“Oh, I am not so easily fooled as all that. Besides, I am one and thirty. It is probable I may never be in such a position.”
It was a fact I had come to accept. Since the years of Gabriel’s frequent attentions were unfruitful, it was entirely likely that I would never reproduce. If that fact pained me at all, I had more than enough experience appearing as though it did not.
Something about the look she gave me told me my acting was somewhat lacking. Or perhaps she simply understood the notion.
From out in the hall, I heard the door open and close, and a familiar tenor called out, “Duchess, I’m back. You will not believe the morning I’ve had.”
“In the drawing room,” Juliet answered—apparently the duchess in question. The name made little sense to me, but the love behind his tone was apparent.
Michael sauntered in, tugging his cravat loose in irritation. He froze the moment he recognized me, his eyes darting to his wife.
“Bonjour, Michael.”
“Celine, good to see you.” His eyes flicked cautiously between the two of us, searching for signs of distress, presumably. It was somewhat offensive, his concern that I would visit his home and upset his wife.
“You as well. It seems you’ve had quite the morning. Do you have a few moments? Or should I return some other time?” I only had to bite off one habitual term of endearment.
He glanced at Juliet, apparently determining her sanguine expression to be legitimate, then nodded. “Here or?”
“Your study? If you do not mind?” Once again his gaze shot to his wife.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You do not require my permission,” the lady snapped. He eyed her warily before nodding toward the hall. I followed him down several doors to a study.
Like the drawing room, it was filled with bookshelves. Though not as overfilled, and primarily populated with ledgers rather than novels. It suited him. Also like the rest of the house, it seemed every piece of furnishing was new, and though tasteful, of exceptional quality. He gestured toward a chair and poured himself a drink of whiskey before opening the gin and pouring a glass for me.
He was every bit as handsome as he had been when we first met. Perhaps more so. His dark hair was longer and less styled. And there were a few lines around the corners of his warm brown eyes. But he moved with ease, a languid peace to his motions that had been absent before.
When we knew each other, he wore his unaffected demeanor like armor. At some point, he had set it aside.
“So, are you going to tell me what this is about? Or am I to guess?”
“Good to see you too.”
“I love to see you, you know I do. But you haven’t been to visit me since that day.”
“I… I have an uncomfortable question to ask you. I’m not quite certain how to ask it.”
“Never known you to shy away from anything,” he remarked, taking a sip.
With a deep breath, I started. “What I am about to ask is incredibly offensive. And I already know the answer. But I just—I need to hear you say it. I hope you can forgive me for asking.”
“The curiosity is eating me alive. Out with it then.”
“Did you kill Gabriel? Or have him killed?” The words spilled forth, slurred and desperate.
His brow hit his hairline in an almost comical way. Or it would have been in any other circumstance. He blinked slowly, once, twice, three times. “No—God no—Celine. I would never. I’ve never…”
The sincere desperation in his countenance and tone was enough. I felt a tension loosen and dissipate.
“You—you don’t really think that? Do you?" He continued.
“No, not truly.”
“What made you ask?”
“I— Oh Lord, this is embarrassing. I met someone, and it reminded me of the day before he was killed. And I found a note.”
“I’m going to require a few more sentences.”
