slightly, but everything else—her posture, the angle of her head, her manner—suggested she might bolt at any minute. “I regret that I don’t recall your name. I met so many people that day.” She had a right to be wary. Lord Colin, against all odds, had rescued her from a living hell, and after Lord Colin married, the duke would make sure that she remained safe.
Knowing her story, Adam wanted to set her at ease.
“My friends—the Somervilles—call me Adam.” He watched as the name loosened her shoulders.
“And are we to be friends . . . Adam?” Her voice was quiet, but no longer as wary.
“We have much in common, Lady Fairbourne, much more than you imagine.” Without touching her shoulder, he leaned in close and whispered to her ear, “Both of us are here to end an affair: you with the groom, and I with the bride. We must see them marry—must we not?—to know that our time is over?”
Her eyes widened, but she didn’t object to his forwardness. She opened her mouth to speak but changed her mind, allowing her silence to confirm his words.
“But we should talk of something else.” He sat back against the pew.
She nodded, her black curls framing her face. In another time, he would have found her attractive. In another time, she wouldn’t have reminded him of Emmeline.
“I was one of your great-aunt’s protégés. My father held a living on one of her Irish properties, and she sponsored my education,” Adam explained, allowing old memories to distract him.
“I would never have known from your accent.” She leaned toward him, returning their conversation to a whisper.
“My parents were English, but even so, any hint of my Irish childhood was a necessary loss. Ultimately, your aunt grew disappointed in me.” He kept his voice light, even teasing.
“Why, sir?” She sounded surprised and, once more, suspicious. “My great-aunt was rarely disappointed in anyone, other than my cousin, that is.”
“Ah, yes, the grasping Lord Marner. I was pleased to hear from Lord Colin that you escaped his plans.”
Her face relaxed. “Few people know that.”
“And I have told no one.”
“Why was my aunt disappointed in you? You don’t seem like a bad sort.”
“She had hoped I would visit the estate and fall in love with you. But by then I’d already fallen.” He looked to the front of the church, and she followed his gaze. They grew silent together. Somehow he couldn’t start another conversation, and she seemed equally at a loss.
“Sir?” A small boy tapped Adam on the shoulder and held out an envelope, the address facing down. The last time Adam had seen the boy he’d been covered head to toe with flour, his father being the village baker.
Adam took it. No one who wanted him dead would have such easy access to pen and paper. More likely, one of the Somervilles needed this or that favor. He would have to refuse; he couldn’t afford to see Emmeline again. He turned the note over to see the address and felt the blood drain from his face.
“Montclair? Adam?” Lady Fairbourne put her hand on his. “Are you quite all right? You’ve gone pale.”
“Ah, yes.” He caught his breath. “Of course.”
The address was in Em’s hand. Not the careful, even script she used for business or social engagements, or the ornate curving swirls she used for the wedding invitations, but the easy, open hand she’d used for private correspondence. That choice alone made the note an intimate act.
But how? He’d only taken a few moments to cross the yard. And why? She had to know he was dead. And yet?
A tiny spark of hope warmed his chest and belly like a shot of fine whiskey. He let his finger trace the shape of the letters.
And yet.
When he turned the envelope to loosen the seal, something inside shifted. Through the paper, he felt a hard oval lump. A medallion of some sort, and when he shook the envelope, he could feel a chain attached to it. Stunned, he placed his hands in his lap, still holding the envelope. It couldn’t be . . . She hadn’t . . . A dozen fragmentary sentences rushed through his mind, none connecting to the others.
Adam broke the seal and let the envelope’s contents fall into his palm. A necklace with a delicate unicorn wrought in silver. He could hear her voice again, reading to him the fight of Guyon against Pyrochles from Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene. He’d teased her that she was becoming the rebellious unicorn, fearless against the imperial lion, and she’d smiled. Em, his leveler.
It was his gift to her—she’d promised never to take it off, unless . . .
He wrapped the silver chain around his palm and carefully unfolded the note.
I have need of a scoundrel. You came to mind.
He read the words with surprise, then hope. In their last conversation, the one before she’d threatened to shoot him, Emmeline had growled that she could imagine no situation in which she would ever wish to see his face again. But, even then, she hadn’t given back his promise, and now she’d sent the silver necklace to call him to her.
Adam opened the pocket watch that hung from a fob at his waist. The ceremony wouldn’t begin for another twenty minutes. Plenty of time to go and return, or simply to go.
The baker’s boy held a second letter, and he scanned the room for its recipient. Adam could see Colin’s name, lettered in Em’s even, formal hand. If that letter meant what he suspected, then he pitied his old friend. He looked around the church filled with friends, family, and neighbors.
Adam dug a shilling from the slit pocket in his waistband. “Are you looking for Lord Colin?”
The small boy—only nine or ten—smiled at the coin, then at Adam. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you have a brother?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does your brother look out for you?”
The boy answered without hesitation, “Yes, sir.”
“For a shilling, would you deliver that note to Lord Colin’s brother, the duke?”
The boy thought for a moment, then nodded.
Adam searched his memory for the boy’s name, then found it. “And, Bobby, can you wait a quarter of a hour before you deliver that letter?” He held out another shilling.
The boy, grinning at the small fortune, nodded agreement.
Fifteen minutes was very little time. He would make it be enough.
He stepped into the aisle. Lady Fairbourne, staring toward the altar, looked so sad that he leaned toward her.
“Lady Fairbourne, I must be going. My luck appears to be changing. Perhaps yours will change as well.” He smiled at her one last time before hurrying out the chapel doors.
*
