“I believe the answer to why he was killed lies inside the bag.”
But there was something hidden within she hadn’t understood before. Something that could shatter the fragile trust between her and her husband.
“Might I have another glass of Madeira before we begin?”
He determined why in two simple words. “You’re afraid.”
“My heart is beating so hard, it might burst from my chest.”
He smiled, as though he found her weakness oddly charming. “Let it race. A quickened pulse means you’re alive, and I intend to keep you that way.”
He poured them each another measure. They drank in silence, eyes meeting over their glasses, tension humming between them.
Setting her glass aside, Olivia turned to the valise. Her hands trembled as she unfastened the clasp. “I shall reveal them at random. One at a time.”
He gave a single nod, though a current of excitementpulsed through the room. A powerful thrum that seemed to come from him.
She reached inside, letting fate decide the order. Her fingers closed around the wooden crucifix. Lord Rothley—Gabriel—didn’t sigh or look disappointed. Intrigue burned in his eyes as she placed it in his hand.
“The wood is solid,” she said as he examined it. “The body of Christ is silver, and the inscription on the back was carved by hand.”
“Crude work,” he murmured, tracing the letters with his thumb. “In poems lie all life’s answers.” He looked up. “I can attest to that.”
“Perhaps the message is to have faith.”
“Indeed.”
She withdrew the portrait miniature next. A man’s face stared back, mid-forties, his grey eyes sharp beneath arched brows, his mouth fixed in a grim line. The brushwork was fine, though the paint had cracked with age, the background oddly clouded.
“It looks ordinary enough,” she said, holding it to the light. “Yet the surface is uneven, as though another image lies beneath.”
Gabriel leaned in to study the miniature, and she caught the warmth of his breath. “You might be right. Painters sometimes reused ivory. If the paint were thinned with spirits or lemon oil, whatever’s beneath might appear.”
Her pulse skipped. “I thought of finding a book on cleaning ivory but feared I might damage it and destroy any evidence.”
“You were wise to show caution,” he said, though the direction of his thoughts caught her off guard. “Is that whyyou spent so much time in the bookshop in Clerkenwell? Did your friend, the proprietor, not offer his help?”
She tilted her head. Was the Marquess of Rothley jealous or merely suspicious? “Yes. I used to watch my lodging house from the shop window while pretending to read. Mr Burke knew I feared burglars, though I would not call him a close friend.”
“You lied to Mrs Hodge?”
“I didn’t want her to worry.”
He studied her for a long moment, something faintly questioning in his gaze. The calm in his voice did little to hide it. “What else is in the bag?”
There were two items left, one to feed his inquisitive nature, the other to rouse his distrust.
Nerves fluttered in her throat. Which to offer first?
He sensed her hesitation. “We don’t keep secrets anymore, Olivia. Honesty is the price of my protection.”
She felt the weight of the wedding band on her finger and rubbed it gently, as if it held some mystical power to show her the right path. “I know it’s hard for you to trust me, but remember, I was preparing to leave London, to leave and never return.”
He inhaled deeply through his nose. “I cannot imagine?—”
A sharp knock rattled the study door, cutting through the charged air between them.
“Not now,” he called, his tone strained. “I said no disturbances.”
