She must’ve understood, for I heard footsteps moving away.
My door closed. It was a soft push.
I lay back and stared at the nothingness I saw of my ceiling. Ester was right, in a way. Wycliff was dangerous, probably had a bunch of secrets, just like Adam.
I prayed for Cicely to be returned, unharmed, in good spirits and far from any troubles men could bring, including Adam’s cousins.
I wrapped myself fully in Wycliff’s cape. The sweet scent of it eased the tension in my shoulders. He was my proof. All I needed was for him to come here and explain to Mama and Papa everything he knew of Adam. He needed to brag on Adam so much that I’d forget the dire straits my husband’s murder had left me in.
Maybe the baron’s testimony would be a good substitute for the complete registry.
No, I’d still be called a liar or a stupid woman.
I needed both halves of the registry.
Wycliff was the key to getting Adam’s. I would be nice to him.
I’d convince him of the urgency of locating it. Thursday couldn’t come fast enough.
Chapter Eleven
His Morning Blues
Wycliff wasn’t a morning person.
Noises coming from downstairs forced one eye open and then the other.
God bless Lawden. Wycliff had left him orders to start the repairs on Blaren House.
That doggone-diligent man must’ve started.
Putting his hands to his face, he tried to block the sunlight sneaking into his bedchamber from curtains that had been parted an inch. Lawden.
Might as well get up, even if it was to close the curtains.
Lazy bones, as Ruth would say, but it should be Wycliff’s reward for doing good. He’d freed a girl from a bawd last night.
It wasn’t Cicely, but another young woman in a bad situation. Maybe his sister was indeed off with her friends, still upset that their father had kept silent about Wycliff’s impressment into the Navy. He’d been serving a life sentence on the HMSLiverpool. Was thinking him dead better than the remote chance of her brother being freed?
Wycliff rubbed his burning eyes. Would that sliver of hope have meant something to Ruth or added to her misery?
Well, a sovereign had bought the fair-skinned prostitute’s freedom, and four guineas had given her money to start over. One less exotic fantasy removed from the reach of peers.
The money didn’t matter. Wycliff was glad to use his money and all the funds he’d drained from his uncle’s accounts. The fool had never changed any of his banking or finance mechanisms. Soulden had been a brilliant, evil genius, creating dummy accounts in Wycliff’s father’s name. Yet, the duplicity had made it easy for Wycliff to move the money on the old baron’s behalf.
Father had been a spy for the Crown during the war with America. Trying to recruit free blacks to side against the rebellion, he’d met and married Wycliff’s mother. Working with his father to drain Uncle’s fraudulent accounts had given the old spy one last mission. It had been a good two months they’d spent together before he died.
The noises coming from downstairs sounded strange. Now Wycliff had to get up.
He dropped one leg then the other over the side of the once-majestic bed. The solid walnut frame had been painted a ghastly red.
This would all have to be changed. This house needed to be set in a wash basin and scrubbed clean of Soulden’s and his cousin Nicholas’s awful taste.
Wycliff stretched. Yawns poured out of his weary soul.
Was that a curse coming from downstairs?
Now he hurriedly pulled on breeches, his boots, and a robe, a fine burgundy brocade cloth with gray piping—a final present from his father, welcoming him back to England, making him feel human again.
