Page 26 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

He heard the door latch click, once to open, once to close. He presumed Mrs. Drummond had heard, perhaps even acknowledged, his order. But he could not take his eyes from Caro’s form, dwarfed by the mountain of bedding that surrounded her, nearly as pale as the bleached linen on which she lay shivering.

She was lying on her side, facing away from him, so he moved to the other side of the bed and looked down at her. The scrape on her cheek was vivid, glistening with some salve intended to keep it from becoming a scar. Gently, he lifted first her right hand, and then the left. The scrapes on the heels of her hands were less red, the skin there tougher. He skated a fingertip around the injury, pausing over her wedding ring, surprised to see she still wore it.

With a silent oath, he toed off his second pair of boots for the day, then shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over a tufted bench at the foot of the bed. Setting his good knee to the mattress, he crawled his way toward her; she showed no signs of waking.

Only when he stretched his length beside her, surrounding her with his warmth, did she respond. A murmur of sound, nothing more, against his chest.

“Mmm.”

Foolish hope surged in his breast. The start of a word. The start of a word he’d dreamed of hearing for six years.

When I’m in your bed, you may call me Maxim.

The muffled hum faded from her lips and disappeared into silence.

Bah. He had grown soft—soft in the head. Imagining she wanted him still—had ever wanted him.

But he held her to him all the same, tightly enough that his body absorbed her tremors and she relaxed in his arms, falling at last into a more restful slumber. Against her scalp, he whispered warm, soft words in the language of his childhood…all the cold, hard things he would do to punish her father, whoever had made her sick, everyone who had ever hurt her.

And at the top of the list? Underscored twice with thick, black ink?

His own wretched name.

Chapter 9

Fitz had visited General Scott’s office in the Horse Guards only once before. After he’d sufficiently recovered from the injuries he had sustained at the hands of his French kidnappers, Scott had brought him here to order him to take leave in the country. No, not order, for Fitz had been at liberty to refuse, and had. Suggest, then. Encourage. The Underground is no place to recover one’s nerves, Scott had insisted.

Too late, Fitz had realized the old man might have been right.

The office itself had not changed in the intervening months: dark blue curtains had been looped back haphazardly from the tall window to let in light; the rug was just shy of threadbare; Scott’s desktop was still littered with an impossible jumble of paperwork. The only difference was that the usual haze of tobacco smoke had cleared, though Scott still clutched his unlit pipe between his teeth as he studied the letter Fitz had given him.

“What does it say, sir?” Fitz asked when Scott’s lips curled into a wry smile around the pipestem.

“That I may go to hell. Oh, not in so many words,” he added with a reassuring chuckle as he laid the empty pipe in an equally empty ashtray and tossed the letter to join the mountain of papers. “This shabbily encrypted note purports to contain information about the movement of French troops, information that would of course be invaluable—if I didn’t suspect it had been made out of whole cloth.”

“But why would Hartwell do such a thing?”

“To check whether he’s being watched.”

“By me?” Fitz couldn’t quite keep the nervousness from his voice. He’d learned the hard way he was far from invincible, and the duke did not look the sort to shy away from violence.

“By me—though the British Army aren’t the only ones who want what Hartwell has. This was the more important document, he told you?” Scott asked, picking up the other letter. At Fitz’s nod, the general opened it without disturbing the seal and scanned its contents. “Merely a letter to his solicitor, pertaining to estate business. Nothing too urgent. Yes,”—he nodded as he refolded the note—“I’d say that he doesn’t quite trust you, either. Must’ve wanted to test you a bit, see how you’d carry out your commission. Very well.” He handed the resealed letter back to Fitz, who turned it over in his fingers. It looked exactly as it had when Hartwell had first given it to him; no one would guess it had been read. “Take that to Mr.—ah—Sellers and ferry whatever he gives you back to Hartwell, quick as you can. Give him no reason to doubt that you followed his instructions precisely. We’ll hope that reassures him.” Something faraway glimmered in Scott’s eyes, though they hid behind smudged spectacles. “Perhaps sorting through some dusty old paperwork will prove beneficial for Hartwell’s soul.”

Doubting the duke was even possessed of such a thing, Fitz tucked the letter into his breast pocket. “And what of the duchess’s sudden illness this morning? Do you believe she—or, or Mrs. Drummond—is in danger from Hartwell? Shouldn’t she come back to London, just to be safe?”

For all Fitz’s determination to be subtle, even matter of fact, when mentioning Fanny, his stammer earned him a speculative glance from Scott. “Has Mrs. Drummond expressed concern, Lieutenant Hopkins? Reluctance to continue her mission?”

“No, sir.”

Scott unthreaded his spectacles from behind his ears and tossed them onto the desktop, where a slide of letters and other documents promptly buried them. Fitz wondered how many pairs he had lost that way. “Naturally, you would not want to see any lady come to harm. But”—a smile once more played about Scott’s lips—“I am persuaded that this lady would not appreciate any attempt to gainsay her wishes—no matter how well intentioned. She strikes me as someone who wants the freedom to make her own decisions.”

Fitz nodded once, a little sharply. He didn’t begrudge her her freedom. In fact, he’d been quietly admiring her strength and her fortitude for some time. Which was not to say there was anything particular in his interest in Fanny Drummond. It was just that…well, all those weeks stuck in the Underground—a man had to have something to occupy his mind.

“Do I have your permission to tell her that Hartwell suspects me—and therefore, her?”

“By all means, she should know. But don’t expect her to reach the same conclusion you seem to have reached about whether she ought to continue in Brighton. You each have your uses there. The duchess needs a friend, a confidant. And Hartwell needs…well,”—he folded his arms over his chest and tipped back in his chair—“I confess my interest in the case is not limited strictly to his skills in espionage.”

Fitz made no attempt to hide either his surprise or his confusion. Scott chuckled. “Go on,” he urged, waving Fitz toward the door with the fingers of one hand. “With any luck, you can be back in Brighton before nightfall.”