CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“If she deserves your confidence, prove it to her.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Atrue governess would have demurely declined the proposal of a hot bath and rebuffed the offer of warm towels and a full-bodied wine. But Amelia was no governess and so had gratefully accepted all.
Her return with the master of the house – in her crone garments and with hair reeking of gunpowder – had not been questioned aloud as such by the servants but brows had met mobcaps and eyes had narrowed in supposition. Sally had winked.
The household now believed Amelia to be tucked up in bed, when in fact, at the behest of the master, she sat awaiting him on a silk sofa in that locked end room of the second floor, which had proved to be…
She turned her head this way and that.
A library.
But not just any library.
Restful leaf-green paperhangings peeked from behind mahogany bookcases, the ceiling edged with white and gold architrave. A magnificent desk with a vase of pink roses faced the window, currently veiled by deep-burgundy curtains, and a low fire kept the spring chill at bay.
Needless to say, there’d never been any question earlier as to whether she would shadow Hu…
Amelia frowned. She couldn’t call him Hugh. It was too…familiar.
Lord Rainham had not given a direct order but he allowed his officers to make their own decisions and was not one to castigate if they put themselves in danger to aid another. Rumours were that he himself had set off on a fool’s errand in French territory to liberate one of his own men from a prison set afire.
She returned her eyes to the small volume she’d removed from one of the bookcases:Myth and Legend of Wales.
The frontispiece had caught her eye with its fine drawing of dragons spitting fire, sweeping over jagged mountains and deep forests, fierce guardians of their treasure. And whilst she would not wish to question the decisions of her superior, she mused that Dragon might have been a more apt code name for Mr Cadwalader as he was just such a man – fierce and protective.
Yet she must beware.
For he was also a scandalous gentleman ofTonsociety, used to flirtation meaning little and kisses even less. Such kisses that spun her senses.
And although he vexed her at times, it would be all too easy for deep emotions to arise for such a man, emotions that no spy should feel, for they hindered sight and muddled clarity.
Would he kiss her again?
It should not matter.
For what was a kiss?
Just a meeting of lips? A physical act that held no lasting promise or potential for hurt.
Or did it?
Most in her profession took pleasure where they could, knew that life was fleet, but Amelia had never been able to act in such a manner, had witnessed in her childhood that hurt could too easily follow.
She slammed the book shut and stared to the mantel clock. Nigh midnight.
Mr Cadwalader had passed a fair while in his bathing chamber and she wondered if his wounds pained him? She’d not thought them too severe as he’d been at his most talkative in the hackney carriage back to Hanover.
Perhaps he was merely enjoying the lap of water against his bared skin. The cleansing soap as it glided over…
Amelia breathed deep and reopened her book.
Hugh’s gizzardsfelt as though they’d been removed with burning tongs, spun on a cart’s wheel and then shoved back in with a toasting fork.
