The River Knows

15

A short time later Anthony escorted her to the front door of Number Twelve and bid her farewell.

“Send word to my address immediately if and when you hear from Miranda Fawcett,” he said as Mrs. Galt opened the door.

“I will,” she promised, desperately wanting to be rid of him.

He gave her a cool, assessing look and then stepped back. Nodding politely to Mrs. Galt, he went down the steps toward the waiting cab.

Louisa rushed into the hall, feeling as if a legion of demons were in pursuit. She practically hurled her bonnet and gloves to Mrs. Galt.

“Is Lady Ashton home?” she asked.

“Not yet, ma’am. She’s due back from her Garden Society meeting very soon, though.”

“I’ll be in the study.”

It was all she could do to walk, not run, down the hall. She went into the study and closed the door behind her. Clasping the knob behind her back with both hands, she sagged against the wooden panels.

She could not seem to catch her breath. It was as though she were wearing a steel corset. Her pulse was pounding. She wanted to flee, to hide, but there was nowhere to go.

She needed something for her nerves. Pushing herself away from the door, she crossed to the brandy table, yanked the stopper out of the decanter, and splashed a large amount of the contents into a glass. She swallowed too much the first time, sputtering wildly and choking a little. Gasping for air, she began to pace the room.

“Remain calm,” she said. “He cannot know who you are. There is no way he will ever learn the truth.”

Wonderful. Now she was talking to herself.

She took another swallow of brandy, a smaller sip this time, and went to the window. She looked out into the garden.

Inwardly she was reeling. Perfectly understandable, she assured herself. She had sustained one great shock followed by another. First there had been that devastating kiss. Then had come the equally devastating news that the man who had just thrilled her senses was personally acquainted with the detective who had investigated the murder of Lord Gavin.

She tried another sip of brandy. It was some time before her breathing returned to normal, but gradually the panic drained away.

It would be all right, she thought, setting the empty glass aside. She would have to be very careful, of course, but she was in no immediate danger of discovery. Clearly Anthony was consumed with his desire to avenge Fiona. As long as his attention was riveted entirely on achieving justice for the lady he had loved and lost he had no reason to become overly curious about the woman who was helping him in the project. Did he?

She tried to think logically. Unfortunately, the brandy rather muddled her brain. One thing was obvious, however. It would be best if there were no more kisses. It would be extremely foolish to become involved in an illicit affair with Anthony Stalbridge. No good could come of it. Illicit affairs always came to bad ends.

A sense of gloom replaced the nervy fear. She gripped the edge of the window, leaned her forehead against the glass panes, and closed her eyes. What would it be like to be loved the way Anthony had once loved his dear Fiona? She knew that she would never learn the answer to that question.