Blinking his tired eyes, he flipped another page. There had to be an answer between the two books—one that could end with Nickie jailed like Uncle Soulden would be tomorrow.
“Father, I wish I’d never promised you not to kill.” He lifted his glass of brandy, as if he toasted the air.
Lawden came into his study. “Everything is normal at Nineteen Fournier. All the Croomes are safe and accounted for, my lord. Get some sleep.”
“I can’t. I need to figure out how to end this.”
“Seems to me you need to think about beginnings. Mrs. Wilky would like to see you. She’s been asking for you.”
“This all must be very upsetting to her.”
“She’s pretty strong.” Lawden flipped through the other ledger. “Mrs. Wilky, she saved us. That bullet was marked for one of us.”
“I know, but she shouldn’t have been there.Weshouldn’t have been there.”
Lawden shrugged. “The things you do for love. Don’t stay up too long. You know how you hate mornings. Tomorrow is a busy day.”
His man left.
Wycliff sat back in the well-worn chair. There was only one time in his life when he’d liked mornings. It had lasted a fortnight, four years ago.
He closed up the ledgers, tucked them under his arms with his sjambok, and headed to the second floor.
Everything was quiet.
From the window overlooking the grounds, he could see his grooms on alert.
Heading to one of his guest rooms, he noticed light streaming from his bedchamber. Ruth was in there. She was up. Maybe he should see her so she could sleep.
He knocked on the door and waited.
“Come in.”
Her voice made his heart dance. Pressing open the door, he found her dress was folded in a chair, laid out so it would not wrinkle.
Wearing one of his nightshirts, Ruth sat in the middle of his nicely-made bed, knees up, bare feet showing.
After putting the books and sjambok on his walnut chest, he opened a drawer and pulled out another nightshirt.
Unbuttoning his wrinkled waistcoat, his soiled shirt, he pulled them both off in one floundering motion. He shouldn’t rush. He probably looked ridiculous.
A gasp, not a laugh, came from behind.
Ruth must’ve seen the depth of his scars.
“Do those on your neck hurt?” Her voice was low, a little skittish.
“Yes.”
“My arm does sometimes, and you know my headaches.”
They were veterans of the same war. He’d never forget that or forgive himself. He finished dressing, pulling on the nightshirt and his onyx robe.
He turned to leave, but Ruth stood at the door.
“You saymyfootfalls are quiet. Yours are pretty quiet.”
“Well, you weren’t looking for me. I look for you. I like having you near, walking with you. Talking with you, too.”
