Max opened a glass door, removing the barrier between her and the flora. “Come. I’ll show you around.” He led her down narrow paths, identifying each plant and flower with its Latin and common names. The humid air hung heavy with fragrance, and she stopped frequently, smelling a bloom here, feeling the soft velvet of a petal there. The sky purpled above the glass enclosure. They were in a pocket of greenery surrounded by stone townhouses. It was beautiful.
“The conservatory in my country estate is, of course, much larger.” Max pulled a knife from the top of his boot and cut a white rose from its stalk. The tips of the petals were splashed with pink. “But I spend so much time in London I had to build this. I find working with plants to be peaceful.” He handed her the bloom, and she took it, careful to avoid the thorns.
Cleansing fire play at night and quiet gardening by day. The baron seemed to be a man in search of serenity. Not for the first time, she wondered about his work. Was seeing a man cut his own throat a matter of course when it came to spy work? Some men reveled in intrigue, but Max didn’t seem to be one of them. Why did he do it?
She brought the bloom to her nose and inhaled. The scent was faint, delicate. “Perhaps when I buy my flower shop, you can be one of my suppliers. If I buy the shop,” she added, her smile fading.
Max led her to a stone bench nestled between a blueorchisplant and a broad fern. Pulling her down next to him, he gripped her hand. “About your flower shop—”
“Let’s not speak of it.” Not when the sting of its loss had dulled into semi-acceptance. Cupping his jaw, she burrowed her fingers into his soft beard. “I’ll leave it in God’s hands. If he finds me worthy to have the shop, then Mr. Ridley will wait to sell it to me.”
“Worthy? Why wouldn’t you be worthy?”
She clenched her fingers in his beard. “People have to be held accountable for the choices they make. I haven’t always made the right ones.”
A wrinkle creased his forehead with his frown. “Are you speaking of last night? Of our affair? Because nothing about that choice felt wrong and everything about it felt damn good.”
Colleen swallowed. She hadn’t been thinking of that decision, but it was sure to be added to her list of mistakes. “Just because something feels good doesn’t make it right.”
“It doesn’t make it wrong, either.”
She shook her head. “I’m a widow. A Christian. I can’t find it within me to regret what I’ve done with you, but that doesn’t mean it was moral.” She stared at his white cravat. “I try to act decently but around you, I fail.”
He jerked his head away from her caress and stood. “Is it all that black and white to you? No room for mistakes? Or forgiveness.”
Colleen blinked and slowly lowered her hand. “I would hope,” she said, carefully choosing her words, “that when we all get judged that there is room for forgiveness. Especially if we regret our mistakes.” She needed that to be true. The alternative was unthinkable.
Max paced to the end of the greenhouse, and she followed, unsure. His mood had changed so quickly.
Crossing his arms over his wide chest, he stared out into the gathering dark. “You want accountability. I don’t know if I can give that to you. But at the least I can give you the truth.”
She rested her hand on his arm. “What are you talking about?”
“Your husband.”
“Joseph?” Now she was really confused. What on earth did her husband have to do with Max? Unless, he knew. Colleen felt the blood drain from her face. Did Max know her secret?
“The night your husband died, I was tasked with a job.” Max caught her gaze in the reflection of the glass. His eyes looked darker than usual, black orbs that sucked in all the light. “A man had given his brother letters to keep safe. Letters from a young, unmarried daughter of a well-respected banker.”
“What—”
“Let me finish. Please.”
Colleen nodded.
“The man was a footman in the young lady’s home and had started a flirtation with her. From the girl’s account, the letters she wrote to him were fairly innocuous. But after the bastard had assaulted her, stolen her innocence, they could be looked upon in a different light. That’s why he kept them. As protection against retribution. He told the father that if he were prosecuted, he’d publish the letters, show that the daughter had encouraged him.”
Colleen’s stomach churned. The world could be a horrible place. But she still didn’t understand why Max was telling her this.
“The girl’s father didn’t want disgrace to fall on his daughter. Willing or not, her reputation would be ruined. She was no longer a maid. So, he didn’t turn to the authorities. Rather, he turned to a friend in a high place.” Max’s shoulders bunched, hard as boulders. “Word came down that messages should be sent. I was to deliver the message to the brother. That familial bonds don’t extend to concealing illicit letters or aiding brothers who had angered the wrong man. Someone else delivered a different and harsher lesson to the footman.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this?”
He continued like she hadn’t spoken. “Since it’s known that I have a talent for setting fires, I was called into service. On a night when I knew the brother would be away from home, I broke into his house and set up hot spots. Small fires fueled by hastening agents I knew would burn out quickly. The brother’s home, those letters, and the chandlery below, would burn. But nothing else.”
“A chandlery?” She fell back a step. Her heart pounded painfully, and she pressed a hand to her chest.
Max turned, piercing her with his gaze, not letting her hide. “I set the fires and escaped across the street to watch. You see, I like to watch.” He advanced a step, and she retreated, not wanting to hear this. But he wouldn’t let her escape. “I watched as the flames cast flickering shadows through the windows. Then as the small fires met and grew into a larger conflagration.”
