“What did the witch do?”
Amelia bit her lip. “Her great-aunt Rebecca was most vile about her parents. She returned home in tears.”
He closed his eyes, throat bobbing, bare skin visible through the V of the unlaced shirt. And then he swiftly stood, turned his back, strode to the fireplace and hurled his glass into the glowing fire.
Blue flame danced; the fire spat and fumed.
“I wish… No.” And he shoved fists to the mantelpiece. “Wishes are for fools, Miss Jones. I…I’ve not looked after Phoebe well at all since her father died. I think to do my best but…” He shook his head. “She needs me here more and I cannot do that. Not yet.”
Amelia had no further need to pry into his affairs, the die was cast, yet… “Phoebe adores you and bears no resentment towards you.”
He twisted. “I’m all she’s got, Miss Jones.”
“It’s not just that. You make her laugh, are a source of comfort and a connection to her father.”
A hesitant nod. “When I first came to London as a youth, her father, Ross, was a good friend to me, always there, always laughing. An admirable man.” He exhaled heavily. “Not many people know the true me…but Ross did,” he mumbled, before striding to the cabinet to procure another glass and replenish it. “Want one?”
Amelia shook her head. “You have many friends within theTon, do you not?”
“Acquaintances, Miss Jones.” He took a gulp. “They don’t truly know me.”
No, she thought. They solely knew the half – the debonair Scandalous Mr Cadwalader, a fabulist with tall tales and droll quips.
But she supposed that her own acquaintances in the Foreign Office solely knew the half of Amelia Lambert too – the one of deception.
They didn’t know the one who’d grown up surrounded by silks and satins and rose-pink damask. The frivolous, impassioned Amelia, who’d worn pretty gowns and learned French from her mother’s latest emigree lover.
“Ross Thornton knew me,” he continued, “yet he’s dead and I can’t even look after his daughter properly. Too occupied with…” He trailed off.
“Have… Have you family?”
“The finest one could ask for. But they are all on the Continent at present, otherwise…” He glanced to her, placing his whisky on the cabinet. “Have you ever visited Wales?”
She shook her head.
“I adore London,” he continued, “with its hustle and life but a part of me, a part of my soul, is forever in Wales – on the wild coast with its sweet rain and dark nights. Riding the desolate mountains with my cousins or swimming in turbulent seas.” His lips quirked. “I expect you don’t believe me? That the scandalous and dapper Mr Cadwalader would enjoy such pursuits?”
Amelia smiled. “Not the scandalous and dapper Mr Cadwalader, no, but the one I see sometimes, the one who’s mastered ancient combat arts and has scars upon his torso, the one who drinks alone and who cares so deeply for his ward. That Mr Cadwalader, I believe, would enjoy such pursuits.”
He strode over to her – all masculine elegance and raw vigour – and placed both his hands to the chair arms, caging her.
But she wasn’t afraid.
“Then, Miss Jones,” he whispered, “you see me more than most.”
Their eyes held.
Neither breathed.
His lips parted.
Hers did likewise.
His chest heaved…
“Which,” he said, letting his breath flow and drawing back, “is why you must leave. Good night, Miss Jones. Thank you for informing me of Phoebe’s great-aunt Rebecca. I shall accompany her from henceforth. I should have done on this occasion.”
Amelia rose, aware she’d been dismissed. And not just for tonight. “Good night, Sir.”
Mr Cadwalader nodded, fetched his glass and then stood before the hearth to stare into the undiminished hiss of flames.
Gently, she closed the door behind her and stared to her hands – to the curtain tie still held within them for no reason she could discern.
A spy’s emotions, she knew full well, should never become involved in the affairs of a household, and for so long she’d succeeded, yet this one had disturbed her measured existence with its camaraderie and loyalty.
And then there was the master at its core.
She sighed. Not that it mattered.
For soon, she would move on once more.
