The stiffness in Felton’s stance, his squinting stare blazed with fire. “You don’t know him like I do. I pray you never will.”
He turned, putting his back to me. “Coffee, hot coffee. It shall be yours. I’ll make haste.”
Powering out of the hall, his slam of the door made the wall shake, everything but the scaffold he’d shored up, which held steady.
My husband was mad, but instead of seeing my sister’s death as our failing, our inability to make good on promises, he’d turned this into another gambit between him and the duke.
What would happen to all that anger when his father died?
No longer able to think of them, I stirred my paint. I had to finish this commission. Perhaps I could repay my debt to the duke by helping Felton.
That might make things easier between Felton and me, when we finally let each other go.
CHAPTER35
FELTON—PEACEFULCOFFEEBREAK
It took everything in Felton—his training, his trademark logic, his resolve—to choose peace and remain calm. Storming down Brydges Street, he counted stars, carriages, prostitutes, and fools, he being the first member in this latter category.
How could Cecilia think him unconcerned about her sister?
How dare she place him, a man of reason, into the shoes of an unfeeling dullard.
Breathing fire, he crossed to Russell Street then journeyed to King. The prostitute counts continued to rise. Covent Garden at night was a source of endless entertainment and deadly distractions.
If he’d known Helena was ill, could he have asked Liverpool to allow him to journey to Demerara? No. An operative who quit was of little value. He’d been cut off—no intelligence, no access. He would’ve rejoined if it meant saving Helena.
No wonder Tramel was her hero. He’d break any rule to serve his needs.
For a moment, one solitary second, Felton envied the duke, the freedom with which he went about his life.
Head down, Felton kept alert, though he almost wanted to encounter one of the Garden’s infamous pickpockets just to beat upon someone to release his rage.
Cilia, poor Cilia. It was daring and showed such heart to try to rescue her sister, but that wasn’t the adventure she deserved.
The trip he’d concocted to draw them together as they ventured to Warwick looked like a failing plan. His spy tactics didn’t work and the Repington’s advice merely had him agreeing to separate. How was Felton to win his wife?
The longer he walked in Covent Garden the more he tried to remember why they worked. In Kingston, a week after their wedding, they were kindred spirits sheltering in a small hut waiting for a hurricane to pass. She was so nervous, so jittery at each noise. He was her rock and assured her that all would be well.
Cecilia trusted him.
In that hut, the winds banged on the green and white shutters. She seemed lost until he held her. He liked holding her.
Then he thought it silly, as a man of the world, to be so thoroughly beguiled. If he’d trusted what he felt, he’d still have her love.
The duke gave her what she wanted. Didhehave her love?
Felton stopped mid-step.
He’d never ever wanted to be his father until this moment, the moment he could see things as Cilia did. The duke respected her art, gave it honor, and tried to save her sister.
The man was her hero. Perhaps Tramel, seeing Jane and the Gladstones alienate her, seized the opportunity. Felton’s stupidity surely pushed the two together.
Yet, why would Tramel say that Jeremiah Gladstone needed to die? Why did the duke want his nephew dead to please Cecilia?
Stewing, breathing hard, even punching the air, Felton walked until King Street dead-ended at Rose. Carriages whipped past as link boys waving torches guided them toward the mews.
A shiny black barouche, with a gilded crest that resembled Repington’s, whipped past.
