“I as well.” Kilsyth agreed and drained his brandy.
Kilsyth paused at the entry and turned back to Eve. “You should find your rest, as well, Miss Doyle.”
“One question, Lord Kilsyth.”
“Yes?”
“The necklace. It is mine now, is it not?”
He frowned. “The necklace?”
“Yes. It was to be mine once I did my part. I’ve won your wager for you and I’d take it now please.”
“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“No, it cannot.” Eve held out her hand. “Pickmore paid his wager and you should pay yours.”
At that, he stomped across the room and yanked open the desk drawer. “This!” He dangled it from his fingers. “You want this now?”
“Yes please.” Eve remained calm.
He crossed the room and placed it in her palm. “Anything else before I find my bed?”
“My clothing. Does it belong to me or you?”
Kilsyth frowned at her. “Why would I want your clothing?”
“You paid for it.”
“This is ridiculous,” he ground out. “What is this about, Miss Doyle?”
“While I may be your ward, I have now served my purpose. I simply wish to know what I could take with me when I leave.”
“Take what you wish and if there are any questions, we’ll discuss it further in the morning.” He turned for the door. “Good night, Miss Doyle.”
Eve stood there in the silence of the library unable to move. She meant nothing to him. Even after the hours they’d spent in here studying and her assisting him with correspondence, picking up after him, and then the kiss. She was nothing.
She’d already suspected and warned herself such was the case, but it hurt nonetheless--deeply--and it was all she could do not to curl up and cry. Instead, she grasped the necklace tightly and slowly turned, taking in the room and the memories. Some she’d hold dear, but others would serve as a warning never to attempt to rise above her station again. Jeffries may think others would call on her, and perhaps they would, but nothing would come of it. No gentleman wants an Irish miss won in a game of chance.
Eve startled at the knock on the door and she made her way to the foyer just as Jeffries opened it. “Might a Miss Eve Doyle be in residence?”
“Are you aware of the time?” Jeffries countered.
“Unfortunately, yes, but we must speak with Miss Doyle.”
“Who are you?”
“Thames River Police,” one of them announced.
Eve sucked in a breath and stepped into the foyer. “It is quite all right, Jeffries,” she said and then turned to the man. “I am Miss Doyle.”
“I regret to inform you, that your brother, a Mr. Brendan Doyle, threw himself from the Westminster Bridge.”
Cold shock flooded her body and Eve took a step back. “He tried to kill himself?”
“He did kill himself, though we don’t believe it was intentional.”
At that she sank down on the stairs, her legs no longer able to hold her. “Then why would he do such a thing?”
