Page 88 of A Figure of Love

“Yes, of course. Your captors sent me a note indicating I might wish to ransom you.”

She shifted at this information, but still did not show her face. “Did they say why?”

Gareth smiled to himself at the question. “No.” He waited for more, but she was silent. “But I suspect it had something to do with your cousin.”

That got her attention. She twisted, until he could see her face. She looked beautiful, even with puffy eyes and a red nose. The expression in her eyes was one he did not like to see: fear. So, he did what he could to alleviate it.

“I recalled your cousin had recently come from Dover but was on his way to London. I wondered if he had changed his mind and come back here. If so, perhaps you had come to render him some assistance.”

Her body stiffened, but still she did not speak.

“I employ a Runner whose judgment I trust implicitly—Mr. Steele, whom you met briefly this evening. I sent him a message to find Bardot. I knew Steele would find him if anyone could. It turned out he was still in London.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid the rest of what I have to say may not please you. Do you wish to hear it?”

She nodded, terror replacing fear in her eyes.

“Mr. Steele learned certain things in pursuit of Mr. Bardot, none of them particularly good. When he had a chance to speak to him in person—he found him gambling in a dangerous part of town—he spoke to him at some length, and great depth. One of the subjects he discussed was his association with you.”

Serena closed her eyes.

“Serena.”

She shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I lured you here, and to certain death if you had not had the foresight to know that—”

He took her chin in a gentle, but firm, grip and tilted it. “Please, look at me.”

She did. “I am so very, very sorry, Gareth. I have been terribly foolish.”

“No, you have been scared, and at the whim of a very unscrupulous man.” He frowned. “I’m afraid Mr. Steele left Bardot rather the worse for wear, but he got me the information I desperately needed—both to rescue you, and to accept my feelings for you.”

She pushed herself up onto the pillow, lifting her chest to his face in the process. Like most of her clothing, her nightgown had been washed and worn until it was thin; he could see her nipples, their delicate points against the fabric, just inches from his face.

“Gareth? Gareth?”

He looked up and encountered the woman who owned the nipples that were bewitching him. “Hmm?”

“I asked to know what he told you.”

“What who told me?”

She sighed, looked down at her chest, and then pulled the covers up.

“Wait,” he said.

“In a moment. First, can we finish this discussion?”

Gareth would have preferred otherwise, but he could see she might be a stickler on this point.

“Bardot told Steele how he’d found the letter from Lombard when he ransacked the chateau where you’d cared for him until he died. Bardot kept the letter, thinking the part about the child not being Lombard’s might prove useful. After the War—when things had become too uncomfortable for him to remain in France—he came to England, recalled Lombard’s letter, and sought you out. He’s been blackmailing you ever since.”

He realized she was still waiting and his eyes narrowed. “What else are you expecting me to say?”

She shook her head, but even Gareth could spot the telltale signs of her lie. He sat up, suddenly less than happy, although he could not say why.

“Is there something you have not told me?”

She flinched at the sharpness in his voice.

He began to push back the covers, but her hand stayed him. “Please, don’t go.”