The Secret to Seduction (45 page)

Young Mr. Gillray was unlikely to be a guest in the Tower, thanks to his rank. Newgate or deportation seemed more likely, Morley knew. He smiled a little. He looked at his lawyer, Mr. Duckworth, who was regarding him with an expression of rank betrayal and a little bit of awe, and winked.

Morley didn’t like to think it had anything to do with conscience. Or with the late-in-life realization that he did indeed possess a soul, and that he needed to make things right with his Maker—a Maker who, coincidentally, had not precisely come to his rescue so long ago, when he’d lost his entire family in a London fire.

But it was a splendid way to go out, and it had a certain poetry the Earl of Rawden, The Libertine, could not fail to appreciate.

Besides, Morley had no intention of
actually
swinging from a rope.

“Why did you stand up today in the courtroom, Sabrina? When Mr. Morley’s lawyer spoke?”

Sabrina gave a start and turned toward her mother. The sisters had finally gone beyond all but gamboling about Anna like puppies, and now they could sit sedately in a room and talk over and around and through one another and still be heard, in the manner of families everywhere. But Sabrina, for a few glorious moments, had her mother to herself, for Sylvie had gone to attend to the business of the theater and Susannah was speaking to her cook about dinner.

Sabrina came and knelt on the carpet in front of Anna and began to fuss with a basket of wool at her feet, thinking about a scarf she’d knitted. Blue, like his eyes.

But she didn’t want to lie, so she stubbornly didn’t answer Anna’s question.

Her mother raised an eyebrow at the silence. “Are you going to see him?” she asked.

A pause. “No.”

She’d left the courtroom with Anna and Sylvie and Susannah and Kit and Tom, steadfastly refusing to meet Rhys’s eyes.

“Why not?”

“Mama . . .” How Sabrina loved using that word. “He found you. But it was Rhys who sacrificed you, all of us, in order to save his own family. What Mr. Morley did today doesn’t change the truth of that.”

“Oh, for
heaven’s
sake, Sabrina.”

Sabrina whirled around. She’d been home in England for scarcely more than a
day,
and her mother actually sounded both exasperated and a little amused.

“Men are idiots, my dear,” Anna said this matter-of-factly. “But so, I fear, are you.”

Sabrina gasped. And then her eyes narrowed, her temper rising up. “You’ve
no
right—”

“Ah, you’re absolutely correct, my love. I’ve no right,” Anna agreed almost cheerily. “I might be a veritable stranger to you, but I have loved you all your life, every minute of it, whether you knew it or could feel it or not. And I’ve something important to tell you. You’re young. And you’re proud, which is as it should be, and no surprise, given your blood. Your father was proud, and God knows I’m nothing if not proud, and in part it’s our strength. But perhaps you’re too young to know how rare . . .” Anna’s steady tone faltered a little, and she cleared her throat. “How
rare
real love is. How precious, how unlike anything else. And I apologize if I sound maudlin, but you need to hear this, Sabrina.”

Sabrina sucked in an impatient breath, bracing herself. These words hurt; they chipped away at the shell she’d built around the very thought of Rhys. She wanted none of this wisdom.

“He has never once told me that he loves me,” Sabrina said coldly. “And he never wanted me to begin with.”

“Oh, Sabrina.” Anna rolled her eyes. “How very dramatic.”

Sabrina gaped at her mother. And then she nearly spluttered in outrage. “How can you—”

“Your husband found himself in the remarkably untenable position of being married to a girl he’d betrayed so many years ago. Fate does have a sense of humor, you know. And he was afraid to lose you, and so he did a stupid thing by essentially lying to you, and sending your sisters away the day they came to see you. That was fear, you see. As I said, men are idiots, especially when it comes to love. And he did a desperate thing long ago to save people he loved. Who can say what any of us might have done?”

“
I
would not have—
you
would not have—”

“Hush.” Anna was stern now. “You cannot say what you would have done. Enough of the righteousness.”

