Somehow, she had never quite believed that Davis meant to do violence with the rifle scope. Part of her still did not believe it. It seemed impossible that the charming, irrepressible man who had corresponded with her for nearly three years could also be plotting some kind of attack.
But the church—the notes on the rifle’s range—
The evidence, though circumstantial, was unnerving. She could not make it square with the person she’d thought she’d known.
“We have to tell Jasper,” she said. “We must get in touch with him.”
“Yes,” Selina said, “we do. I have a signal that I use to alert him when he has correspondence here. A red leatherbound book I set in my office window, which can just barely be seen from the street. Within a day or two of placing the book there, I’ll receive a note from him with a time to meet.”
Relief washed through Lydia. “Meanwhile, I can wait for him at home. He may come there first, and if he does, I can alert him immediately.”
Selina nodded briskly and turned to Arthur. “Strathrannoch, if you do not mind, I should like to take this information about the rifle scope and St. Saviour’s directly to the Home Office in the meantime.”
“Of course.” He hesitated. His eyes, all the colors shadowed, flicked from Lydia to Selina and back again. “If you’ll permit me to remain here in your library.”
“In Belvoir’s? Why?”
“If Jasper comes with a note, I might be able to intercept him. I should”—his voice hitched ever so slightly—“like to speak to him about my brother. Find out what he knows.”
“Ah.” Selina’s face softened slightly. “I take your meaning. I assure you, Strathrannoch, I will do my very best to help you find your brother before he is able to make use of this weapon.”
Arthur’s jaw was as hard and ruthless as a blow. He looked down at the papers on the desk, nodded once, and did not speak.
Chapter 24
I want to say
I wish I could tell you
If you’ll only come home
—from Arthur Baird to Davis Baird, crumpled and thrown into the grate
In the shadowed office at Belvoir’s Library, Arthur watched the rain paint streaks on the leaded-glass window. The duchess, who’d proven even more terrifyingly competent than Lydia had implied, had produced a folding military-style cot from her closet, which she laid out for Arthur to sleep upon. She’d also arranged for a cold supper, a decanter of brandy, and her husband’s valet to attend to Arthur in the morning—a variety of luxuries which he was not used to and did not know how to account for.
He did not know how to account for any of this.
He’d pushed the cot to the far wall and arranged himself with his back against the plaster. From there he could see out the window to the alley where Selina had said Jasper might drop off a note.
Arthur suspected he could not stay awake for the next two days running, but he supposed it was worth a try.
Anything was worth a try. He felt off-balance, uncertain, almost desperate in his need.
He’d hated to be parted from Lydia. It had feltwrongto watch her walk out the back door of the library, to see her pale hesitant expression as she looked back at him.
But he’d had to do it. So many people—Lydia, Huw, Georgiana, now these new companions of Lydia’s—had come to his aid, and their earnest eagerness had sharpened the fear inside him to a razor’s edge.
He did not know what to do with all of their generosity. It had been hard—terribly, painfully difficult—to ask for Lydia’s assistance, and she had been the one to come to him. To ask these strangers for their help was no easier.
Because of him, they could all be in danger. Because of him, Lydia had chased after the Thibodeaux’s coach—and could, so easily, have been harmed by the weapons they’d carried.
Because he had not seen Davis for what he was. Because Arthur was not enough on his own to keep Davis from straying down an indefensible path.
The drawing of St. Saviour’s Church, laid out in plain brownish lines, had felt like the scrape of glass against Arthur’s skin. He had not realized until that moment how much he wanted it all to have been some kind of mistake. He’d thought he’d extinguished the last bit of hope inside him when it came to his brother, but it was still there, impossible to fully root out.
It was dangerous to hope. Hope made the potential for disappointment so much vaster—he knew it did. It was why, with Lydia, his fears seemed to rise in consonance with the desires of his heart. He wanted her—and he was afraid he could never beenough for her. The contrast between their families was all the more stark now: she with her boisterous and loving siblings, and he, frantic to prevent his brother from committing violence. From losing a piece of his soul.
But he could not stop himself. He wanted her anyway. He would do almost anything—
