“Celia!” Rosalinde burst out.
Celia turned on her. “Youforced me to come here. You cannot be angry that I react how I react now.”
“I forced you to come here because I know you are in pain. I hate to see you this way.” Rosalinde waved her hand at the earl. “And this man could help you.”
Stalwood was seemingly undaunted by the odd exchange being played out before him. “You have something to say to me, Miss Fitzgilbert?”
She took her time in looking at him. He had a rather kind face, actually. And knowing he had saved the man she loved from certain doom made it almost impossible to hate him as she wished to do.
She sighed. There was no escaping this humiliation now, so she might as well face it. “I want to talk to you. But may I have a moment alone?”
Gray and Rosalinde exchanged a look, as if they weren’t certain leaving them was the best idea. But Stalwood waved them off. “We’ll be fine. My roses are beginning to bud in the back and it’s very pretty. Why don’t you two take a stroll while I talk to Miss Fitzgilbert?”
Rosalinde let Gray lead her from the room with only the briefest back glances at Celia. Celia ignored her, keeping her attention on Stalwood.
When they were gone, he crossed to a sideboard and poured a glass of sherry. He came back to her and held it out.
She stared at the liquor, then took it. “Thank you.”
“You look as though you need it. I assume this mess with Clairemont’s death announcement and Dane’s departure has been difficult for you.”
“It has,” she whispered. “Is John…is John well?”
Stalwood’s expression softened. “He is. After such a large and involved case as this, I tend to allow my agents time away. He is taking that time now, but I received word from him recently that he is fine.” His face fell. “Well enough.”
She moved forward at his hesitation. “His wound is healing? Is he having trouble with it?”
Stalwood’s eyes widened at her focused attention. “His wound is healing, my dear. In truth, I think he suffers more from losing…losing you.”
She caught her breath and turned away, uncertain how to proceed. Stalwood was offering her hope and the idea of taking it was terrifying to her core.
“He has lost a great deal in his life,” she whispered at last.
Stalwood was silent a beat before he said, “Told you that, did he?”
She nodded as she faced him. “He told me about his parents, about that bastard who took him when he was a child, about his life on the streets.”
Stalwood stared. “All that? I don’t think he’s ever toldanyoneall that before. I doubt I know it all, in truth.”
“I can’t believe that,” Celia said, sipping her drink slowly. “After all, you are as close to him as family. You saved him.”
“He was very much worth saving.”
“I agree wholeheartedly.” She tilted her head. “You—you love him, don’t you?”
Stalwood flinched, as if saying those things out loud was uncomfortable. She supposed it would be. Most men, especially those of rank, were raised to avoid emotion at all costs. But when his expression cleared, he nodded.
“My wife died many years ago and we were never blessed with children. I couldn’t bear to find another woman to take her place and present me with the heirs Society demanded, so I put all my energy into my work. My spies. But when John appeared…well, he was different.”
“He was your ward,” she said.
He shook his head. “No. He was my son. He still is, even if we never discuss it. You are correct that I love him. AmIcorrect that you love him, as well?”
“Yes,” she whispered. Tears flooded her eyes as she stared at a man she had once seen as her enemy, but now was linked to through a man who’d told her she could never have him.
But standing here, it was clear how much she wanted John. She ached for him. Rosalinde had said she had to tell him. But would that matter? Would it work?
Was she brave enough to try?
