“It’s not something I wish to say. Childbirth is a risky thing. It’s why I’m a widower. I would’ve loved to have known my mother.”
“Anything can go awry.” Her voice held tears. “Is it worth the risk? I think a woman who tries to have a baby is brave.”
Her voice sounded sorrowful and her eyes had become glossy.
Pity was not what he wanted, merely for his wife to understand him. “Why do you understand Tramel and not me?”
“We talk. He understands what’s important to me. That’ll always mean so much.”
“If you knew what my sister and I have lived through, with constant shipping us off to aunts, boarding schools with instructors of questionable temperaments, or caught in the latest wars of wives two, then three, you’d not give him such grace.”
“But I’m not privy to those stories. You and your sister never share these Lance family tales. You two are such good siblings. I’m a foreigner. Those were her words every time I wanted to help.”
“Well, you’re from Demerara.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Honestly, I do, Cecilia, but you never came to me with these concerns.”
“When you arrived, I let the girls have you. They need their father most.”
There was truth in her words. He felt himself frowning and couldn’t stop. “You should’ve told me. It might’ve helped me change before I lost you.”
“Felton, we lost each other. We married on a whim. I don’t want you to make a series of incremental changes to appease me. And if you no longer want to help me kill Gladstone, just say so. I’ll go with you to Tramel and then we let each other go.”
Her voice was clear, with the Dutch-island twang he loved, but her words still meant they were done.
But it had to be a lie.
How could they be done when they still kissed like newlyweds? Their passion was still there.
“Cecilia, this has been your first lesson. You have to release all your angst, every complaint. You must be numb. Then you’ll be ready to kill.”
“Numb to it? No passion, Felton?”
“Yes. See, you’ve told me there is no hope of our reconciliation, and I appear calm, as though the prospect doesn’t crush my soul. As though I don’t hunger to strip you bare . . . of your doubts . . . and love you here and now and for all time.”
Her eyes, chocolaty polished agate, grew wide.
“I told you. Nothing but truth from me to you.” Marveling at how red her face had become, he folded his arms. “How did you plan to assassinate my cousin? That night at the King’s Theatre, did you have a weapon? I don’t remember feeling a gun on your person.”
Whipping her knife from her pocket, Cecilia brandished it like it was a sword. “With this. My father gave it to me.”
“This pretty thing that I held, modeling your Roman soldier.” He fingered the cut near his temple. “Where’s the torch? Bang Gladstone over the head with it. You’d have more luck.”
She flipped the blade and put it by his nose. “Don’t laugh. This could be deadly, Felton.”
“Please lower the weapon, my dear. You might cut the air.”
“You don’t take me seriously. You never took my concerns seriously.”
He caught her wrist and made the knife fall to the floor. Then he towed her to him. “Everything about us was serious, and this is your second lesson. Never underestimate a soul, a friend, an enemy, or lover.” She wriggled within his hold, but his grip was solid. “You have to be passionless. Emotion makes you react, makes you miss the signs of aggression. That’s how you die.”
“How . . .” Her jaw tensed. “How many people have you killed?”
Letting go, he tugged at his sleeve, then he bent and scooped up the knife. “Enough, but no one who didn’t deserve it.”
Her eyes were large. Her heart beat fast and loud. He saw it, heard it pounding beneath her coat. “You’re truly going to help me.”
