“Or we could enjoy the warmth of the fire first.” She slipped her hand into his.
He smiled. “‘The fire’?”
“I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you,” she said simply.
“And I you.” He drew a sharp breath. “But you’re distressed after all that has happened. You can’t be thinking clearly. Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’ve had enough sadness in my life.” She placed a hand on her breast, which rose and fell with each quick breath. “I need something vital, alive, to warm me. I’m cold, Jack.”
After locking the door, he came to her and eased her down onto the soft rug. He lay beside her. “We will create our own fire tonight.”
She cradled his cheek in her hand. “And tomorrow?”
“We’ll deal with tomorrow tomorrow.”
Althea was an exciting lover who copulated with abandon despite admitting her knowledge was limited. As they lay quietly while their breaths slowed, she told Jack about her marriage.
“Charles was my best friend. We shared an interest in art, and he was an excellent painter. But we rarely shared a bed.” She traced a finger over his bare chest. “Tell me about you, Jack. What brought you to the inn? Where were you going, all alone?”
Jack tried to put into words the reasons behind his need for travel. But his brief rationalization that because of the war, he had seen more of Spain and France than his own country didn’t fool her.
“So, you are also mourning your father,” she said, her eyes softening with sympathy and understanding.
“Yes. It was expected, in my case. But it’s impossible to prepare yourself. Although in a way, I was relieved he no longer suffered.”
Sometime later, they dressed. Jack did up her dress, regretting losing sight of her shapely, sweet-smelling body.
Althea tied her hair and then rang for the cold supper she’d ordered earlier. As they ate their ham sandwiches, they returned to examine her father’s letters. She smiled at him and put a hand to her mouth to smother a yawn. “I’m not sure I can let you go on your journey now.”
Jack was also reluctant to leave but knew he must. There was no future for them and delaying it would only make it worse. He had been careful not to impregnate her, but it was risky to continue.
They found nothing of interest in his lordship’s post. The last significant letter came from Lord Caindale. He wrote that he would call at Ivywood as soon as the family had returned from Paris.
“Did your father keep a diary?”
“Yes, I’m sure he did. It will be here somewhere.” She searched through the valise, removing several items and setting them aside. Finally, she shook her head. “It’s not here,” she said with a sigh of disappointment.
“Give the valise to me.”
Jack checked inside. “Might be something beneath the lining.”
He felt all around the interior. “Nothing here.”
Turning the bag upside down, he examined the bottom, pressing each of the metal studs. Suddenly, a false bottom opened, and a black, leatherbound book fell out.
Althea gazed at him, her eyes wide. “My father’s diary!” She rose and came around to lean over him, a hand on his shoulder as he turned the pages. Jack pulled her down onto his lap and moved the candelabra closer. As she leaned her soft, fragrant body back against him, they read it together.
Lord Butterstone had written of a plot he’d uncovered to assassinate Bonaparte. But nothing here explained how it was to be carried out. The general was to be poisoned. Two men, Lord A and a Mr. W., were underlined with a question mark. But their involvement in the affair remained unexplained.
“I remember hearing of Bonaparte’s final words when he drew up his last will and testament,” Jack said. “He said his death was premature, assassinated by the English oligarchy and their hired murderer.”
“His death wasn’t from natural causes?” Althea tensed against him. “Something did happen in France. Father’s manner changed. He became unlike himself.”
“Whom would he have confided in?”
“Uncle George, I imagine. He visited us in Paris.”
“Do you think he might know something?”
