Chapter 8 #3
She swayed, and he steadied her. “I’m not sure if it’s a fear of bats or the wine, but I feel somewhat dazed.”
“You barely drank half.”
So he had been paying attention. “It was stronger than I expected.”
“You let Howden hold your wine. He’s rather attentive this evening.” His gaze dropped to the low neckline and stayed there a second too long. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “You can’t trust him to do the honourable thing.”
“He said the same about you. He said you lied about your involvement in a duel years ago.”
His grip on her elbow eased, though he did not let go. “Then I assume he told you enough to wound me, but not enough to be accurate.”
“When you’re ready, I’m sure you’ll correct any misconceptions.” She looked along the corridor. “I was forced to come tonight. There was no time to send word to the coffeehouse. Melinda refused to let Abigail leave the house.”
The thought of returning home filled her with dread.
She had run out of options and knew it.
“How did you know I was here?”
He looked her in the eye. “After Bellingham’s murder, I paid my informant to keep watch on the house. Servants aren’t difficult to befriend.”
“You’ve been spying on me?”
She should have been furious. The thought of him quietly taking care of her slipped past every reasonable objection.
“For your protection. And it’s a damn good job I did, else I’d be waiting outside the coffeehouse like a fool.”
“You were able to find company quite quickly.”
He’d come with a beautiful companion. If anyone was the fool, it was Emma.
He didn’t glance behind, but his lips curled slowly. “Lady Soanes is a friend who happened to owe me a favour. I brought her because I needed a way to reach you.”
Drat the man. He knew exactly how to pique her interest. “There’s been a development?” She leant closer, heat rising when his eyes dipped to the one place they shouldn’t. “Please say you haven’t spoken to Lady Bellingham without me.”
“And risk you pulling a Henry Nock?”
“Then you came to assure me you weren’t waiting outside the coffeehouse like a jilted lover?”
He arched a brow. “If you knew me more intimately, Miss Vane, you’d know how far from the truth that would be.”
Yes, there was something attractive about a man who knew precisely when to be domineering. She’d not factored that into her plan.
“What did you need to tell me?”
“I have something to show you.”
Her stomach did an odd little flip. Before her mind ran riot and invented wild stories, he drew a letter from his pocket and held it a moment before offering it to her, as though he wasn’t quite sure if she should see it.
“This arrived at The Sentinel this afternoon, addressed to you.”
“To me?” Panic skittered down her spine. “No one but Abigail knows I’ve been there.”
“Someone else clearly does.” He didn’t need to mention the attack on the pavement. “They used black wax, with the symbol of an axe pressed into the seal.”
She gulped as she turned the letter over in her hand. The black wax clung to the parchment like a mourning badge.
Who had sent it? That should have been her first thought, but she was aware of Mr Stanton’s hand on her arm and her world narrowing around them.
She cracked the seal and peeled back the folds. The tremble started low, weakening her legs before rippling through her fingers. She almost lost her balance, but Mr Stanton firmed his grip.
He squared his shoulders. “Tell me it isn’t a threat.”
“I wish I could.” Tears pricked her eyes. “I’m to forget Mr Bellingham ever spoke to me. They promise worse than ruin if I ever visit you again.”
Here was the shock she needed. An ultimatum to silence every wild impulse. A warning to abandon these foolish plans. Yet the fear of not seeing Mr Stanton again hit hardest.
“We’re getting closer to the truth.” He sounded almost pleased at the challenge. “Bellingham’s killer was watching us in the graveyard that night. I suspect he’s been following us for days.”
For days? Every errand, every outing scrutinised. Every moment she’d thought herself alone with Mr Stanton, someone had been one step behind.
Perhaps a lengthy stay in Ripon was the safest option.
There was always a nunnery.
Two things were certain. She could not go home, and she could not marry Lord Howden.
There was one option left.
“Did you mean what you said about writing for The Sentinel?” Perhaps he’d only meant to unsettle her. “Will you pay me if I write a daily column? Ten guineas a week. Just until I find a way out of this.”
“Ten guineas? An article a day is seven.”
“You called me an Original, Mr Stanton. Originals come at a premium. You have my word, you won’t regret it.”
“A dangerous promise, Miss Vane.”
“Does that mean you accept?”
“An article written by a woman who isn’t afraid of threats? Consider yourself hired.”
Her heart thumped. It didn’t feel like a desperate act, more an exciting beginning. “I don’t suppose you could give me an advance.” She’d saved a small amount at home but couldn’t risk going back to Soho Square.
“An advance for what?”
“Rooms and a new dress. I mean to leave with you now.”