Chapter 9
Nine
Morning arrived before Vivy was ready to greet the day.
Pale light sifted through the curtains and glided over the edges of the room.
It made the polished wood a hue similar to honey.
For a few bewildering moments, Vivy lay still and listened.
The echo of carriage wheels carriage wheels over cobblestone did not fill her ears and distant hum of London’s perpetual commotion was nonexistent.
The only sound she could ear were birds chirping merrily outside the window. She had spent the night beneath Lord Ravenwood’s roof. Dash, she reminded herself—because he had insisted, and because the name now lived in her mouth like something dangerous and sweet.
She rose and dressed with a haste that made her maid’s earlier assistance seem like a distant, almost impossible luxury. When she finished fastening her ribbon, she caught her own reflection and paused. Her eyes were too bright and her mouth looked softer than it had yesterday.
The memory of his kiss was seared into her mind. She could almost feel his lips on hers… Vivy pressed her fingers to the edge of the dressing table and forced herself to think of practical matters, because practicality was the only thing that kept one from floating off into ruin.
Ruin…the word tightened her chest.
She left her chamber and found Dash in a small breakfast room, standing near the window with a cup of coffee he had clearly forgotten to drink.
The morning light struck his hair, turning the deep chestnut strands faintly bronze, and it should have made him look gentler.
It did not. He was still Dash. Still the spy hardened by his years on the continent, and she still loved him.
“Good morning,” Vivy said, and tried to make it sound like a normal greeting and not the opening line of a scandal.
Dash turned, his gaze meeting hers with a brief intensity that made her stomach dip. Then his expression smoothed back as he settled into the composed man he presented to the world. “Vivy,” he said, his voice low, as if he were testing her name again in the quiet.
She swallowed and reminded herself why she had come.
“My family will be worried,” she blurted.
“I vanished from the garden party. Lizbet will have noticed.” Her sister would have been engrossed in Horatia’s tales for most of the party, but even she would have noticed her absence.
“My mother…” She halted, because imagining the duchess’s fury made her want to flee to France.
Dash set his cup down with deliberate calm. “I have handled it.”
Vivy blinked. “You have?” How was that even possible? They left so abruptly.
“I sent word to Lionston,” Dash said simply, as if arranging her life were a simple matter. “He informed your sister and your mother that you remained with his wife.”
Vivy stared at him. “My family believes I am with Sabrina?”
Dash nodded once.
“But…” Vivy’s mind raced. “My mother would never… She would demand details… She would…” Her mother rarely accepted a simple explanation. She would have wanted to speak with her and demand why she had to remain with Sabrina.
“She did not,” Dash said, and for the briefest moment something like satisfaction flickered through his eyes.
“You and Sabrina are close. It is perfectly plausible that you chose to stay the night. And Sabrina, being Sabrina, no doubt delivered the news with so much authority that no one thought to question it.”
“You…you thought of that immediately.” Vivy’s breath left her in a slow rush.
She should be relived, and she was, but she was also irritated.
“It was necessary,” Dash replied, as if necessity explained everything.
I do not understand. Why did you not tell me what you were doing.
” Vivy could not help it—she laughed, short and incredulous.
“Do you always solve catastrophes with one neatly written message?”
“Only the ones I can,” he said dryly. “I am sorry I did not mention it to you sooner, but there was no time. I sent word with a servant as soon as I had Wren settled, then…”
“Then you interrogated me like I was a villain before you kissed me senseless.”
His lips twitched. “There was that…”
Something warm and grateful unfurled in her chest. She had spent half the night bracing for the consequences of scandal, imagining her mother’s disappointment, her father’s stern questions, and the ton’s hungry whispers.
Dash had eliminated it—quietly and efficiently—before she had even finished panicking.
“Sabrina will protect me from any potential scandal,” Vivy murmured, almost to herself.
“She will,” Dash said.
Vivy looked at him then, truly looked. He had a steadiness in him that seemed like something she could lean against. It was a frightening thought. Now that the immediate terror of her potential ruin had been soothed, another urgency rose in its place. “Then what is our next move?” she asked.
