed.”

But a second later, the smile slipped from her face. “I’ve complicated your life. My stay here—”

“You have. But it isn’t your stay that’s complicating things,” he said, unable to resist the pull of her warmth, the comfort of her weight as she pressed into his side. Everything with Isabelle was unexpected, unplanned, and terribly easy. The way she wore her heart on her sleeve and the depth of her goodness called to him, begging for him to place every one of his closely held cards out on the table for her to see. Friendship…was that what this was? This need to share, to be open? He never shared with anyone.

“You came to my rescue,” she said, pulling him from his questioning thoughts. Her round eyes were wide as she studied him, a new liveliness making them sparkle. “You thought of me, and then you saved my life.”

“I suppose I did,” he hedged. At least he’d scooped her from the floor and brought her here.

“Fallon…”

He fixed problems. That’s what he did, that’s what he always did. And friend or not, she was simply another problem to fix. She had to be. “Don’t,” he commanded in a soft voice.

“Don’t do what?”

“Look at me with stars in your eyes. It’s the same way you looked at Hardaway when you were hiding behind those blasted cakes.”

“He wasn’t worthy of stars, as it turned out,” she said with a sheepish smile.

“Neither am I. You deserve all the stars in the sky. But this is far too complicated, as I said before.”

“What is so complicated, Fallon? Is it so wrong to lov—”

“No. I mean yes. It is wrong.” He shifted away from her, ran a hand though his hair, and pushed to his feet.

She couldn’t decide she was in love with him just like that, like she had with Hardaway. She was staying in Fallon’s bedchamber. He’d put excuses for her absence in place, was doing everything he could to protect her reputation through this mess, but not marrying her would become that much more difficult if she went and fell for him. Blast it all, marriage to him was not going to happen. Everything with her was already so…

Damn. Perhaps he needed to visit one of the brothels he oversaw if he were to survive this day, let alone this week. He wanted everything about her, and she was looking at him like he was the hero of one of those blasted stories in her head. He was no hero. “I…I have to go see to my work. I’ll have food sent up for you. My housekeeper will have to be trusted to know you’re here.”

Mrs. Featherfitch, that’s whom he needed. If he had some distance from Isabelle, he would see the other side of this in no time.

“You wouldn’t have kidnapped me if you didn’t care about me. You don’t have to return the sentiment, but don’t leave. I don’t want you to go. Surely you can see it too. Now that my eyes are open to it, I understand. It’s real this time. Fallon, I lov—”

“You’re in my bedchamber, Isabelle,” Fallon cut in before she could say more. “I can’t go far, can I?”

He didn’t stay to hear her retort, but he was certain it would have something to do with her being kidnapped and his prisoner. He, on the other hand, was beginning to wonder: Between the two of them, who, exactly, was holding whom prisoner?

* * *

Isabelle had fallen back on the sofa with an unladylike thud, and that’s where she’d been for the past twenty minutes. For the first three minutes, she’d been concerned with appearing tragically abandoned for the occasion of Fallon’s return, but he hadn’t come back. The next seventeen minutes had stretched out as she studied the subtle rosebuds painted on the ceiling above her head.

“Fallon St. James,” she whispered to herself. He wore subdued colors and refused to dance at balls. He certainly didn’t meet the qualifications on her original list. Except that he’d rescued her. He’d thought of her feelings. He was always kind to her. Their conversations flowed unlike any that she’d ever had with a gentleman, in the ballroom or over tea. Perhaps that was why she’d never considered him for her list.

With him there were no nerves, only an odd peace and easiness she’d never experienced before. Wasn’t a nervous inability to speak a requirement when in the presence of love? Not that any of this mattered since he clearly did not want to be listed among her potential husbands. Far too complicated, he’d complained. What about this was so complicated?

At the squeaking sound of the door opening, Isabelle bolted up from the sofa. “Fal…” she began, but her voice trailed away. It was a woman filling the doorway, a shocked look on her face. She was a sturdy-looking older woman in a dark ensemble that had seen better days. Was this Fallon’s housekeeper?

“Oh! There is someone here.” The housekeeper jumped, almost dropping the tray in her arms. “I thought he was teasing. He’s not one to do such a thing, always so serious and quiet, but it caught me so off guard, you know. But here you are in his bedchamber.” Her eyebrows rose a bit, clearly offended on some level by the impropriety of the situation. “Forgive my surprise.”

Isabelle uncurled her feet from beneath her and stood to greet the woman. “We can be surprised by this news together since I hadn’t planned on being a houseguest. I’m Lady Isabelle Fairlyn.”

