Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I gave them clean clothes, a basket for the journey, and some linens and brandy to help keep the wound clean.” His housekeeper was busy recalling the items she’d packed into Justin Lovelace’s carriage. “Some blankets and a bottle of laudanum. And I gave them—”
Gabriel raised a staying hand. “Is there anything you didn’t give them, Mrs Boswell? Will we be eating with our fingers tonight? Drinking from crude tankards? Must I ride a lame mare into town?”
Mrs Boswell pursed her lips, then laughed. “Oh, it’s so good to have you back, my lord. And while you’re in such a fine mood, Parker, the undercook, can’t prepare dinner. The traitor’s still locked in the pantry.”
Damn. He’d forgotten about Molière.
“Pack his things. Tell Kincaid to secure him a seat on the next stage to Dover, and make sure he’s on it.”
Mrs Boswell nodded. “Consider it done. Will you be dining in the formal room or your private chambers tonight?”
A vision came to him, an intimate supper, the food untouched, but a different hunger sated.
“Our private drawing room. But expect changes moving forward.” They’d discuss it properly once the swallows were found and the evidence handed to Daventry. “I don’t suppose you’ve had an epiphany since Rutland left? Recall seeing any birds?”
“No, but Lady Rothley did. Had an epiphany, I mean. She said to tell you she’s checking the upper floor in the west wing. What with swallows being birds, and the compass pointing in that direction.”
His heart softened. He knew her search amounted to more than a list of names. She hoped to find a note from her father.
“Then I had best join the search. As they say, more hands make light work.” And he planned to have his on her body within the next ten minutes.
He found her pulling a dust sheet from an old pianoforte, sneezing as the particles tickled her nose.
She didn’t hear him enter, and almost jumped out of her skin when he slipped his arms around her waist. “Gabriel. Good Lord. You scared me out of my wits.”
He drew her close, burying his face in her hair, breathing her in. “We’ve been home a few hours, and still you’re on the hunt.”
She turned in his arms, brushed hair from his brow, and wound her hands around his neck. “I’m eager to put this all behind us. To focus on our future, not the past.”
He touched his lips to hers, seeking the comfort only she could bring. But need overtook them, a chaste kiss turning into something hot and wild and hungry.
He crushed her to him, one hand fisting in her hair, his mouth claiming hers in fierce possession, the need to be inside her like the beat of a drum in his veins.
God help him, but he was a slave to this, to the burning mix of love and lust, to the ache she stirred in his blood.
“I can’t wait, Gabriel.” She was panting, against his lips, then against his jaw, her gaze flicking to the fall of his trousers. “I can’t wait until we’re alone in your chambers. I need you. I need this … I need us.”
“It will be quick,” he warned her, already freeing himself, the first bead of arousal glistening at the tip. “But I’ll spend the whole night making love to you.”
She glanced behind her, but decided there was no time to drag the dust sheets from the poster bed. She wrapped her fingers around his length and stroked him, kissed him open-mouthed, her tongue doing all the things he would do to her once he was buried inside her.
Somehow they ended up on the floor, him holding himself rigid, her hiking up her skirts and straddling his thighs.
“Merciful Lord,” he groaned as she sheathed him so slowly he thought he might die. “You’re so warm. So wet, love.” His eyes flickered shut. He’d never felt anything so exquisite.
He grasped her hips as she began to move, every roll of her body stoking the fire between them. Hell, this is what he’d waited a lifetime for—a love that knew no end.
He watched her, transfixed. The fall of her hair. The flush rising on her throat. The soft, bitten-back sounds that undid him more than anything she could say. Anything, except I love you.
He slid a hand between them, fingers finding the tender spot that made her gasp. Her rhythm faltered, then deepened, hips sinking onto him again and again, each motion more desperate than the last.
“You’re nearly there,” he murmured, his own climax building.
He stroked her gently, deliberately, watching the pleasure break across her face like sunlight through a storm. She clenched around him with a cry, her body shuddering in his arms, and he held her through it, breath ragged, heart hammering.
He was already there, right on the edge, holding himself still with the last of his strength. She must have felt the tension of his body, the falter in his rhythm.
She took his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing the stubble along his jaw. Her eyes held his, steady and sure.
“You don’t need to withdraw,” she whispered. “Not unless you want to. I have faith in the future. Faith in us. But if it’s too soon, if it’s not what you want, then just—”
“It is,” he said, voice hoarse. “It is what I want.”
