The word emerged curt and pettish. This man had no idea what it cost her to speak it.
“You were a child who disappeared, weren’t you?”
She went very, very still, even as her heart threatened to hammer through her chest.
Clare released a frustrated groan. “Don’t you understand what it means that Mollie bore a child? One that she namedJamesRafferty?”
Hortense nodded. She’d noticed.
“My son is alive and out there.Rafe,” Clare said, hesitant, as if testing the weight of his son’s name.
She waited. She knew what words were coming next.
His hands clenched into fists. “He must be found.”
There.He’d said it.
He grabbed both her hands. The intensity within his eyes only grew. “Will you help me?”
Hortense shifted on her feet. A war waged within her. The right course for him and the right course for herself were two completely separate entities and very much at odds with one another.
Clare’s eyes went bright with sudden understanding. “You know where the boy is, don’t you?”
“I cannot be entirely certain.”
A truth only in technicality. And they both knew it.
He ignored it. “Just like you didn’t want to return to St. Mary Magdalen, you don’t want to go back.”
If only the truth was that simple. If only he knew what he was saying.
“Know this,” he began, desperate to convince her.
His gaze had captured hers so completely, that she felt in thrall to him. She couldn’t look away, though she knew it would be best if she not only looked away but reclaimed her hands and ran away, too.
“You will not be alone. I shall be there.” He released one of her hands to tuck an errant tendril of hair behind her ear, and the moment leapt out of the bounds of time.
His touch, the delicious, earthy scent of him… She fought the impulse to sway into his fingers.
“As will the full power of my title,” he finished.
This brought Hortense back into herself. She took a distancing step backward, breaking contact. There was so much this arrogant aristocrat didn’t understand. “There are places in London where even a lofty marquess holds no power.”
An irritated moan emerged from him. “You are too young to know what you know about the world.”
“The life we live is an accident of our birth.”
“Oh, more wisdom from the oracle,” he said, testily. “Don’t you tire of it?”
“Tire of what?” she asked, not entirely pleased with his tone.
“Of always being correct,” he shot back, ticking his fingers down with each ensuing point. “Of always being in control. Of always being wise. Doesn’t life sometimes call for a bit of intrepidity? Sometimes, the unwise course is the morally right one.”
She couldn’t deny it—the man was correct. This matter was about a child who was likely his son. Knowing where the boy had likely gone and the life he was likely leading, wasn’t it her responsibility to pursue the unwise course? Had she a choice, if she wanted to live with herself?
Stormy silver eyes stared out at her, within them the gamut of human emotion—fear, uncertainty, anger…hope. She couldn’t turn him away. “I might know where he is,” she said, her voice ragged and resigned.
He searched her eyes for a few rapid heartbeats of time, then the air around him released with relief. They crossed the short distance to the coach and four. Sir Bacon’s front paws perched on the window as he watched them approach.
