“Please. For Meg.”
A wave of something heaved across the man’s face. A stricken look. One of reluctance, fear—and grief. He railed at Tom under his breath and escaped.
Now, echoes of those same emotions shredded their way through Tom’s body.
Across the drawing room, the doors finally parted. Meg entered like a stranger, like a figure he’d seen in magazines or in fancy drawn carriages. His stomach flopped.
He missed her flyaway hairs and braids.
Her bare feet.
“I received your note.” She swept toward him, a strong perfume of violets tickling his nose. “Is something the matter? You are early.”
“I had to speak with yer uncle.”
She smiled. “You did not praise him enough. I have spent a great deal of time with him over the past days. He told me of my parents.”
That was important to her.
Well, it had been.
Before.
“Somethingiswrong.” Meg’s brows came together and the smile wavered. “What is it?”
“I want ye to stay away from him.”
“What?”
“Ye heard me.” He took a step back, toward the window, into the dusty rays of sunlight. “He left.”
“He is coming back. For the dinner party.”
“I dinnae think so.”
“What did you say to him?” Her voice pitched higher. “If this concerns the letters, you are unjust. We know too little to determine anything.”
“I know enough.”
“Well, I do not.” She stepped closer, forehead tightening. “If you believe the allegations against him, you must also believe them against me.”
“Ye are innocent.”
“Which you concluded how?”
“Because I know ye.”
“And I know him.” Her eyes brightened with feverish indignation. “I cannot explain this to you. I realize I have not my memories. I further realize I have spent little more than a few days in the man’s company.”
“Meg—”
“Yes, he is peculiar. I admit I had my own reservations upon our first encounters. But he is bashful, not malicious. He did not kill anyone.”
“I want it to be true more than ye know.”
“Do you? Because you seem very anxious to accuse him and be done with it. Were you not friends?”
“Aye.”