And then he let go—a groan torn from him as he spent inside her, giving everything of himself. His forehead dropped to hers, the tension in him uncoiling all at once.
They sat together in silence, their bodies still joined, hers soft against his, their breaths gradually slowing. He brushed his hand along her spine, fingers drifting in idle, contented strokes.
Neither of them spoke. There was no need.
She shifted slightly, lifting a hand to push the hair from her face, and then stilled. “Gabriel. Good heavens. Look.”
He followed her gaze to the high panel above the bed.
A sky full of swallows stretched across the wood, painted in looping arcs, wings extended, frozen in flight, like they’d been waiting for someone to find them.
“It’s not wallpaper.”
“No. What made you search this room?”
She didn’t answer at once. Instead, she pressed a last kiss to his mouth, then eased off his lap, smoothing her skirts as she stood.
He handed her the clean handkerchief from his pocket and tucked himself away.
“This is west. Swallows are a sign of luck, and this room overlooks a bank of white heather. You can see Wynbury Hall from here. And Mrs Boswell said your mother used to stand at the window for hours.”
“I should have known where to look?”
But he’d fought to suppress every echo from the past.
“How could you? There must be thousands of items spread across two hundred rooms.” She gestured for his hand. “Help me onto the bed.”
She knelt on the bed, craning her neck for a better view of the painted canopy. “Five panels make up one mural. The detail is remarkable. Every feather, every wing. But …” Her brow furrowed. “That one’s different.”
Gabriel knelt beside her, the mattress giving beneath his weight.
She pointed. “One swallow’s flying the wrong way.”
He saw it, near the centre panel. All the others looped westward, but one turned east, its wings angled sharply, as if caught in a crosswind. Just beneath it, the edge of one panel sat ever so slightly askew.
Olivia reached up, fingertips testing the seam. “This one’s loose.”
The panel shifted beneath her touch, sliding back with a faint scrape. Behind it, nestled in the hollow, lay a flat bundle, wrapped in waxed linen and tied with a faded blue ribbon.
Dust drifted as she eased it free.
She looked down at it, then at him, eyes wide, her excitement barely contained. “I think we’ve found it. We’ve found the evidence.”
They sat together on the bed. He watched as she untied the ribbon and peeled back the linen. Inside were letters, documents, receipts for bribes paid. A note from her father—a simple apology, and a message to look forward, never back.
She dashed tears from her cheeks. “This proves Mrs Culpepper is involved. She wrote to my father, instructing him to—” She stopped abruptly, the colour draining from her face.
“What is it?”
“Mrs Culpepper answered to someone else.”
She handed him a letter.
The blood roared in his ears as he read the name.
A cold fury had him gritting his teeth. “Daventry needs to see this. We need to take it to him now.”
Two days later
Daventry was waiting on the corner of the street when Gabriel arrived. He stood alone, though his men were stationed at key points along the row in case the traitor bolted.
The sun shone, the city bustled, but someone’s world was about to come crashing down around them.
Gabriel caught the gleam of satisfaction in Daventry’s dark eyes. A quest for truth and justice was something they shared. But how could justice prevail when those sworn to protect it were corrupt?
“The last few weeks have been full of surprises,” Gabriel said. “None more so than this.”
“Corruption usually begins at the top.”
“I assume we have the Home Secretary’s approval.”
Daventry grinned. “We have the King’s approval.”
“Do you want me to enter alone and mention the evidence? Hope he tries to offer a bribe. You could listen from the door.”
This devil had been manipulating events for over twenty years, ruining lives while lining his pockets, presenting one vision while hiding another.
“That won’t be necessary,” Daventry said. “We found documents buried in the grave at Wynbury Hall. Mrs Culpepper’s insurance policy.”
“If her plan to take a new identity abroad failed?”
“Once they’d placed the headstone, no one would have looked there.” Daventry glanced at the steps of Bow Street Magistrates’ Office. “And there was a foiled attempt to free Mrs Culpepper from Newgate last night. My men waited until she looked heavenward and gave a relieved sigh before pouncing.”
Let her rot. He’d make certain they all paid for what they’d done to Olivia. “I wish I’d been there to witness it.” But he’d been at home with the woman he loved, memorising the feel of her skin, the sound of her laugh, the way she whispered his name in the dark.