The facts did not add up. Something felt off.
Crossing the street, Ethan walked down the alleyway. The sounds of the square retreated, the cool damp of the stone walls absorbing them.
The man had left the gate ajar—an open invitation.
Ethan approached the iron bars slowly . . . as if they were vipers waiting to strike.
Dinnae do it, his inner voice whispered.Just go on your way.
Brazenly entering the back garden of Kendall’s London residence would break at least half a dozen rules of etiquette, not to mention the Queen’s Law.
Yes. He must abandon this course. It would serve no purpose. Lady Allegra and Kendall were more than capable of solving their own problems. They did not need his meddling.
Half-pivoting, Ethan turned to leave when voices reached him.
A murmuring rush of Italian.
A man’s tenor, low and sharp.
And a woman’s alto, soft but enraged . . . almost hissing.
Lady Allegra.
Blast.
Ethan’s Italian was rudimentary at best, but the cadence of an argument sounded the same in any language.
He simply couldn’t walk away. Not without ensuring Lady Allegra was well.
With a sigh, he pushed open the gate—it pivoted soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, thanks surely to the duke’s equally well-oiled staff—and crept into the garden. A wild riot of trees and shrubbery lined a graveled path before him. Soundlessly, Ethan stepped off the walkway and hid himself between an obliging rhododendron bush and a tall yew tree. If anyone came up the path, they would be unlikely to see him.
Unfortunately, it also meant he could see little of the garden himself. He bobbed his head, searching for a glimpse through the thicket but saw nothing more than a wee flash of red. Lady Allegra’s skirt, perhaps?
Fabrizio was speaking at a clipped pace. Ethan strained to make out the words, but only caught the occasional snippet.
. . . dovevo farlo . . . perdonami . . .
Something about ‘having to do it.’ And . . . ‘forgive me’?
Grimacing, Ethan crossed his arms and leaned back against the yew tree. He darted a glance at the iron gate.
He should leave. He understood little of this man’s relationship with Lady Allegra. They could be lovers or even married, for all that Ethan knew.
Still . . . he waited, shoulders pressed to the tree trunk, Italian and the occasional bumblebee buzzing around him.
Allie glared atFabrizio.
He propped one arrogant foot atop an obliging stump to the rear of the garden, a vibrant forsythia bush at his back.
Had this man—one she had once called friend—always been such a conniving, traitorous worm?
Excuses continued to roll off his tongue in staccato syllables.
“Ma dai, cara. As I keep saying, I only sold you to your brother because I knew you would wish the payment to go to our cause.” Fabrizio smiled at that—theidiota—a roguish lock of hair tumbling across his forehead.
How had she once thought him handsome? At the moment, he resembled a disreputable conman . . . which, she supposed, he had always been.
She had merely ceased finding it attractive.
