Chapter 22
Kate
Kate released a breath of frustration as she rolled over, adjusting the pillow with a firm pat.
The bedsheets twisted in a knot around her legs.
She had no notion of the time, but the hours had stretched without end since she retired shortly after dinner.
She had thought she needed to be alone to consider all that she had learned, but that had been a mistake.
Now her mind would not stop long enough to let her sleep.
She folded her arms behind her head, searching for a more comfortable position.
Her emotions were even more tangled than her bedsheets, caught between hope that Hugh might finally confide in her, fear over the revelations about the Arcadian Circle, and hurt that James did not trust her enough to be honest.
Yet she could hardly resent him for what he had kept from her while she was still withholding the whole truth of Raven from him. If they were to proceed together, he needed to know.
And then there had been Westmarch’s comment about James’s progress toward steadiness. Toward a required condition. She did not pretend to understand the whole of it, but she had understood enough to fear she had been part of a bargain and nothing more.
As she moved to adjust the bed quilt, her fingers caught in her single plait, tugging at her scalp.
She managed to free her hand, though not without ruining most of Tess’s careful work.
Sitting up, she tugged at the ribbon, unraveled the full length of it, and let her hair fall loose.
She blew at a strand that landed in her face.
Sleep had deserted her entirely. It was time to try something different.
She crept out of bed, the floor chilling her feet, and slipped into her dressing gown, leaving the front open.
She would not be gone long. Lighting a candle from the twisted paper spill by the fireplace, she edged the door open and made her way to the library.
On sleepless nights, poetry made the best company.
When she turned the corner, light spilled through the narrow crack of the library door. The servants must have forgotten to douse the hearth.
She opened the door just wide enough to slip inside, then shut it without sound.
The room smelled faintly of leather and old paper, and amber warmth danced across the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
Setting down her candle on the table, she walked toward the nearest bookcase, running her fingertips along the spines as she read their titles.
The shelves offered books on agriculture, Greek history and mythology, and even a travel guide to Bath.
She searched the higher shelves and almost let out a triumphant shout when she spied several poetry books. Seeing no ladder, she rose on her tiptoes and nudged a volume toward the edge with one finger. She was so close, so—
“May I offer my assistance?”
She gasped and whirled around. James stood by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantel, amusement plain on his face. His dark hair was mussed, just how she preferred it, and his loosened cravat and missing coat made the late hour plain.
She cleared her throat. “I could not sleep and came in search of some poetry to calm my mind. Were you unable to rest as well?”
“I have not even retired yet. Apparently staring into the embers does not, as I had hoped, solve any of my difficulties.”
She laughed softly. He pushed off the mantel and approached her.
Standing near enough to touch, James reached above her head and easily retrieved the poetry book. She took it from him, clutching it to her chest. His proximity made the late hour suddenly seem far more improper than it had upstairs.
“Were you planning on reading it in your chambers? Or would you like the use of the library?”
Firelight reflected in his dark eyes. All thoughts of returning upstairs vanished.
“This room is quite cozy, but I have no wish to intrude upon your privacy.”
“Perhaps we might share it for a time.”
Pleasure flickered through her at his invitation. She held the leather-bound book against her chest, weighing impropriety against the need to finally share the part of her past she had kept hidden.
“Yes, I would like that.”
James gave her a dimpled smile, and she moved around him toward the fireplace. Before she had walked more than a few steps, his arm encircled her wrist, stopping her.
“And where exactly do you think you are going?”
“To the sofa.” She waved her book in that general direction.
He tugged her back toward him, and the hem of her nightdress touched the tops of his boots. “I do not think that is a wise idea.”
“And why not?” she asked playfully.
“Kate,” he said, closing his eyes for a brief, strained moment. “I am not certain how to explain this without sounding like a cad, but if you stand in front of the blaze dressed as you are, I am likely to suffer an apoplexy.”
Heat bloomed in her cheeks. “Perhaps we should sit on the bench by the window then? Away from the fire?”
