She needed more recent news. Just as she reached for her stationery to write a note to Mr. Cain, a loud knock banged through the room.
Kate startled, jumping so violently from her seat that half the newspapers slid to the floor. “Oh, my,” she breathed, looking in dismay from the scattered newsprint to the locked blue door. Knuckles rapped against the wood again, and she pressed her hand to her throat as if she could hold back her raging pulse.
Silent as a hunting cat, she moved her feet across the floor toward the front window. Once there, she edged the curtain back. Light slanted from her window, and just as she meant to jerk the curtain back into place, a man stepped into the light, his hand raised in greeting.
“Thank God,” she gasped, pressing her fingers even tighter to her throat as all the air seemed to leave her lungs.
Mr. Penrose. Not Gerard or the constable or whoever else might track her down. Just Mr. Penrose.
She unlocked the door and let him in.
“Mrs. Hamilton. Good evening. I apologize for disturbing you—”
“No, of course not.”
“Are you quite well?”
She dropped her hand from her throat and hid her trembling fingers in her skirts. “I’m perfectly well, thank you. Can I help you with something? Are you—?” It suddenly occurred to her what Mr. Penrose’s appearance must mean. “Is Mr. York returned already?”
“No, I’m here alone, I’m afraid. But Mr. York asked me to deliver this letter personally.”
Kate’s first reaction was relief. Relief that Aidan wasn’t here to see her exposed. But the relief lasted only a heartbeat. Then she desperately wished he was nearby. Within reach. So that she could lean on him and feel safe. As safe as she’d felt when she’d been seventeen and so sure of their place in the world.
Mr. Penrose gestured and she looked down to find his arm outstretched, offering the letter. She made herself reach for it slowly. “Thank you for coming out in the cold to deliver it.”
“My pleasure.” He offered a little bow before turning to leave.
“I’ll let Miss Cain know of your return.”
He didn’t turn back, but she saw the hesitation in his next step and the edge of his jaw bloomed pink. “Please pay my respects to her. Good evening, Mrs. Hamilton.”
“Good evening, Mr. Penrose.”
She waited until he’d shut the door behind him before she sprang forward to throw the bolt. While she was still standing next to the door, she tore open the letter and clutched it in her hands as she devoured it.
“Next month,” she breathed. He wouldn’t be returning until next month? Now she really didn’t know what to feel, though her heart was voting for aching sorrow.
She missed him, and even though she should be glad he wasn
’t coming, she felt only loneliness. Even with all that Aidan didn’t know about her, he still knew her better than anyone in the world. But the things he didn’t know . . . those were the anchors pulling her down. And Aidan was her lifeline. He always had been.
The end of his letter offered an invitation, and in that invitation, Kate found her answer. He would be in London for a few short days before he had to return to his family home for his mother’s birthday.
Kate traced the words with her fingers. She could close the shop for a short time and run to London. Perhaps she could track down that solicitor. Perhaps she could even tell Aidan the truth.
But what was the truth?
Yes, her husband was dead, but did that mean she was free? Gerard’s threat hung over her like a sickle, threatening to sever her from everything she’d built.
You wanted him dead. His hand had curved around the back of her neck, fingers stroking the tender flesh beneath her ears. I saw you go in. . . .
She hadn’t known what to do. Gerard’s eyes had always followed her. Always, from the moment she’d first set foot on the plantation. At first, she’d thought he might be a friend. She’d been wrong.
Though she’d pled with him that night, swearing he was wrong, he hadn’t seemed to hear her. He’d pulled her closer, and then he’d pressed his mouth to her neck. “I’ll help you,” he’d breathed. “I won’t tell them what you did.”
Kate had been frozen in horror, her hands pressed to his chest, useless against his strength.
“I didn’t do anything,” she’d sobbed. He hadn’t believed her. And he hadn’t let her go.