Page 67 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

He loved her. He’d foreseen himself falling in love with her six years ago, and he’d expected the emotion to bring with it nothing but pain and a terrifying loss of control. But now the realization suffused him with warm and strength. He loved her. And if he had to die today, he would not do so without telling her.

With a new determination he turned back to face Leclerc. Mrs. Drummond had positioned them so Leclerc’s back was to the room’s far door, and now Maxim understood why. Fortunately, Mrs. Horn made certain all the door hinges did not squeak, for Mr. Hopkins and Caro’s brother had entered the room behind him, any noise they made muffled by Mrs. Drummond’s enthusiasm over the painting.

The pair crept toward an unknowing Leclerc, Brent-Ashby in his nightclothes and Hopkins in the lead, his rumpled breeches streaked with dirt. Though the pair appeared to be unarmed, they had the advantage of surprise. Maxim only narrowly managed to keep his expression from revealing his relief and giving away the game. Instead he forced himself to turn back toward the painting and Mrs. Drummond, positioning himself so that he was between her and Leclerc as the man slowly raised his weapon and sighted along it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Maxim saw Hopkins lunge, catching Leclerc behind the knees and driving him forward. The pistol discharged as the man hit the floor with a shouted oath. Glass shattered, and the ordinarily calm and collected Mrs. Drummond shrieked.

But the bullet had not struck her, or anyone else. Only the beautiful bow window at the front of the house, which now let in a rush of cool morning air through a broken pane. After ascertaining that Mrs. Drummond was unharmed, Maxim hurried toward the scuffle in the center of the room.

Leclerc was prone on the floor, spewing a steady string of epithets in French. Hopkins had one knee in the middle of his back, pinning his arms with one hand while gesturing with the other for something to tie them. After a flustered moment of searching, Brent-Ashby untied his dressing gown and offered him the sash. “I say, that was rather thrilling, wasn’t it?”

“A little too thrilling, I’d say.”

The reply came from near the door. His ears still ringing from the gunshot, Maxim hadn’t heard it open. But his wife stood there now, pale faced and wide eyed as she looked from the struggling Leclerc sprawled in front of the empty hearth to Mrs. Drummond near the shattered window.

Maxim hurried toward her, kicking aside the pistol as he went. “Caro. Thank God you’re safe.” Heedless of the company, he gathered her into his arms, not sure this time whether she or he trembled most. “I love you, Caro. I love you.”

When she looked up, he could see that her cheeks were flushed with pink and golden sparks twinkled in her eyes. “After last night,” she answered in a whisper that must nonetheless have been audible to the other occupants of the room, “I did have some inkling of it.”

He was gratified to hear that he had succeeded in showing her what he felt, both through his offer to care for her family and, he hoped, in the hours he had spent worshipping her body. He had every intention of continuing to show her how much he loved her. But…

“I wanted you to hear the words.”

The glittering brightness of her eyes was dimmed by a sudden rush of tears. She nodded, the movement wobbly. “Yes.” And then she said something he could hardly remember ever having heard before, and never in English. “I love you too, Maxim.” Palms against his chest, she pushed up onto her toes and brushed her lips against his. “Always.”

Mrs. Drummond’s sob and Brent-Ashby’s gruff clearing of his throat reminded Maxim they were not alone in the room. Reluctantly, he set his wife on her feet and turned to face the others. Hopkins grinned as he stood, having secured Leclerc’s hands and taken advantage of the length of the dressing gown’s sash to tie the man’s ankles as well. “Sorry about your window, Your Grace.”

Leclerc continued to swear in words likely Maxim alone could make out—he didn’t know about Brent-Ashby’s or Hopkins’s education, but Caro’s English governess had never taught her those particular French phrases, he felt certain. Nevertheless, Maxim unwound his cravat from his neck, stepped toward the prisoner, and stuffed the wadded length of linen in the man’s mouth, effectively stoppering the string of invective.

“I’m grateful to you,” he said to Hopkins, then turned to incorporate Mrs. Drummond into his gratitude. “To both of you.” He’d been thinking of their presence in Brighton as an annoyance, an interference. Now he saw them for what they were: fellow agents and, more importantly, allies. “But how did you know?”

Hopkins nodded toward Caro. “The duchess overheard enough of your conversation with this fellow”—he paused to press the sole of his boot into Leclerc’s back, forcing him to emit a muffled groan—“to guess that something was awry. She came to find us.”

“I did,” Caro agreed, stepping close enough to slip her hand into Maxim’s. “As you once remarked, this house isn’t much for privacy. I’m glad Mrs. Drummond and Lieutenant Hopkins’s plan was successful. But if no one here was hurt,”—she gestured with their twined fingers toward the smears of what Maxim had taken for dirt on Hopkins’s clothes—“won’t someone explain whose blood that is?”

Chapter 21

“If I may, Your Grace,” Fanny said, stepping forward before Fitz could speak. The look in the duchess’s eyes was less cool and distant than Fanny had expected, which only made it more difficult to say what had to be said. “Lieutenant Hopkins and I saw the duke’s manservant leave the house last night. We followed him down to the strand and discovered a badly injured man in one of the bathing machines—your father.”

“Is he—?” The duchess gasped, and the sound drove a dagger into Fanny’s breast.

“He’s in the care of Dr. Trefrey,” Fitz explained gently. The Duke of Hartwell made a skeptical noise in the back of his throat. “He’d suffered a blow to the head and hasn’t regained consciousness, but Trefrey believes there’s every chance he still may.…”

The breath that the duchess had sucked in left her now in a shaky rush. “Oh.” Fanny saw the duke grip his wife’s fingers more tightly.

Fanny understood, perhaps better than most, the welter of emotions that struck upon hearing such news about a man one had wanted to love but found oneself despising instead. Shock. Sorrow. Relief. Guilt.

The other young man, who bore such a resemblance to the duchess he could only be her brother, stepped forward, gathering the sides of his dressing gown to cover his nightshirt. “With your permission, Your Grace,” he said, addressing the duke, “I’ll dress and go to him.”

Hartwell nodded once, grimly. A shiver passed through his wife, and she stiffened against it, as if gathering her resolve. “I should go tell Mama and Aunt Brent,” she said.

The duke lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Yes, my love. And Mrs. Drummond and Lieutenant Hopkins must prepare to return to London and report what’s happened. I’ll stay with Leclerc until Geoffrey can fetch the constable.”

Vaguely, Fanny wondered whether Leclerc would still be alive when the constable arrived if left in the duke’s, er, care. But she couldn’t muster much sympathy for him, particularly not with Fitz at her side, urging her toward the door.

She stepped toward them, toward the duchess, and reached out a hand. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. Sorry for deceiving you. Mrs. Scott only wanted to ensure that you were safe, and the general—well.” She would not presume to speak for General Scott. “But please believe I did not lie about my esteem for you. If I may be so bold, I think we could have been true friends, under different circumstances.”

“Dear Fanny,” Caro said, releasing her husband’s hand to take the one she had extended to her. “You never hid your heart. I believe we will be true friends. As soon as I return to London, we shall visit all the best bookshops together, yes?”