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“And so you thought today that I would just leave you—”
“Not think—fear.” She could only stare at him. Nate took her hand, a faint frown touching his brow as he examined her fingers. “I know you trust Ian, enough that he might persuade you to take Dixon to Stafford, or just to leave and disappear. And the hell of it is… I would rather you just disappeared, than have to see you endangered by anything you’ve done to help me, or done at my suggestion. I would rather lose you, and know you were safe, than see that Dixon—or Selwyn or Stafford, for that matter—reaps his just reward. Even though I would be lost without you.”
“Do you know,” she said in a low, halting voice, “that before I agreed to this job, I had decided it would be my last. I am not so young, and I meant to retire before any chance of a quiet, happy life was gone for me. I thought I would have to persuade Ian to marry me, for who else would be able to overlook what I am and what I have done?”
“You want to marry Wallace?”
“Because he knows the worst about me.” She paused, smoothing her fingertip over his horrified expression. “Not because he loves me—for he does not—or because I love him—for I do not. Because I never thought another man would be able to know and still want me.” She looked at him in wonder. “I still do not see how you can accept that I have been an assassin and a spy.”
“It just is,” he simply said.
Her smile was a little sad. “It is not easy, or wise, for someone in my position to fall in love. I have never told anyone but Mélanie, truthfully, that I loved them. Except you.”
He lifted her chin and kissed her. She was lost, turning and reaching for him until they were caught tight in each other’s embrace again. “I will never leave you,” she whispered.
Nate smiled. “I will never doubt you again.”
Angelique laughed. “Doubt, I can live with.”
“No. It would strangle both of us.” He clasped her hand and held it against his heart. “I make you two promises. First and foremost, that I shall never doubt you, nor give you reason to doubt me.”
“You have not,” she said softly. “Even when you must have doubted every word I said.”
“We’re done with that now.” He kissed her again. “My second promise is to get you safely out of England, no matter what.”
“You cannot promise that—it is not in your control—”
His embrace tightened. “No matter what,” he repeated firmly. “Whatever I have to do.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
St. Margaret’s church was warm and quiet after the chilly rain of the previous day. Pale morning sunlight filtered through the tall stained glass windows onto the polished floor. A couple dressed in deep mourning sat in the back, heads bowed in silence. From time to time the lady would press her hands beneath her veil, covering her eyes as she broke down in a fit of quiet weeping. Her companion patted her arm when she did so. They had come in early that morning, murmuring to the rector about a suddenly deceased father—carried off in the middle of dinner, right before their eyes—and the rector nodded in consolation and left them to their prayers.
After an hour or so, another man slipped into the church. He saw the couple at once and approached with respectful gravity, touching the woman’s shoulder lightly. “I am deeply grieved to hear of your loss,” he said softly.
She made a sound like a strangled sob, and got to her feet to clasp his hands. “Thank you,” she said with a slight hiccup in her voice. “He was such a good man—”
The newcomer nodded. “I know. He will be missed.” He reached into his pocket, searching, then offered his handkerchief. She took it and reached under her veil to dab her eyes. “If there is anything else I can do for you, for any of your family, you have only to ask,” the man told her gently.
She raised her face, still shrouded in the black net of her veil. “You cannot know what that means to us. Thank you for all you have done. You are a true friend.”
He bowed his head. “I owe you so much…” He looked past her to the man behind her. “My condolences,” he said, putting out one hand.
“Thank you,” murmured the gentleman, clasping his hand briefly. “How kind of you to come.” He touched the woman’s arm. “My dear, we should go.”
The lady nodded, still drying her eyes. “In a moment.”
The second man nodded again. “I will leave you, then.”
“Thank you,” whispered the lady as he bowed and walked off. The mourning pair sat again and stayed where they were for several more minutes, then rose and slowly left the church as well. The lady leaned heavily on her companion’s arm until they were outside the church, where he hailed a hackney and helped her inside.
Once Nate had closed the carriage door, Angelique tore off her veil. She laid Harry’s handkerchief on her lap and unfolded it to reveal the small square of paper folded inside. With unnaturally steady fingers she unfolded it and held it up so they could both read at once.
It was brief but damning:
Ross, Earl Selwyn, Undersecretary of State for War and the Colonies. Married Miss Frances Ellacott, who drowned along with their young son in a tragic accident. Selwyn mourned them for almost a decade. Married ten months ago to Millicent Beaumont, second daughter of the Duke of Ramsey. The new Countess Selwyn retired to the country in anticipation of the birth of her first child a month ago. Selwyn widely seen as a growing political force based on his connections, intellect, and drive.
For several moments neither spoke. The carriage swayed as they jolted over the cobbles heading through London, surrounded by the sounds of a city in full hum.
