Simon took the frame and stared at the handwritten letter pressed beneath the glass and a swell of admiration hit him. “Very clever. I saw this hanging in your bedchamber-saw it, yet didn’t really see it.” He read the words, which appeared to be nothing more than a rather boring account of a day spent in the country, and his jaw tightened. “It’s in code, as I suspected it would be. But according to Ridgemoor’s last words, its message will prove Waverly’s guilt and my innocence. Which means I owe you my life. For this and for tending to me after I was shot. Thank you, Genevieve.”
A flicker of warmth broke through the blankness in her eyes. “You’re welcome. I…I hate that you lied to me, and I cannot deny I feel tricked. But since I’ve told many lies myself, I’m not precisely in a position to judge. I understand you only did what you believed you had to.”
His gaze searched hers. “Do you? I hope so, because when we were together…you have my word I wasn’t using you. You need to know that however this began, it changed course very quickly and became…something more.”
“Yes, I suppose it did.” Her gaze flicked to the frame. “I’m glad you have what you came for.”
Encouraged by her words and that miniscule flash of warmth, he moved a step closer to her. His heart jumped with hope when she didn’t back away. There was only one thing left to tell her, but surely if she could forgive him the other, larger transgressions, the fact that he’d omitted his title was a miniscule offense. “There’s one more thing you should know about me, a very small thing, actually.”
She appeared to brace herself. “What is it?”
“To protect my identity, I affected a slight change to my surname. It is actually Cooperstone.”
She considered, then nodded. “Understandable, especially as there is a noble family that bears that same name.”
“Yes, I know.” He made her a formal bow. “Simon Cooperstone, Viscount Kilburn, at your service.”
He wasn’t certain what reaction he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t the dawning horror that bloomed on her face. The small amount of color she’d regained leeched from her cheeks, leaving her chalk-white. “You’re a viscount.” She said the word as if it harbored a contagious disease.
“Yes.” Bloody hell, she looked as if she were going to swoon. “Um, allowing for some understandable annoyance due to the deception, wouldn’t most people think that’s good news?”
“I’m afraid I’m not most people,” she said in a barely audible voice.
Before he could say anything further, the door burst open. Baxter strode into the foyer, followed by a bespectacled man with gray hair carrying a black leather medical satchel, and a tall gentleman with an official air. Genevieve appeared to have gathered herself and performed the introductions. When she said his name and title, Baxter gaped at him.
“Viscount?” he repeated. “Yer a bloody viscount?”
Damn it, the man made it sound as if a viscount were synonymous with a monster who eats children for breakfast. “I’m afraid so.”
The look Baxter shot him made it clear he’d like to murder him with his bare hands. Given the oppressive guilt weighing him down and the incessant pounding in his head, Simon wasn’t entirely opposed to letting him, although he was at a loss to explain this unprecedented reaction to his title, which, even though he hadn’t been honest about it, still seemed extreme.
He waded into the awkward silence and quickly told the magistrate what had occurred, giving him only the pertinent facts. After the magistrate and doctor verified that Waverly was, indeed, dead, Dr. Bailey asked Genevieve where he could examine Simon. She led them both to the sitting room while the magistrate, with Baxter’s assistance, saw to the removal of Waverly’s body.
Simon sat on the settee, his gaze fastened on Genevieve who stared out the window while Dr. Bailey examined his wound. He answered the doctor’s questions by rote. No, he no longer felt nauseated or dizzy. Yes, his vision was fine. No, nothing other than his head hurt.
Well, that and his heart, which ached as if it had taken a lead ball dead center.
“How soon before I can travel?” Simon asked, wincing a bit as the doctor applied a salve to his wound.
“You were merely grazed, my lord-it bled a great deal as head wounds do, but except for the lump on your temple you escaped unscathed. Therefore, I’d say you can depart Little Longstone as soon as you like, although I’d recommend traveling by coach rather than on horseback.”
“Is there a livery in town where I can secure a carriage?”
“Yes. I pass right by it on my way home. Would you like me to see to it for you?”
“Yes, thank you. I need to return to London as soon as possible.”
Yes, he did. Which meant leaving Little Longstone…and Genevieve. Given the way she’d looked at him, she clearly wanted him gone. That was good. His life was in London. His job was in London. The sooner he left, the better.
His gaze remained on Genevieve, who continued to stare out the window while Dr. Bailey wrapped a linen bandage around his head. Bloody hell, she was so lovely. And she looked so lonely, standing there by herself. He ached to walk to her, take her in his arms. Would she allow him to? Based on her previous reaction, he doubted it. Indeed, she was more likely to whack him upside his head, which would completely finish him off. And if it didn’t, Baxter would no doubt be delighted to do so.
He had to leave. She had to stay. He would never forget her, but their time together was over.
And surely, after the passage of some time, the raw edge of hurt sawing at him would fade away.
Surely it would.
GENEVIEVE stared out the sitting room as the words Simon had just spoken to Dr. Bailey echoed through her mind. I need to return to London as soon as possible. A humorless sound lodged in her throat. Actually, they weren’t Simon’s words-they were Viscount Kilburn’s.
She squeezed her eyes shut. A viscount. Just another nasty jolt in a morning filled with them. First, thinking he would die. Then, realizing she loved him. Then, the muscle-loosening relief when he regained consciousness, followed by the foolish hope that maybe, somehow, they wouldn’t have to say goodbye. That perhaps he’d come to care for her as she cared for him.
Finally, she’d listened to his admissions. All those lies. The heartbreak. The numbness. The disintegration of dreams she’d barely had time to acknowledge before they were snatched away. As much as she hated that he’d lied to her, she couldn’t deny his reasons were valid. He didn’t know her. Didn’t know he could trust her. He’d done what was necessary to stop a killer-the man who’d murdered Richard-to save himself and other people.
The thought that he’d seduced her to gain access to her home, to the letter, filled her with a combination of hurt and fury that had made it hard to draw a breath. But his assurances that what may have started out that way had turned into something more…her heart had latched on to that, rekindling a spark of hope that his earlier words had extinguished.
So what had she done? Like a fool, she’d begun to hope again. Hope that they could, somehow, find a way to be together; build a life together. Her imagination had taken flight, weaving a happy ending that involved the two of them, standing before the vicar, taking vows to love and cherish. Genevieve Ralston, anonymous author, and Simon Cooper, operative for the Crown.