“My beautiful baby. So tiny and helpless.” A tear rolled out of the corner of her eye and disappeared into her hairline.
Alice brought the baby to Nathaniel, her face grave. “Here,” she said, placing the baby in his arms. “There’s another. Twins.”She left a stupefied Nathaniel holding a baby as she returned to the widow’s side.
By the time the second child entered the world, Mrs. Phipps was spent. Her breath rattled. “The papers…” she whispered. “Loose floorboard…under the dresser…you’ll find them there. Tommy’s journal, letters. Please…save my babies. They have no one.” She used the last of her strength to grasp Alice’s hand as she pleaded for her babies.
“You have my word,” Alice murmured, holding her gaze as tears burned her eyes.
With a final, shuddering breath, Mrs. Phipps stilled, her grasp loosening. Alice looked at the doctor, who touched a hand to Clara’s wrist, then her neck and somberly shook his head.
Still numb with shock, Alice wrapped the second baby, a girl, in another clean blanket, the way she had done with the boy. Then she placed her gently in a wicker basket she found in the house, lined with a pillow and blanket. Another one of the preparations Clara had made. She grabbed the handle and came to Nathaniel, who still paced with the tiny baby in his arms. The baby was too quiet.
“Is the baby well?” she inquired.
“He’s sleeping,” her husband replied, placing him in the basket next to his sister.
“Clara didn’t make it,” Alice announced somberly, and Nathaniel cursed under his breath. “We need to move quickly. They need nourishment and care. I promised their mother I would take care of them.”
“Shall we go to Dalton’s?”
Alice shook her head. “No, I have a better idea.”
Nathaniel’s eyes met hers, and he nodded once. “Take the carriage. Get them to safety. I’ll handle matters here.”
“Clara said there are documents hidden in a loose floorboard under the dresser.” Alice heard her own voice as if from adistance. Low, monotone, numb with shock. “Her husband’s journal and some letters. Make sure to retrieve them.”
“I will.” Nathaniel took a step toward her, as if he wanted to add more, but in the end, he just said, “Take care, Alice.”
With a last glance and a quick nod, she turned, grabbed the basket, and left the home with her precious charges.
CHAPTER 10
Kensingtonwasquietinthe early dawn hour, the gas lamps casting long pools of golden light across the slick cobblestones. The carriage rolled to a stop in a quiet, familiar street.
What he loved about the neighborhood was that it was genteel, but not ostentatious—a place for well-heeled professionals and diplomats, rather than the landed aristocracy. Perfect for a pair of agents who craved anonymity as much as comfort. When he lived here, he had not been Viscount Greystone, but simply Nathaniel…Alice’s husband. They had turned the cozy modern townhouse into their dream home.
And they had been happy here.
Yet he hadn’t set foot in this house in six years. Not since his brother’s death had catapulted him into a world of inherited responsibilities and gilded cages. Now, staring at the familiar red-brick façade, with its white stucco trim and wrought-iron gate, Nathaniel felt an ache deep in his chest.
After paying his fare and descending from the hackney, he hesitated a moment on the step. His hand rested against the door, thumb brushing over the brass knocker. The windows were dark. No light flickered to suggest anyone within. Of course not. Alice had likely not yet returned from delivering the Phipps babes to safety.
Where would she take them in the middle of the night? An almshouse? A charity shelter? No, she wouldn’t do that. He had seen the way she had looked at the babies. Had almost expected her to turn to him and say she wanted to keep them. The strange thing was…he wouldn’t have minded. Maybe she had returned home after all and was inside, tending to the babies herself.
He would find out soon enough. He rapped on the door, though part of him hoped she would not answer. He didn’t want to give her the chance to ask him what he was doing here—he had no good answer—or worse, send him away. When no sound came from within, he let his fingers brush over his coat pocket. He had a key—his key—still on its ring. But would it even fit anymore? Or had she changed the lock after their separation?
He drew it out and fitted it into the lock, half expecting resistance. But the tumblers turned smoothly, and with a soft click, the door yielded.
The scent struck him first—a subtle combination of beeswax polish, dried lavender, and a hint of paper and leather. A warm, familiar embrace. As if the house itself was welcoming him, waiting for its master’s return. But he was no master here. Not anymore.
Nathaniel stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him. He removed his gloves and turned the brass key on the wall sconce with practiced fingers, hearing the faint hiss of gas filling the pipe. He found the matches in the same shallow drawer of the entrance table. A moment later, as he struck the match, the flame flared, and soft golden light bloomed across the hall. Heturned deliberately, surveying his surroundings. Nothing had changed here—the slim oak table beneath the looking glass, the umbrella stand they’d bought from a street market in Naples, the Persian rug with the fringe Alice was forever tripping over.
He walked to the drawing room. The furniture was all as he remembered: a cozy arrangement of chairs angled toward the hearth, their cushions slightly worn but plumped with care. A teacup sat abandoned on the side table, a ball of yarn with the needles sticking out next to it, as though Alice might have paused in her knitting only minutes ago. He let his gaze roam hungrily around the room. The artwork and ornaments were as varied and eccentric as their adventurous life. A hodgepodge of styles and interesting objects they had chosen and collected on their travels. Each object had a memory attached to it. They weren’t merely decorative, but a reflection of their lives.
His boots whispered across the carpet as he crossed to the library. Ah, the library, with its wall of tall sash windows overlooking a narrow garden. It had always been their favorite room, their sanctuary. Books still lined the shelves, his own favorites—dog-eared and slightly out of place—testament to Alice’s habit of never returning them to their precise spots. He smiled faintly, rearranging a few volumes out of a long-ingrained habit.
How many evenings had they spent here, the fire crackling low, Alice curled on the settee with her knitting while he read aloud from whatever volume had caught his fancy? French poetry, English detective stories, Russian novels. Or dramatic gothic novellas that were no great literature but so much fun to read. Sometimes they read. Sometimes they argued over Foreign Office ciphers. And sometimes—more often than not—they made love, desperately, hungrily, as if the world beyond these four walls didn’t exist. His face landed on the heavy mahoganydesk, his mind conjuring images of taking his wife on this desk countless times.
He yanked his gaze away, and his eyes fell on the half-full decanter of whisky sitting on the side table, next to the deep-cushioned armchairs gathered around the hearth. He lifted it, pulled the stopper, inhaling the smoky sweetness. Glenlivet. She still stocked his favorite whisky, even though Alice never cared for the stuff. Why? It was almost as if…as if she’d been waiting for him. Or unable to let go.
