Page 117

He did understand that he’d proposed, or nearly, and she hadn’t said yes.

“It’s not about the law. It’s about Claud.”

He stared, a strange, sick shiver moving over him.

“It’s about what he needs,” she said.

“Well, then.” He jerked a nod. “That’s exactly why I had you take the letters in the first place.”

“What he needs.” Her eyes began to shimmer. “Not what you want.”

Heat radiated from their conjoined palms. Her other hand was still pressing his chest. He felt as though it were pressing down on his heart. He’d never seen her so pale.

“Claud needs what any little boy needs.” He groped for patience. “And I refuse to let Geoffrey make—”

“There was blood.”

Something like fog billowed in his head. The greenery of the garden grayed before his eyes.

“Last night, after he coughed. On the handkerchief. There was blood.”

He released the hand he held, then stepped back, away from the pressure of the other.

“The monogram is surrounded by pimpernels.” His own voice seemed to come from elsewhere. “You mistook the scarlet thread.”

“Alan.” Her eyes were galaxies, big and dark. He felt small, awaiting cosmic judgment.

“The blood was blood.” She breathed it. “It was his blood. You don’t believe me?”

There was new horror in her voice, and a note of shock.

He heard a serrated laugh. It had sawn its way through his windpipe.

“You suffered in Pistoia.” She clutched his wrist. He couldn’t look at her, so he gazed over her shoulder. “Going there might save Claud’s life.”

He flicked his eyes to her face. “Do you suppose I would deprive Claud of medical attention? I’m friends with several doctors I respect highly. Once I have guardianship, they’ll advise me. If he were to have consumption, then . . .”

“He does have consumption.” Her certainty was terrible. “I know he does. Everyone knows. Alan, you’re . . .”

“Deluded,” he finished for her. “Yes, I may be. I admitted as much.” She used the admission against him now. His heart gave a violent lunge.

He ground his teeth. “But not about Claud.”

“I wasn’t going to say deluded.” Her pale face was fierce. “I was going to say afraid. You’re afraid to face it. But we can face it. Together.”

“No.” He spoke abruptly, broke her grip on his wrist.

He could picture the London skyline, Umfreville House, Claud in bed, the red counterpane. He could picture the handkerchief in his hand.

White. The handkerchief was white as snow.

He became aware that Nina’s eyes were melting under his gaze. Tears spilling over.

“Not to worry,” he murmured. “The detectives and I will repair to London on the next train.”

She brushed at her cheeks. “And then?”

“Make your offer to Mr. Craddock,” he said, and paused. He could feel that the smile forming on his lips was cruel. “Or does your objection to blackmail mean you renounce your payment?”