“Because you were staring at the decanters as if something troubled you.”
Sarah tried to recover gracefully. “I was wondering if you would like something to drink?”
“Would you?” he countered.
“I believe I would,” she said and crossed over to the whisky. She wasn’t one for strong spirits, but suddenly needed the courage of them. There was a decision to be made. She would either use the draught and put Baynton to sleep or she would not use it. The choice was hers.
Sarah realized she could give them both the draught and then they would both sleep, both be victims.
Removing her shawl and her hat, she managed to take the vial from her pocket without being detected. She poured two glasses. She put a bit of the draught in each. She half expected him to notice her actions but instead, he had walked over to the window . . . because he trusted her.
Picking up the glasses, she started for him. He turned from the window, faced her, and she could see in his eyes that he still wanted her.
And from someplace deep within her, a place she had believed dead, she felt the stirring of desire.
It caught her with such surprise, she almost tripped and dropped the glasses.
She had lost her fear of being intimate with him. In fact, she believed that Charlene had been a fool to let this man slip away.
A fool.
Sarah turned toward the table and set the glasses down. She met Gavin’s eye. “I’ve been asked to give you a sleeping draught,” she said.
That news surprised him. “By whom?”
“Mr. Talbert.”
He shook his head. “Talbert? For what reason?”
“So that you would not meet Lord Rovington on the dueling field in the morning.”
“He would betray me?”
There was doubt in his voice and too late, Sarah realized it would be her word against that of the secretary, a man who had served Gavin faithfully for who knew how many years.
“He wished to save your life. Mr. Talbert said that if you met Lord Rovington on the morrow, your death would be on my hands. He said that Lord Rovington has killed two men in duels.”
“That is true.”
“He said you have never dueled before.”
“That is also true. I find dueling foolish.”
“I do as well,” Sarah said stoutly. “Which is a good reason for you not to be there.”
“So then, why are you confessing now?”
“Because,” she said, her voice uncertain of his response, “if you are killed, I don’t know how I shall live with myself.”
“Why, Sarah? Then you would be free of me.”
“Would I? Do you believe me so callow I would rejoice at your death? At any death? And if I had given you this whisky, I would never forgive myself for playing a part in your disgrace. I am not that sort of woman.”
“Did Talbert offer you anything to betray me?”
“Just the promise that this was the best solution. He believes that if you miss the duel everyone will believe it is because you are happy in my bed. Therefore, he thinks any disgrace would be tempered by envy.” She shook her head, wondering if she should have been silent. “Why should you believe me? I have no proof of what I say . . . save for the vial—and what does that prove?”
“Sarah, I believe you.”