“A lady…here.” The housekeeper’s face flushed for a moment before she collected herself. “How…interesting.”

Interesting? This was the most activity Isabelle had experienced since her arrival, other than Fallon’s company. And she was trying to put that from her mind for the moment, to concentrate on the housekeeper. “It isn’t interesting at all, to be quite honest.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. I’m Mrs. Featherfitch. I have the run of things around here. Well. The house part anyway.” She turned away to place the tea tray on the table where Isabelle had shared dinner with Fallon the previous night.

Isabelle had cleared the table last night and placed everything beside the door, where it was still piled high now. At her home, someone would have cleared the dishes away when the fire was stoked for the night, but the oversight was easily explained by the locked door and her current imprisonment. Perhaps now that the housekeeper knew about her, Isabelle could have someone attend to a thing or two.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Isabelle offered with a smile as she tugged at her dress to straighten it. “My stay will hopefully be short. I won’t be too much trouble.”

“A short stay? Only for a night or two, then?” she asked with her back turned and poured Isabelle a cup of tea.

“I’m not certain. Mr. St. James may be able to better answer that question.”

The housekeeper busied herself for another moment moving plates around on the table unnecessarily all the while grumbling under her breath, “If Lady Herron were here…disgrace…her very bed, I’m sure.”

Isabelle couldn’t hear all of her mumbled words, but she heard enough. Mrs. Featherfitch had the wrong idea about Isabelle’s presence, but it was the mention of another lady that caught her attention. “Lady Herron? Did she live here? Was this her home?”

Mrs. Featherfitch trailed a hand down the floral draperies with the reverence one would have for a fallen queen. Yet Isabelle couldn’t help but notice the dust the woman released with her touch. “This home now belongs to Mr. St. James, but Lady Herron’s spirit lives on.”

“Does it indeed?” Isabelle hung on every detail of the housekeeper’s story. “A true apparition? I suppose you’ve heard the doors opening and closing at all hours of the night? Voices in the halls? Last night I thought I heard singing, and I wondered then—”

“Of course not!” the woman said, glaring at Isabelle. “I only meant that Lady Herron lives on in these walls, breathing through the flowers she loved so.”

“Really?” Isabelle lifted an embroidered pillow from the sofa and examined it. “Is she ever seen though? I heard once of a spirit who would warn all guests to leave the home at once, but I always thought it rather unwelcoming. It must have been terribly disappointing for the owners of the home to always have their guests fleeing into the night. But if she’s the friendly sort…”

“A lady of her standing in society would never stoop so low as to be an apparition.”

“Hmmm. I see.” With the noise Isabelle had heard at all hours last night, she would be the judge of that. “Who was she, if you don’t mind? I’m sleeping in her former room, am I not? It would be nice to know something of the history.”

Mrs. Featherfitch thawed a bit at her question. “Lady Herron was a vibrant lady, well respected in town. She lost his lordship early in her marriage, the poor dear. She made the best of things, though. She was strong of will. But after many years, her ladyship grew lonely. She longed for companionship, a gentleman in her life.”

“I quite understand her plight. I’m searching for love in my own life.”

“Indeed.” The woman’s eyes flitted to the bed with a judgmental gleam before looking back to Isabelle.

“She looked about for a husband, but by then she was of an age.”

“Oh, how devastating.” Isabelle couldn’t imagine the horror of proceeding with life knowing that her time to love had spoiled in the sun—like that time when the groom had left a pail of milk sitting near the garden gate. She wouldn’t wish being spoiled milk upon anyone, especially not someone with a love of flowers like Lady Herron.

“Then along came Mr. St. James.” Mrs. Featherfitch paused to smile over some memory. “He was far too young for her, of course, at barely nineteen. And untitled.”

“What does that matter?” Isabelle bristled.

“It doesn’t, my lady, except to those who wish to have a piece of the world you live in. Suffice to say, St. James became a large part of Lady Herron’s life.”

“They were married, defying society’s demands otherwise?” Isabelle asked, her heart clenching at the romance of it all even if she couldn’t envision the man she knew being happy with a woman so much older than he. Still, she supposed, age was only a number where the heart was concerned. “I didn’t know St. James was once married. That would mean he’s a widower. He’s never mentioned—”

“No. He remains unwed. Mr. St. James and her ladyship were friends of a sort. He lived here. At first we were all a bit dismayed at the arrangement. But they were so happy together. Soon, Lady Herron was no longer keeping to her room but was taking walks with St. James. They attended balls again, things she hadn’t done in some time. He helped her live again, fixed her right up.”

