Hew scowled. “Aren’t you the son of the most renowned spies from the Napoleonic Wars? You can find a female in a warehouse.”
“That was low, even for you,” Will said, but his shoulders had straightened, and the lines of his face had deepened into determination. “I’ll try the docks first.” But his tone was the sort one would use to humor a small child. “Now get into bed.”
“I’ll get in after you’ve gone.”
Will shook his head. “I want to see it.”
“You can see my bare arse,” Hew said, pulling his coat off and immediately regretting the quick movement. Finally, he lay under the bedclothes and listened to the door close as Will went out. The sun was lower now, casting the room into shadow. He supposed Will thought he was doing Hew a favor by forcing him to rest, but Belle had been sleeping in the bed, and the pillow sheets smelled of her.
He turned his head into the pillow and inhaled deeply, catching the scents of soap and cinnamon and woman. What the hell was he doing? Why didn’t he just return to the Farm? After all the effort and time and sacrifices he’d made to join the Royal Saboteurs, now he would jeopardize his place for a shopkeeper who could take care of herself?
Except how was she to care for herself if her father was dead? Hew wasn’t as certain of that fact as Will. Pennywhistle’s men had proven themselves incompetent more than once. Not that he was complaining—he owed his life and Belle owed her shop to their incompetence. Better thugs would have killed him the first time, or if they’d failed, would have succeeded in burning Howard’s Teas & Treats. These thugs might actually plan to exchange George Howard for Hew himself, rather than using the exchange as an excuse to attack.
Whatever happened, he didn’t want Belle anywhere near the park tomorrow night. He wanted her safe. Hew closed his eyes and tried to ignore the voice that asked how he would keep her safe if he was in the north of England and she in London.
Hew rolled carefully on his side and clenched his eyes shut, willing sleep to come and, with it, the surcease of thought. Once he and Will had taken care of Pennywhistle’s men, Belle would be safe again. Her father would be returned to her, or some other guardian—perhaps her brother-in-law—arranged, and she could go on doing what she loved—selling teas.
He could go on doing what he loved—working for the Royal Saboteurs.
You’ll never meet another woman like her, his mind said even as he began to succumb to exhaustion. Brave, clever, beautiful, brash...
Impossible to clear his mind of her when her scent all but surrounded him. His heart had obviously not learned its lesson with Clara. He recalled the pain of Clara’s betrayal, the shame of it, and the confusion.
She’s not Clara.
No, she was nothing like Clara, but that didn’t mean he could trust her or trust any woman. He’d vowed never to marry again, never to fall in love again.
You’re already in love with her. You never loved Clara. Not really.
Hew opened his eyes. Where the devil had that thought come from? He had loved Clara. He’d been madly in love with her.
Hadn’t he?
What exactly had he loved about her, he asked himself, staring up at the ceiling in the room that had gone dark now but for the flickering of the fire. He’d loved her beauty. He’d loved bedding her. He was like any other young man, randy and eager to sample the pleasures of the marriage bed. But had he really loved Clara, the person? Had he thought about her when he’d been at work? Had he ever worried that she might be tired or hungry? Had he even known what tea she preferred or how she took that tea?
Hew was ashamed to admit, even to himself in this dark room, that the answer to every question was no. He’d liked the idea of having a wife, liked the pleasure of a pretty woman on his arm, but he’d never really known or loved Clara. He’d never even understood her. Her tears and pleas were an annoyance. If he had listened to her, cared for her, he would have understood long before she’d run away that she was unhappy. How many times had she complained he worked too much? How many times had she begged to return to London for a few weeks or months?
A husband who’d cared, who’d thought of someone or something other than his own ambitions, would have listened to those cries, would have done what he could to accommodate her, would have put his needs second.
Hew had done none of those. The truth was, she had been an unfaithful wife, but he had been an uncaring, selfish husband.
And maybe, deep down, his own failings were the reason he didn’t want to marry again. He feared he was a failure as a husband once and he’d be so again.
He’d tell Belle that, if she ever decided she wanted to marry him. He’d explain that he didn’t want to fail her, as he’d failed Clara. Except he could imagine what Belle would say—“Do you think I’d allow you to fail me?”
No, she wouldn’t. She’d smack the back of his head and tell him to straighten up. And he’d do it because—Goddamn it all—he loved her.
The admission seemed to lift a weight from his chest, and he was finally able to sink into a light sleep. Will would find Belle. Will would bring her back. She’d be safe. Hew would be safe too because Belle did not want to marry him.
And he didn’t want to marry her...very much.
BELLE STARTLED AWAKE when she heard the voices. The warehouse had been quiet for a couple of hours, and she’d fallen into a sort of sleep. She was too cold and too uncomfortable on the floor to sleep well, but she’d been dozing. She’d been resolutely not thinking about Hew Arundel or her father or her tea shop—the last of those being difficult considering she was surrounded by the scent of tea.
“I do know the chit,” a man was saying, his accent rough and his voice a deep bass. “Well, don’t know ‘er, but I’ve seen ‘er talking to the owner. Don’t know why ye think she’s ‘ere. Everyone’s gone ‘ome for the night. I’m ‘ere to make sure everything stays neat and tidy until morning.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” a more cultured baritone voice answered. “I’ll have a look about then leave you to make your rounds.”
She heard the clink of coins.
