He left her to go below where his horse waited. He would not apologize for delaying this departure a day. The dresses, the necklace, the dinner, the whole night had been expressions of the rebellion he’d experienced in his spirit when he’d seen that letter yesterday morning.
He had decided he would not tell her right away. He would have one more day, one more night, before the end began.
* * *
Amanda threw off the bed linen as soon as the door closed. She padded into the dressing room and grabbed her nightdress and pulled it on, then set her valise on the divan and opened her trunk.
He’d had the letter yesterday. He had not told her. She tried to work up some anger at his deception, but her heart refused to upbraid him, even silently.
She lifted the necklace off the dressing table. He had known when he’d bought this, and the dresses, and given her champagne. He had known all of last night.
She closed her eyes and was in his arms again, her separateness melted away so that she felt a part of him in all ways. She had not thought it possible for a man and a woman to go on and on like that, hard and furious, then sweet and poignant, then shocking and scandalous, then—
She’d never objected. Never questioned. She’d accepted and taken and given, enthralled again and again. It was if he could not get enough and he made sure she could not either.
He had known it would be the last night. Not together, but in this chamber. The last before they turned a page and began the last chapter of this story they were writing together.
She was glad he had not told her and that this last night had not been shadowed for her by what was coming.
* * *
Brentworth read the letter, then handed it to Stratton. “You are not making this easy, Langford.”
They all sat in Stratton’s library, sprawled comfortably on chairs and divans.
“I am not making it anything. I did not write that letter.”
“The difficult part will be delivering the dagger, not following it. We will be conspicuous in that area of town. There will be no good reason for our entering that establishment. Men rarely purchase at bakeries.”
“We will have my footman, Vincent, deliver it. You will only have to watch to see who picks it up.”
“We will be even more conspicuous loitering on that street.”
“Wear an old, unpressed coat and no cravat. Borrow clothes from a servant if you have to. Smear soot on your face. Hell, have some imagination.”
“He said it would not be easy. He did not say it would be impossible,” Stratton said. He tapped the letter against his head while he thought. “Ah, it has come to me. We all know this Culper Street, gentlemen. From our university days. Surely you remember.”
“Damned if I do,” Brentworth said. “Langford?”
Gabriel mentally paged through an autobiography full of disreputable behavior, searching for mention of Culper Street.
“Mrs. O’Brian,” Stratton prompted.
His mind skipped back several more chapters to a page with a lifelike illustration of Mrs. O’Brian. “I’ll be damned. You are right. That house was on this street.” Mrs. O’Brian had been celebrated among the students of Oxford and Cambridge. Scandalous poems were written about her. “You remember her, Brentworth. Black hair. Plump. Voracious.”
Brentworth frowned. Then his brow cleared. “Now I remember. She damn near killed me.”
“That brothel is probably still there,” Stratton said. “It should not be hard to find out. There was a tavern beside it. We could sit there and watch through the window. Anyone who saw us would assume we awaited the opening of that house.”
“I think I would rather wear rags and soot,” Brentworth said. “I do not frequent brothels these days, let alone so eagerly that I wait for one to open.”
“This is not a time for delicacy or pride,” Gabriel said. “No one is going to recognize you. If you worry for your reputation—and in my view a little scandalous gossip would enhance it—here is another way. For a few shillings, Mrs. O’Brian would probably let you watch from her window. You could take turns at the panes and she could take turns too. She is not so young now, but then neither are you.”
Stratton bit back a smile. “He actually presents a very good idea. That window will be high enough so seeing who enters or leaves this bakery will be easier. As would seeing what is carried in and out. If we spy our man, we could be down on the street before he reaches the crossroad.”
“It is not a bad idea,” Brentworth admitted. “We will have to go today and see if Mrs. O’Brian is even there now. For all we know, she is back in Ireland.”
“If she is not there, some other woman is,” Stratton said. “Unless the house is closed completely.”