“That’s beautiful,” Isabelle murmured. He’d helped an elderly lady to regain her strength. He’d fixed that lady’s problems, just as he was doing for Isabelle. He was truly a kind man.

“It was a lovely thing when he came to live here. Talk in town made it seem tawdry, and in some ways it was. He did stay with her night after night, right here in this room.”

And suddenly everything clicked into place in Isabelle’s mind, filling a space she reserved for unromantic things that Victoria told her and memories she’d rather forget. “In this room—”

“Yes,” the woman confirmed. “As close companions.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes at the housekeeper. There had to be something she was missing. Fallon wouldn’t do such a thing, would he? “Companions still require their own accommodations,” she tried to argue. “My aunt has a companion, Lula. I’m unsure of her true name, as that’s what we’ve always called her. What I do know is that my aunt put Lula in the servant’s quarters belowstairs and my mother called it shameful. I’m quite sure if that is shameful, then not providing a companion any sort of room is unspeakable.”

“Lady Isabelle, pardon my phrasing, but as I’m quite certain you’re seasoned to such things given our current surroundings, your St. James was a kept man.”

“He isn’t my… We haven’t. I mean to say, we are not… A…kept man?” After attempting to argue the various misconceptions in her last statement, her mind could only focus on the one: Fallon had been a kept man. Was that how he gained this home?

None of this could be true. She knew Fallon, didn’t she? Or had she dreamt him into becoming the version of the man that now resided in her heart? She sank into one of the chairs at the table, not the least interested in the food placed there.

“They were quite close despite the vast difference in their ages,” Mrs. Featherfitch continued. “I believe he still blames himself for not being at her side the day she passed. He left to attend some meeting. Even in those days he would slip away for such things on occasion. Her ladyship was reading a book in the garden, and…well, that was that.” She dabbed at the corner of her eye with the back of a finger. “God rest her soul. The house was in a frenzy over what would become of her legacy, until we learned she’d left it all to Mr. St. James. Every coin, including the house. He’s lived here for some time—in mourning, although he won’t say a word on the subject. Of course, a few changes occurred as soon as her ladyship passed, but that’s not for me to discuss.”

“This is all quite the secret. He’s never mentioned anything of this to me.”

“Nor has he spoken of you to me until I was instructed to bring tea here for a guest.” The housekeeper indicated the tea growing tepid in front of her as they spoke.

“My…visit was rather abruptly planned,” Isabelle tried to explain, looking over the food on the table and not finding any of it appealing.

“These things usually are.”

“Are they?” she asked, looking up. “I must admit this is the first instance for me.”

“That is at least pleasant news. Lady Isabelle, you should know that I look after this house and its inhabitants to the upmost of my ability. And though I regularly turn a blind eye in favor of love when it comes to the affairs of others, this circumstance is quite different since St. James himself is involved. If you expect me to fill the role of lady’s maid…”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, Mrs. Featherfitch. I don’t plan on attending any balls during my stay. Mr. St. James is rather insistent that I stay right here, in fact. I know how busy our household staff remains at my home, and I wouldn’t want to be a burden on you.”

“Good. Because between us, I do not approve of this arrangement. Not in the least. I will accept all else that that man does with her ladyship’s home, but this…”

Isabelle was sad that this woman thought so little of her, but then Fallon’s housekeeper had only just met her. Isabelle would endeavor not to be a burden to the woman. She smiled the broadest smile she could muster in the situation. “I’m not terribly pleased with the arrangement either, but I’m in no position to leave.”

“Quite, my lady. Quite,” She glared at Isabelle one last time and moved toward the door.

“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Featherfitch,” Isabelle offered after her. “You can take the”—the door shut—“dishes from last night away.”

She frowned at the closed door for a moment, absorbing everything the woman had said. Isabelle had decided that St. James would be her friend, and he was now her captor, but she knew nothing about him. His home had been a surprise and now his past… Nothing matched up to the man she’d thought she’d known. If she was to stay here—and with a locked door there didn’t appear to be much option in her accommodations—she needed to know more about Fallon.

Her eyes raked around the room. All at once it didn’t seem at all like the man but at the same time expressed everything about him. “Secrets. So many secrets,” she whispered. At this point, she wouldn’t have been taken aback if wild horses were kept in the dressing room where he had slept last night. She glanced across the room at the closed door on the far wall. The dressing room… That was where Fallon kept his personal effects.

