“Are you sneaking away?” she asked, her expression finally sobering.
“Just for a ride. I’ll be back for dinner.”
“But I’ve only just returned. Stay?”
He swallowed his nervousness.
“Save your rides for after the guests arrive. You’ll need them then.”
“Good point.” Aidan let his lips form a smile and leaned in to give Marissa’s cheek one more kiss. “Very well, sister.” He tucked her arm into his and led her to the couch. “Tell me the most dangerous thing you did in Constantinople.”
“The most dangerous?”
“Yes. I’ll find it entertaining, but if your husband has put you in danger, I’ll also have the perfect excuse not to apologize.”
She cocked her head, puzzled.
“I did not treat him well before the wedding.”
Marissa’s gaze dipped to the floor. “You were quite abominable.”
“I’m sorry, Marissa. Truly. I’ll speak to him when we’re alone.”
“Thank you.” She took his hand and squeezed it hard. “You’d best not wait too long. He is your only friend, after all.”
“Ha. And here I thought you’d weep with feminine gratitude.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain you’re entirely well?”
Aidan smiled. Then he grinned. “Yes, I can honestly say I’ve never been better.”
Chapter 20
Kate tore frantically through the new stack of papers that had been delivered to her shop that afternoon. Door locked and lamps blazing against the dusk, she spread them out over her countertop and searched every page, every word for any hint of the investigation. Gerard was alive, she knew that much. The “vicious assault” against his person had been described in detail in the papers months before.
She’d been terrified at first, and then horribly confused. She hadn’t been named as the attacker. Not exactly. Instead, Gerard had happily spread a fantastical tale about a late night attack on the plantation, the night after his father’s death. He’d never seen his assailant, and could not say who’d struck the brutal blow. But his young stepmother, so recently widowed, had gone missing that same night. He was “deeply concerned” about her disappearance, especially considering the timing.
He hadn’t exactly damned her, but he’d skillfully painted a picture that could reveal her to be a villain or a victim . . . and it all depended upon his next words about her.
Despite her utter dismay, Kate was hardly surprised. Gerard had always been clever. Frightfully so. He’d framed this story so that he could damn her or save her. He now held the power.
The first bundle of papers that Mr. Cain had collected detailed the attack and the first days of the search for the missing Mrs. Gallow. Gerard had pleaded with the good English folk of Ceylon for help in the search. But that had been months before. He wouldn’t have left it at that. So Kate scoured the papers in front of her, terrified she’d find nothing, and equally terrified for news.
Her eyes caught on a familiar name and stuttered to a halt. Her name. And Gerard’s. A quick note that Mr. Gerard Gallow had sailed to India after finding evidence that Mrs. David Gallow had been seen there. The ambiguity had become less neutral and more suspicious. “Mr. Gallow refuses to address the question of whether Mrs. David Gallow was in distress during her journey or whether she fled Ceylon willingly.”
So Gerard had followed her to India. And if he found where she’d been in India, then he might follow the trail here. More worrying yet, though she’d written to the solicitor in London who’d asked so many questions about Hamilton Coffees, he hadn’t responded. She’d written again and received no response. It felt wrong. It felt . . . threatening.
Had Gerard hired that man to find her? And for God’s sake, what would that mean?
Her hands flew over the papers as she traced the lines, checking for more news. There was none, but these papers were still months old. Kate needed more information. She needed more clues. Perhaps Gerard had given up his search. Perhaps he’d already moved on to maligning her name, accusing her of things she’d never done.
You wanted him dead. . . .
That hadn’t been true, but she’d still felt terror at his words, because even though she hadn’t hurt her husband, she did know something about his death that she couldn’t reveal. He’d never recovered from the injuries he’d suffered in that riding accident and had been bedridden for most of those seven years after. But it hadn’t been illness that had killed him.
Her hands began to shake, so Kate pressed them hard to the papers and tried to calm her heart. But her mind was racing. How could she have willingly entombed herself in such blithe ignorance since she’d landed in England? How could she have hidden beneath the bedclothes like a child? She’d thought herself so clever, moving here and changing her name. She’d been a fool.
She traced the pages for a third time, still searching for her name. Then she turned the pages over and looked again. But there was nothing.