“What?” Devlin stared. He…couldn’t take that in. A strange sensation opened in the pit of his stomach, but… Mystified, he shook his head. “Why?”
“Permit me to explain,” Child glibly replied. “I went to my watchmaker’s on the Strand and noticed Therese in the toy shop next door. She came out shortly after, and we met and chatted—naturally, she’s curious about you and me—and then we saw you getting down from a hackney on the other side of the road.”
Frowning, Devlin nodded. “I’d been to the bank.”
“Well, the point that interested your wife was not where you’d been but where you were going. She said something about catching up with you and getting some flowers for the house, but it was obvious to the meanest intelligence that the ‘catching up with you’ bit was what mattered to her. I helped her negotiate the traffic and ambled along beside her. We had you in sight farther up Southampton Street, but instead of turning toward the market stalls, you turned left.”
A sinking feeling was expanding in Devlin’s gut. His jaw setting, his gaze on Child, he nodded. “Go on.”
“I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t have it. She insisted on seeing where you were going.”
“And?”
“She saw you knock on the door of a town house and a rather lovely, dark-haired lady greet you like a long-lost friend—”
“I’d only just met the woman!”
“Be that as it may, it appeared she was delighted to see you. Exceedingly delighted, if I may say so, and you smiled charmingly, allowed her to take your arm in a very friendly not to say familiar manner, and went inside with her.”
“Of course she was damned delighted to see me! I had a draft for a thousand pounds in my pocket.”
Aghast, Child stared at him. “A thousand?” He blinked. “I know I haven’t been in London for a while, but that seems a trifle steep for such a lady’s services.”
Devlin closed his eyes, then raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. His life was careening out of control, and of course, Child was there.
After a second, Child dropped his act. “Talk to me, old man. What’s going on?”
Devlin gritted his teeth and ground out, “She wasn’t that sort of lady.”
“So I supposed.”
He snapped his eyes open. “And you didn’t tell Therese?”
“I tried.” Child’s expression turned grim. “Heaven help me, I did—several times. She wasn’t having it.”
Devlin knew his wife had a tempestuous temper, but he’d never seen her lose it to the point of not listening to reason. “I told her…only this morning, I told her I loved her.” He couldn’t stop his features hardening. “And hours later, she saw what she did and instantly believed the worst of me.”
Child tipped his head consideringly. “She mentioned your confession, but from what I could gather, she interpreted it more along the lines of ‘he told me he loved me, but in reality, he loves her more—or at least as much.’”
A vise had locked about his chest and seemed to be tightening with every breath. “She thought I was betraying her.” Betraying her love. How could things have gone so wrong?
Child was watching him over the rim of the glass. “You still haven’t said who the lovely lady was.”
“She’s Madame Faberge, the wife of one of the Russian jewelers who came to show their wares at the exhibition.” Briefly, Devlin outlined why he’d gone to the town house in Henrietta Street. He paused, then said, “They would have had to rent a place, and like most foreign tradesmen visiting London, they would have discovered their budget didn’t stretch to lodgings in any of the better areas.”
Child nodded. “And this present you fetched—that was what you put into the safe?”
“It’s a fabulous piece. I wanted to surprise her.” The reality that Therese was no longer in the house sank in.
But his sense of ill-usage was growing, the anger that rose in its wake a hard emotion that sealed off all softer feelings. He couldn’t swallow the fact that even after his confession of the morning, she hadn’t trusted him—not even enough to give him a chance to explain what it was she’d seen.
Child had been studying him. Devlin had no idea what his childhood friend could read in his face, but after a moment more, Child stirred and said, “I admit I don’t know her well, but…” He paused, staring into his empty glass as if seeking guidance from the dregs. “When we got back here, she seemed to be…encased in ice. Frozen inside and out. I managed to get her alone for a moment and tried to plead your case.” His lips twisted in a self-deprecatory grimace. “I tried to make her think things through, but she told me she couldn’t.” Child looked up and met Devlin’s eyes. “That she couldn’t think. That if she did, she would shatter into a million pieces.”
Child pulled a face. “You know me—I thought she was being overly dramatic, and I pushed. I told her that you hadn’t been lying when you’d told her you loved her.” Child met Devlin’s eyes. “I don’t know what’s been going on between you—why it’s taken so long for you to admit to loving her when clearly you do and have done for years—but what I glimpsed inside her…” Child’s features tightened, and he sat up, carefully placed the empty tumbler on the table by the chair, then looked directly at Devlin. “Damn it, man! She was so damnedwounded.”
The kaleidoscope of fact and conjecture whirling in Devlin’s brain stopped. And he saw…
He felt the blood drain from his face, along with all expression.
