She looked at him then in a way that made any further restraint not only unnecessary, but impossible. When he kissed her again, it was no longer born of urgency alone.
There was still that underlying intensity, that awareness of what had nearly been lost, but it was tempered now by something almost tangible, something that suggested not merely the preservation of the moment, but the beginning of something that might extend beyond it.
When he drew back, he did so with considerable reluctance. “I regret,” he said, “that my duties remain inconveniently persistent.”
She met his gaze. “How very unfortunate.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “it is. I would very much prefer to remain here with you, but alas.”
“Alas.”
He stepped backwards. “I will call on you in the morning.”
Her expression shifted to amusement, and though she said only that she would expect him, the words followed him withdisproportionate force, carrying with them a promise more sustaining than any rest he was likely to have before dawn.
For the first time that night, the weight of what remained to be done seemed, if not lighter, then at least more bearable. There were still matters which could not be postponed until morning, however much he might have wished to remain where he was, and chief among them was the necessity of speaking with Sir Percival. It would not do—indeed, it would be indefensible—that the gentleman should learn of the evening’s events second hand, or worse, through rumour, when his niece had been so nearly drawn into consequences of the gravest sort.
Arch paused only long enough to ensure that Francesca had retired before making his way towards the study.
A light still burned beneath the door. He knocked once.
“Come in.”
When Arch entered, Sir Percival stood near the hearth, one hand resting upon the mantel, his posture composed but not at ease. It was the stance of a man who had been waiting with a patience born of long experience and not a little concern. When he turned, the expression upon his face altered only slightly, yet Arch did not miss the quick assessment in his gaze, nor the subtle easing of tension when he saw that Arch stood before him uninjured.
“Well?” Sir Percival said.
Arch closed the door behind him. “It is done,” he replied.
Sir Percival’s brow tightened. “Franny?”
“She is safe.”
Sir Percival exhaled slowly, as though releasing a restraint he had not acknowledged until that moment. He moved to the chair near the fire but did not immediately sit down.
“You will tell me everything.”
“I will,” Arch said. He spared no details in the telling.
He spoke of Kendall’s movements, of the meeting at Cato Street, of the intervention and the arrests, of the moment at the cottage when Francesca had been recovered, and of Kendall’s attempt to persuade her to flee. He did not embellish, nor did he omit what must be understood plainly. When he spoke of the danger she had faced and how she had comported herself, he did so with a respect that required no emphasis.
Sir Percival listened throughout without interruption. When Arch had finished, silence settled between them, broken only by the low sound of the fire.
“Where is Kendall now?” Sir Percival asked at last.
“In custody.”
Sir Percival inclined his head slightly as though considering not only what had been said, but also what had not. “Then he will answer for his actions.”
“You place yourself in a curious position, Archibald,” he said slowly.
“I am aware of it, sir.”
“Something tells me the arrangement with Francesca may become of a more permanent nature.”
“With your permission, sir.”
Sir Percival’s expression became amused. “Yet you did not think it necessary to inform me of that at the time.”