Sabrina was fully furious now with this woman. But despite herself, she was listening, avidly. No one had ever spoken like this to her before, and even as the words stung, she was thirsty for them.

Anna’s tone softened, looking into Sabrina’s flaming face. “Sabrina…I swear this to you: your husband is a brave man. And not just because of the war; war made brave many an ordinary man. But he sat before me and confessed everything, knowing full well I might hate him. For the crime was committed primarily against me, was it not? But he wanted me to know who he was, and why he was there. And he wanted to give me back to you. He did this even while knowing everything he’d worked for his entire life—his title, his properties, the legacy of Rawden heirs for centuries to come—was at risk in his absence from London. I can say this, and I would never say this lightly. He’s worthy of you.”

Sabrina’s heart was either breaking or blooming, she could not be certain. She wrapped her arms around herself tightly to smother the ache.

“But, Mama—” She felt the tears now. Pushing at the back of her eyes, knotting inside her chest. “I can’t—”

Anna went on, gentle but relentless. “He brought me to you. He’s prepared to live a life without you as long as you have what
you’ve
always longed for. And that, I tell you, is courage, my love. Because I can tell you what it’s like to know that kind of love, and then to have to live without it.”

Sabrina dashed her hand against her cheek. The tears were pouring now, hot and furious. “But don’t you see, Mama—he was
part
of the reason you needed to leave us. If he’d only confessed the truth at the time—oh, the time we’ve lost, you and I and Susannah and—”

“My dear, if it hadn’t been Rhys, it would have been someone else who lied for pay, for Mr. Morley is just that sort of man. He would have found someone to do it for him, and Richard would be just as dead. But Rhys lied for people he
loved,
Sabrina. It wasn’t pretty or right, but he didn’t feel he had a choice. This is a man who would do
anything
for someone he truly loves. And remember, Sabrina, everything he now has, everything he worked to acquire, is also yours. And it will all belong to your children, too. And that is nothing to disdain. I’ve
known
want. It’s much better not to want,” she said bluntly.

Children.
Sabrina closed her eyes. Oh, but she would love to have children.

“And if
I’ve
forgiven him, then perhaps you can find it in your heart to forgive him, too. I would never wish it upon you, a lifetime of regret. Pride is bloody cold comfort, Sabrina. But if you truly hate him, if you feel nothing at all inside your heart right now, so be it. But I needed to tell you these things, because I couldn’t live with myself if I did not.”

Suddenly Sabrina was weary, drained. For a time she sat in silence, letting the words, at last, penetrate.

And then, finally, she surrendered to a longing decades old: she tentatively, slowly rested her damp cheek against Anna’s knees.

Anna hesitated a moment. And then she laid her hand atop Sabrina’s soft head.

And soon it was so easy, so natural, for her to stroke her daughter’s hair, soothing her hot forehead.

Sabrina sniffed for a bit. “Mama?”

“Yes?”

“Did he tell you that he loves me?”

“No.” Anna said this simply.

Sabrina looked up into her mother’s face. “Then how do you
know
—”

“Do you love
him,
Sabrina?”

Sabrina remained stubbornly silent.

Anna sighed. “You’re a grown woman now. If you’ve the courage, do everything you can to find him. And find out from
him
whether or not he loves you. You can decide what to with the rest of your life once you know.”

The news arrived the next morning in the person of Kit’s father, the Earl of Westphall, who found his son at White’s. Westphall, who controlled the movements of His Majesty’s Secret Service, was possessed of far more diplomacy than his son could ever hope to lay claim to, but he was a man of few words when the occasion called for it.

“Morley’s gone. They found his cell empty this morning. Word just reached me.”

Morley had been scheduled to hang in Tower Green in three days’ time. A private, discreet death with few witnesses, the sort accorded to dignitaries, in deference to his once-respected position.

Kit’s head snapped up. “Gone?
How?
”

“A guard apparently took pity on a condemned man,” the Earl of Westphall drawled, “and allowed a woman up to his cell. And that’s all I know now. Oh, and that, according to the guard, this woman was ‘beautiful as an angel.’?” The words sizzled with sarcasm. “I’m off to learn more details. I needn’t tell you not to tell a soul. Not the girls. Not anyone.”