The smile vanished from his face. Any remnants of softness fled in an instant. “Wren will remain here to heal. He will be watched and tended.”
Vivy nodded, remembering his pale and bruised face. “Are we to return to London?”
“Yes.” Dash held her gaze. “I need the original note you found in your reticule, and the list.”
Vivy’s stomach tightened. “You wish for me to retrieve them from my room at home?”
He nodded. “I will escort you home,” Dash explained. “Then I will wait in the sitting room while you retrieve them.”
Vivy lifted her chin. “You do not trust me to fetch them and then bring them to you later?”
“It’s a matter of safety. I do not trust that you will be left unharmed,” Dash corrected. “Not anymore. I do not want what happened to Wren to be your fate as well.”
The words should have irritated her. Instead, they settled over her like a cloak, heavy and protective, and far too intimate for comfort. Vivy forced herself to nod in agreement. “Very well. We return, we retrieve the documents, and then we decide what to do with them.”
Dash’s gaze dipped to her mouth for a fraction of a second, so quick she might have imagined it, then returned to her eyes. “We decide,” he agreed, voice low. “Together.”
Vivy’s heart did something foolish. She nodded again, because if she spoke further, she might say something far too honest for morning light. “Then,” she said, striving for composure, “let us go before my mother decides to pay a call on the Duchess of Lionston and discovers I am not there.”
Dash’s mouth curved faintly. “That would indeed be inconvenient.”
Vivy could not help her smile as she followed him from the room. Because she had not merely been spared scandal. She had been felt hope bloom inside of her. Hope that he had chosen her and that they had a future together…
Dash did not show any emotion as the carriage rolled through London, but his attention never strayed from the streets.
He watched the corners, the alley mouths, and the movement of other vehicles.
He searched for any sign of impending attacks.
Anyone that was too steady, too deliberate, or too patient in their movements.
The morning traffic was busy enough to hide threats in plain sight, and that was precisely what unsettled him.
Beside him, Vivy sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap and her chin lifted, almost daring anyone to try to come after them.
When they reached Avonridge House, Dash made a quick glance around the residence.
The duchess’s carriage was absent and there were no footmen in the entry.
The household felt quieter than it would if the duchess were within.
Luck, at least, had not abandoned him entirely.
Dash helped Vivy down, his hand firm at her elbow, his gaze swept the street once more before he allowed himself to step inside.
A servant appeared as they entered. Dash’s voice turned coldly polite. “Lady Lavinia requires a moment to freshen after her visit with Her Grace, the Duchess of Lionston.”
“Please have tea brought into the sitting room. Do not fetch my maid. I do not require her assistance,” Vivy said with authority. The servant bobbed and vanished at once. Vivy glanced at him. “I did not need you to speak for me. I am not under your command, my lord.”
“Dash,” he reminded her, then watched her mouth part in surprise and added, flatly, “Now go fetch those documents. I’d rather not remain long enough to enjoy that tea you ordered.”
Vivy narrowed her gaze and then shook her head before she moved toward the staircase. “I will be swift.”
“I will be here,” Dash said. He motioned toward the sitting room.
She paused; her gaze caught on his. There was something unspoken in it.
All the gratitude, stubbornness, and a warmth that made his chest tighten.
Then she turned and went up. Dash remained in the sitting room, positioned so he could see the entry and the corridor beyond.
He did not sit. Sitting made one complacent.
He listened instead, to the quiet of the house, to the soft movements above, and to the world’s deceptive calm.
Then something caught his attention…a sound.
Not a scream at least not quite. A sharp shout, cut short, as if swallowed by a hand being placed over a person’s mouth.
A sound he was all too familiar with... Dash moved before a thought could form.
He was already crossing the room and taking the stairs two at a time.
His pulse hammered hard and cold as he quickened his pace.
“Vivy!” he called, voice low but fierce.
No answer. He reached the landing and followed the sound—down the corridor and toward her chamber.
The door was half open. Dash shoved it wider and stopped.
A man stood behind Vivy, one arm locked around her shoulders, the other holding a knife at her throat.
The blade glinted in the morning light—too close and too steady to put him at ease.