Ring of Secrets (51 page)

He eased closer, his gaze so compelling she feared she might drown in it. “Something to do with military business, then? You will return soon?”

“I don't know. I don't think Papa knows.”

“Dear Miss Fairchild. Gwyneth.” His fingers tightened around hers, but not so much as the band around her chest squeezed tight. Never before had he spoken her given name. Hearing it in his rich tenor, spoken with such affection, made her fear her tears would overcome her again. “Why must you go with him? Can you not stay here with your aunt?”

Her attempt at swallowing got stuck in her throat. “I am all Papa has since my mother passed away, and so he is loath to send me anywhere without him.” True, so true. Why, then, was he sending her an ocean away, to a hostile land?

“But surely there is a way to convince him. What if…” He paused and then swallowed before pulling her closer. “What if you were betrothed? Surely then he would not expect you to pick up and follow him?”

Her heart quickened inside her, beating a desperate tattoo against her rib cage.
Would
that change anything? Could it? “I…I don't know.”

“Gwyneth.” Oh, he made her name into music. The breeze toyed with his honey-colored hair under the brim of his hat and made her itch to touch the curls. “My darling, I have such a great love and admiration for you. If you would feel inclined toward accepting my hand, I will gladly seek your father out this very moment to attain his permission.”

For a long moment all she could think was
He proposed!
Then she drew in a quick breath and nodded with too much enthusiasm, sending a flower falling from the brim of her bonnet. “Of course I am so inclined. Only…” She drew away when he moved closer still, recalling Papa's discomposure mere minutes before. “Let me speak with him first, as he was a bit out of countenance.”

“Certainly. Yes. Anything.” He laughed and raised her hands to kiss her knuckles, as if surprised she had said yes. Indeed, relief joined the joy sparkling in his eyes. “I will take a turn through your garden to try and calm myself while you go in.”

“Perfect.” If only she could be sure it would make any difference to Papa. If only she could be sure that, if not, Sir Arthur would wait for her. She pulled away, but he snagged her hand again.

“Gwyneth. Darling.” He smiled, so bright and handsome it made her doubt any trouble could exist in their world. “I will make you very happy.”

A smile stole onto her lips. It melted away again in a moment, but he had turned toward the garden by then.

Mrs. Wesley, eyes wide, held her place at the carriage but made a shooing motion toward the door. “You had better hurry, love. If the general does
not
change his mind, we had best hasten on our way.”

Gwyneth flew up the steps to the door and back into the house. For a moment she paused just to breathe in home, the home she'd already resigned herself not to enter again. But she hadn't time to savor it—and if her mission went well, she needn't say goodbye to it at all.

Please, Lord. Please let him relent.

She sped down the hallway and around the corner toward Papa's study. He always ended up there, either busy at work or else, lately, just staring at the picture of Mama she'd painted for him. A professional portrait hung in the drawing room, but he said she had done the better job. Praise which always made her heart expand.

The study door was before her by the time she realized voices spilled from within it. Two of them—though when had anyone else arrived? And surely no servant would dare speak over Papa like that.

“Isaac, listen to yourself!”

Gwyneth froze a step away from the door. It was open a crack, letting her look in, though only the corner of the desk was visible, and just behind it, where Papa stood. But she needn't see the other man to realize it was Uncle Gates who spoke.

“‘Isaac' now, is it?” Papa's laugh sounded devoid of humor. “Odd how you only remember our familial ties when you disagree with my decisions. Otherwise it's always my rank to which you appeal.”

A loud bang made Gwyneth jump. Uncle's fist connecting with wood, perhaps? “Blast it, Fairchild, it's your rank you are abusing!”

“No! 'Tis my rank I am trying to honor. Someone, Gates, must do what is right. Someone must stand for justice rather than hatred. Someone must—”

“Oh, hang all that noble rot.” A nasty curse spilled from Uncle Gate's lips even as the sound of shattering glass echoed. Gwyneth recoiled, staring in horror at that sliver of the room she could see.
What precious keepsake had he destroyed? The vase Mama had chosen two years ago? The small porcelain figure Gwyneth had given Papa for his birthday when she was fifteen? Something precious, for only the precious gained a place of honor on Papa's shelves.

And why? Why would her uncle, Mama's own brother, do such a thing?

He sent something else toppling. “You are undermining
years
of careful work! The Home Office—”

“The Home Office, you say?” Papa leaned forward onto his desk, that look of deathly calm upon his face. The one that sent underlings scurrying away with the terrible dread that they had disappointed the best man in all England. “Nay. The Home Office has decent men in it yet. A few at least, though you are not one of them. This evil must be stopped, Gates.
You
must be stopped.”

There came a shuffling sound, one Gwyneth couldn't fathom the meaning of, but which made Papa snap upright. Made him lift his hands, palms out, and make a placating motion. “Gates—”

“I am through reasoning with you, Fairchild. Tell me where they are.
Now.”

One of Papa's hands lowered toward his desk drawer, but another shuffle made him pause. “I am only—”

“You think me so great a fool? I already removed
that,
dear brother.”

Papa's swallow looked painful. “I cannot help you.”

More curses exploded from Uncle Gates. Closer now, as though he were rounding the desk, just out of her view. “Like thunder you can't! Tell me where they are!”

Papa's sharp inhalation was clearly audible, even in the hall. “Gone.”

“Gone?
Gone?
What do you mean,
gone?”

“Just that. Out of my hands and on their way to those who can put a stop to this before you destroy two nations in the name of avarice.”

A cry tore through the room, guttural and animalistic. Light flashed on something metallic as her uncle charged into view, the gleaming length held before him. Still, she had no idea what it was he wielded until she saw the silver stained red.

She pressed her hands to her mouth to hold back the scream, hold back the horror. But it didn't help. Uncle still hissed words of hatred.
Papa still staggered back, away from the blade. Then he crumpled and fell.

Gates followed him down, muttering, “You couldn't have, not yet. You must have it.” And his hands shoved into Papa's jacket and searched.

Papa, fight back!
But he didn't. He gasped, seemed to struggle for a moment, but then he went lax.
No. No, no, no, no, no!

Did she bleed too? She must. She felt no life, no heat, nothing. Couldn't move, couldn't make a sound, couldn't
be.
Not anymore. Not without them both. Mama, and now Papa too.

His head lolled to the side and he blinked. And his gaze focused on her. There was life yet in those familiar depths, but it seemed to flicker. To sputter. “Gwyneth.”

She didn't hear it, not really. Just saw the movement of his lips. But her uncle, tossing Papa's case of calling cards into the wall, snarled.
“Now
you worry about your darling daughter? Oh, have no fear, Fairchild. Dear Uncle Gates will take care of our precious girl.”

He had called her that before, and always she had accepted it as an affectionate gesture. Now, though, it sounded filthy. Threatening.

Papa blinked again, tried to pull in a breath that choked him. Again his gaze sharpened, caught hers. This time when his lips moved, she knew that he made no sound whatsoever.
Run.

Then it was gone, all light in his eyes. Extinguished like a flame left before an open window.

And she ran. She turned on her silent slippers and fled back around the corner and down the hall. Out the doors and straight into the waiting carriage.

“Gwyneth? Miss Fairchild?”

All she noted of the voice from the garden was that it wasn't Uncle Gates's—nothing else mattered. Seeing that the Wesleys were already seated, their eyes now wide, Gwyneth pulled the door shut herself. “Drive!”

An eternal second later, the driver's “Yah!” reached her ears and the carriage jolted forward. When she closed her eyes, all she could see was darkness yawning before her.

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