Edmund drew a slow breath. “And if she insists on knowing more?”
Renforth’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Then you will tell her what you can to ensure her cooperation without betraying the Crown’s secrets.”
Manners murmured, “She knows many herself.”
Renforth cast him a look of exasperation. “Go.”
Edmund did not hesitate again. He moved away through the gap in the hedge and down the lane, keeping to the shadows—carrying not only a plan in his head, but the uncomfortable truth which settled deeper with every step:
He had come to Plymouth to find the ledger and observe a widow, but now he would do anything to protect her.
CHAPTER 18
Midnight came and passed without fire, which was only a minor comfort.
The house had never felt so large, nor so empty. Even in winter, Belair House was normally full of life inside. Tonight, there was only the wind, and the wind was a poor companion.
Elise moved through the lower rooms with a candle and the quiet efficiency of habit, though habit could not quite disguise the fact that she listened at every window and measured every shadow. She had done what reason had demanded—what her conscience had demanded—and sent the girls away.
Some had been claimed by fathers and uncles in the village, brusque men whose affection expressed itself in stern instruction and awkward pats on small shoulders. Several had gone to the vicarage, where Mrs. Bradley’s motherliness had instantly expanded to accommodate any number of frightened children. A few—those with nearby relations—had been bundled into carts and sent down the lane to the habitable portion of the Admiral’s cottage; with scarves wrapped up to their noses, the girls had looked back at Belair as if it might vanish the moment they stopped watching it.
Against every instinct in her to remain, Jane had gone too. She had argued, of course. Jane was made for arguing when Elise needed it least and loved her best. The Admiral and Mrs. Grealey had understood enough to know it was necessary, and Elise had reignited the old gentleman’s sense of duty to protect.
Only Cook and Sophie remained, and they were watching over Blake, who lay hidden in the small room they had made into a refuge, heavy with laudanum, his breathing shallow but regular.
This was Elise’s little garrison, and now she found herself standing at the foot of the stairs in a house waiting—dependent—on another to arrange her future and that of the girls. She was unused to depending on another.
She had just set her candle down on the hall table when she heard the gate. A careful sound it was: a latch pressed and a quiet opening, as if whoever entered meant not to alarm the sleeping or invite the watching.
Then she saw Mr. Leigh—and the sight of him brought an unaccountable, wretched relief that made Elise want to strike herself for weakness.
He stepped inside the house and closed the door behind him with deliberate care. A gust tried to bully its way in but he kept it out. He looked as though he had walked through the cold with his coat fastened, for his hair was wind-ruffled but not disordered, and yet he brought warmth.
“You returned,” she said, in a low voice.
“Of course,” he answered, as if it were not possible he might have chosen otherwise.
Her gaze searched his face at once for the only question that mattered. “Did it reach them?”
“Mr. Grey will pass the note to Holt. He will not come here tonight.”
An involuntary breath left Elise—not a sigh, not quite, she hoped. Relief threatened to loosen her knees. “Then we have time,” she managed to whisper.
“A little,” he corrected softly, and his gaze flicked upward as if he, too, heard the memory of girls’ footsteps in the empty upper floors. His gaze moved quickly through the hall, seemingly noting the absence of clutter, the way a house looks when it has been stripped of daily life. “Do Cook and Sophie know?”
“They know enough,” Elise replied. “Cook knows what she must to keep Blake alive, and Sophie knows how to carry messages without asking questions.”
“And you?” Mr. Leigh asked, his voice lowering. “Have you slept at all?”
Elise almost laughed. “No.”
He regarded her steadily. “You must.”
The audacity of that instruction might have provoked her in any other circumstance. Tonight, it landed upon her like a hand pressed gently against the back of the neck: not a command, but a necessary insistence.
“How? I cannot,” she said.
“You can,” he returned, “and you will. Your mind must needs be clear in the morning. We cannot afford you to be half-faint with exhaustion.”