His father left.

Caroline Allston.
Kit knew it in his soul, somehow. Somehow Caroline, a woman who had haunted three men for much of their lives, had helped Morley escape, and no doubt the resourceful Morley had planned it all from the Tower.

Kit then wondered about his friend John Carr, who had thrown his entire life away to be with Caroline.

Gone.
So Morley wouldn’t die. And Kit sat with the knowledge, stunned, wondering how much it mattered when everyone he loved was safe and together at last, when the girls had one another, and their husbands, and their mother, Anna, once more. Morley had never been a vengeful sort; he was more of a practical and purposeful sort…which had made him all the more deadly in his attempts to protect his power. His actions, the violence he had wrought, stemmed from reason, not passion.

And somehow knowing that Morley was free in the world gave everything Kit loved a sharper edge of sweetness, knowing that darkness lurked on its periphery. Knowing that he could never fully ease into complacency somehow suited him, oddly.

And oh, yes: He fully intended to find Morley again.

CHAPTER THIRTY

R
HYS WASN’T AT his town house. He wasn’t at La Montagne.

Wyndham didn’t know where he was. Mrs. Bailey didn’t know, his valet didn’t know. Nobody knew.

Though this likely wasn’t entirely true. Sabrina suspected there was one person who just might know, one person she hadn’t yet asked, one person she didn’t want to ask, and the one person she very likely needed to ask.

And so Sabrina called upon Signora Sophia Licari.

Sabrina looked about the drawing room of her husband’s former mistress. It suited the soprano: tawny shades and gilt, heavy velvets, everything soft and lush. The lair of a tigress, a habitat in which she could lounge and blend. Sabrina wondered how much of it had been paid for by her husband, or other admirers of Signora Licari.

Then again, the soprano’s grand talent might pay for more than Sabrina suspected.

“Lady Rawden,” Signora Licari said by way of greeting. “Your husband is not here.”

“I know,” Sabrina said curtly, which made Signora Licari’s fair brow hike.

“You are very confident of this.” And now the soprano was amused.

Sabrina suspected Sophia Licari would be able to make her feel provincial until the day she died.

“I’m confident because I know my husband.”

“Do you? Then why are you here?”

It was a good question. She swallowed her pride to answer it. “Because I know his heart, but I do not know all the details of his life, and I have not known him long. And I don’t know where he is. I have looked everywhere I know to look. I wondered if you might know where I should look.”

Signora Licari was quiet, and tipped her head to the side. The dim light in the room still gilded her, as if the world understood that Sophia Licari belonged in the light.

“Good. He should be loved,” she said at last.

A startling thing to say. “I didn’t say anything of the sort,” Sabrina said coolly.

Sophia Licari just raised her fair brows again.

The two regarded each other for a moment in silence.

“Do
you
love him?” Sabrina risked the question. She wondered why she wanted to know, and what she would do with the information once she had it. She had asked it more out of curiosity about Sophia Licari than anything else, she realized.

“Ah, my bella Sabrina.” The soprano laughed that laugh like silvery bells. She always did laugh at the strangest things. “What does it matter, as long as you do?”

“I didn’t say that I did,” Sabrina corrected coldly once more. “Once again: Do. You. Know. Where. He. Is?”

Apparently at last weary of milking the moment of drama, Sophia Licari answered, “He likes to fish.”

There was a moment’s pause.

“Little Orrick,” Sabrina breathed. “Damien Russell.”

Sophia Licari nodded in approval. “You know your husband better than you think, Lady Rawden.”

It struck Sabrina that the moment should contain more drama. As it was, Rhys looked rather peaceful, sitting by himself at the end of a pier, a small blue lake at his feet, blue sky above, fishing pole bobbing in his hands. Perhaps thinking of Damien. Perhaps thinking of her.