He shifted his grip, leading them toward the tall window washed in moonlight. He stopped when they reached the window bench, but neither sat. She set the book of poetry on the bench, fidgeting with the ties on her nightdress.
“Thank you for saving me again, Kate,” he said, a hint of humor in his voice. “That fire proved to be an unkind adversary in my quest to be a gentleman.”
“How convenient that I could help you without having to bring a bottle of wine with me,” she teased back. He let out a deep, hearty laugh.
The laughter faded, but in the silence that followed, she could hear the echo of the secrets that stood between them.
James took her hand, his tone turning serious.
“I hope you do not have many occasions to rescue me in the future. And I cannot promise that you will always be safe. Not with what we are facing. But I can promise that you will never have to face it alone. Not while I still breathe.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch skimming her cheek.
The sincerity in his voice held her captive. Moonlight traced faint shadows over his face, but it could not hide what softened there.
“I believe you.” She gathered her courage. “And that is why there is something I must tell you.”
He waited, giving her room to speak.
“I need to explain why I stopped you when you proposed.”
“You did so with terrifying precision, as I recall,” he said, a hint of teasing in his voice.
“How could I agree to marry you when you did not know me? I told you that I had more talent for ciphers than most ladies. And Westmarch told you that I work for him.” She ignored the flutters in her stomach and held his gaze, gathering all of her courage.
“But you do not know the whole truth yet. Westmarch required me to use an alias to protect my identity. I have never shared it with anyone, but the name itself is not all that matters. It is the life that name demands of me, a life I have chosen. It may change your mind about everything between us, spoken and unspoken.”
James gave her a slow, reassuring nod, the warmth in his expression deepening. “I have been waiting, hoping you would choose to tell me.” His voice softened. “Raven.”
A gasp escaped her, and she pulled free, stumbling back a step. “But how . . . when?” Shock stole the rest of her words.
“Since the library last night.” A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. “I have spent far too long deciphering your hand to ever mistake it for another.”
“And you said nothing?”
“It was not my secret to take from you.”
She did not know whether to be grateful or furious. “You let me worry all day?”
His mouth tightened. “I let you choose.”
“And that is not the same thing as trust.”
“No,” he said. “But I am trying to learn the difference.”
He knew. He knew when he had kissed her in the fog. When he had agreed to be her partner. He had known everything and still moved toward her.
James’s brow furrowed. “Tell me one thing. If you have been Raven this whole time, does that mean you understood the men speaking French in the library?”
She grinned. “Chaque mot.”
James stared at her, then laughed under his breath. “Of course you did.” His smile widened.
Her mind replayed his words, and curiosity cut through her surprise. “You said you knew my handwriting?”
He raised an eyebrow. She rubbed her temples as the pieces finally clicked into place.
“But if you had seen my handwriting as Raven often enough to recognize it, that would make you . . .” Her mind whirled with possibilities, but there was only one that made sense.
It was impossible. It could not be him.
Her heart tripped over itself, then stumbled forward again. She covered her mouth, and delight broke across his face.
She lowered her hand. “Fox?”
He grinned and gave a small formal bow. “At your service.”
All those coded messages. All those nights wondering whether the man behind the messages was reckless, brilliant, impossible, or all three.
James.
It had been James.
“You ignored my margin note about the Portsmouth cipher.”
“I did not ignore it. I objected to your unnecessary interference.”
“My interference saved your life.”
“Repeatedly, I suspect.”
Her smile faltered. “You waited for me to tell you about Raven,” she said with a touch of reproach. “But you kept Fox to yourself until now.”
His amusement faded. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Cowardice, I suspect. And fear. I had spent so long believing I had to stand alone that I did not know how to let you stand beside me.” He raised her hand to his lips for a brief kiss.
“Even though, in truth, you have been beside me for longer than either of us knew. I have long admired Raven’s codebreaking skills.
I simply had no idea you were on the other end of those missives.
You have saved me, Kate. In more ways than you know. ”
“Does this mean you want me to start calling you Fox?” The dying embers settled behind them with a hiss, and the library felt impossibly still.