She took a step in the direction of his private dressing room. Was this wrong? She’d always had trouble resisting the mysteries of closed doors and shut drawers. Exploring things that were hidden away was a weakness that had landed her in hot water with her family more than once. But she wasn’t with her family now. Her cousin Evangeline would call her curiosity an invasion of privacy. Victoria would have already stormed inside to discover all she could. Roselyn would at least peek inside the door. But none of them were here. And her group of ladies tended to push across the borders of proper conduct anyway. “They would approve in the end,” she mumbled to herself with a shrug as she crossed the room.

Isabelle grabbed a lamp from a nearby table and went to the closed door. Placing a hand on the doorknob, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder, pausing for a heartbeat before she slipped into Fallon’s dressing room.

She set the lamp on a side table, casting a hazy light over the rectangular space. Wardrobes flanked the corners, and in the center sat a narrow bed, a table with a lit lamp, and an armchair. Judging by the tattered blanket that had fallen in a heap on the floor, it had been a fitful night of sleep for Fallon. “You took his bed from him. Of course it was fitful,” she muttered stepping over the blanket.

Tugging on one of the wardrobe doors, she cringed at the loud creaking of the hinge. With a glance over her shoulder, she quickly pulled the door the rest of the way open and looked inside.

Coats were stuffed in every available crevice, and his cravats were wadded in a pile on a shelf. It was a wonder he was able to dress every day without looking a sight. A valet must be beyond his means. He did lack a title and therefore a guaranteed income, after all. She sighed. Poor Fallon.

Perhaps his desire for a proper valet was why he was always so busy with meetings. He was saving for the additional expense. But as soon as the thought occurred to her, she started laughing and had to take a minute to recover. Fallon would never care so much for his wardrobe that he would desire a valet in the first place. This was simply neglect on his part. She lifted a few of the coats, inspecting them, but they seemed to all be the same. An entire wardrobe filled with copies of the same gray waistcoat—of fine quality but then poorly cared for. She shook her head. Some things about Fallon were not a surprise at all.

Closing the door, she moved to the other cabinets and confirmed her suspicion—their contents were all the same. He owned the same trousers many times over, all disheveled in their storage, the same coat, the same waistcoats, as if he woke every day and donned a uniform that required no thought. It was all so terribly Fallon—the friendly pirate version that she’d thought she’d known before she came here.

If that version of the man were true, what of the floral decor and being a kept man for a much older lady? She cringed at even thinking of him in that light. Sinking into the chair opposite the narrow bed, she sighed. The palms of her hands trailed over the threadbare arms of the chair, the simple dark-green fabric all but worn away. The cushion was broken in beneath her from years of daily use, only the proportions were more fitting for someone taller than her. Someone like Fallon.

Straight ahead of where she sat was the plain wall behind the bed where he’d slept last night. Chips in the paint and occasional scuffs marred the plaster, almost as if the bed had been there—and used regularly—for quite some time. But this was Fallon’s dressing room. She looked around in confusion and caught sight of a stack of books beneath the table on a variety of informative—and to her quite dull—topics. A well-used chair and books, a bed that had seen many nights of sleep, and a blanket on the floor that had holes worn in it. Why would there be more evidence of Fallon’s use in this place than his main bedchamber?

She leaned forward and narrowed her gaze on the space beneath the bed, a cot that was more fitting for servant’s quarters than a gentleman’s dressing room. Boxes were stacked side by side, and a lap desk stood on edge wedged between them.

I’ve slept there many nights. His words drifted back through her head in Fallon’s deep timbre. It looked as if he’d spent more than a few nights in this room. He’d lived here at some point. But why not live in the main room with the lady Mrs. Featherfitch said he loved so?

Slumping back in what she now realized was Fallon’s chair, she picked up the book on top of the stack beside her and placed it in her lap. It was the only book that had any sort of adventure within the pages. Travels into Several Remote Nations of the World. In Four Parts. By Lemuel Gulliver, First a Surgeon, and then a Captain of Several Ships. She’d read this story one summer.

It had been the summer when she’d found that spot in the woods near their former home, the one with the moss-covered boulders by the lake. She’d spend every day that summer sitting on those rocks, reading books, hiding from everyone. It made her smile now, knowing that Fallon had read the same tale. They’d arrived on different paths, but at some point long ago, they’d shared the words in this book. They’d both lived the lives printed on these pages, and that created a bond between them.

Fallon might have more secrets than the depths of the black lake that summer, but this was special. She ran a hand over the worn cover. Whoever Fallon St. James truly was, she knew one thing: she wanted to know more.