Devilish Page 0,69

but horrible.

Groping around, she struggled to straighten her shift beneath the covers even though he had stepped away to look out of the small window. The pearl-gray sky was just beginning to brighten with yellow, orange, and pink.

He was completely dressed, even to his cravat and coat, and she felt slovenly as she slipped out of bed in the one creased, stained garment. She wrapped the pink checked coverlet closely around herself before saying, "Ready."

He turned and came to her as if they were a proper lady and gentleman about to leave for a stroll. She noticed then that the sapphire ring was not on his hand. Of course not. No tomorrows. But she knew he would keep it safe.

There were a thousand things to say, and yet none. She had pushed for that dangerous voyage with the implicit promise that they would return to shore today, would create no lasting, entrapping bonds.

She would keep that promise if it killed her.

He opened the door and glanced out, then turned back. "All safe."

She walked toward him, past him, but she couldn't resist a pause, a look. A plea.

All lightness gone, he put his hands to her cheeks and brushed his lips against hers. "We left the safe path. If against all odds there is a child, you must tell me."

She shook her head. "You know you cannot marry, and we cannot openly acknowledge a bastard. If I conceive, it will be my concern alone."

"That isn't true."

"But we must make it so. Don't fight me on this, Bey."

"Don't give me orders, Diana." But it was said without rancor, and, devastatingly, he put his arms around her and held her close, resting his head against hers for a moment.

When he straightened, there was no trace of weakness in his face. "Adieu, Diana."

"Adieu, Bey."

She did not look back as she hurried across the corridor and into her room. Clara still slept, so Diana quietly opened her jewel box and chose a ring at random to replace the one she'd given him. Then she slipped into bed beside the maid to lie staring up at the dark beamed ceiling, reliving, remembering...

Relinquishing.

Dressed in her stained gown, Diana joined Bey at breakfast. They were, thank heavens, not forced to make small talk, as Sir Eresby appeared again with reports and questions. Apparently he'd sent someone to make inquiries at Ware, and discovered that the assailants had been seen there, and were French. What's more, they had been with a Frenchman called de Couriac.

Bey made no difficulty over telling Sir Eresby that they had dined with Monsieur de Couriac and his wife in Ferry Bridge, that Monsieur de Couriac had been taken ill, and that the couple had left in the night.

The stocky, serious magistrate clearly did not approve of any of it. "Could he have held a grudge, Lord Rothgar?"

Bey raised his brows, entirely returned to aristocratic hauteur. "Over his illness? The food was provided by the inn, sir, not me. And who would plan murder over that?"

"What else could be cause for such a cold-blooded plan, my lord?"

"I have no idea, Sir Eresby. However," he said, rising, and extending his hand to Diana, "we must be on our way. Lady Arradale is expected at the Queen's Drawing Room today."

Diana gave him her hand, resisting the urge to curl her fingers around his, pitying the poor baronet so dauntingly put in his place.

Sir Eresby rose and bowed. "Of course, my lord. My lady." He didn't completely buckle however. "I will send to London if there are further questions."

Good for you, thought Diana as she let herself be led out of the dining room and to their coach. The scarred panel, however, shocked her back to yesterday.

"Are you all right?" Bey asked quietly.

"Yes, of course. I had forgotten."

They shared a glance about what had wiped horror from memory.

Then she looked away. "I'll be glad when our baggage catches up with us. Clara has done her best with this gown, but some of the dirt simply will not come out."

A metaphor for her life, that, she thought as she climbed into the wounded carriage. Not dirt, but changes that could not be reversed. Nor would she want them to be, even with the peril they brought.

Clara and Fettler were already sitting opposite her. Bey took his seat, and in moments they were on their way to London.

They did not talk, did not even pretend to read. Did not look at one another. As for that, he could be staring