Page 4 of How to Seduce a Viscount (Wed Within a Year #3)

Luce let out a calming breath. He would solve the mystery of her when she awoke.

Until then, he could turn his attention to what she carried.

What had been worth almost dying for? Had it been on her person or had she carried the message in her mind?

If it was the latter, it made her survival all the more urgent.

If she died, the message would die with her.

Certainly, Grandfather could send it again, but valuable time would be lost and with Grandfather time was always of the essence.

Luce glanced around the room, searching for her clothes.

He spied them draped over a spindled chair by the fire.

He rose and retrieved them, starting with the coat first. That seemed the most likely place.

He patted the pockets, rifled through them, finding nothing.

Definitely one of Grandfather’s messengers then.

They never carried anything extra on their person.

Nothing that would give away who they were or who they worked for. They were to be anonymous.

He glanced at the bed where she slept. It would be hard to be anonymous with snowflake hued hair.

Beauty was meant to be noticed. It had its purpose, too.

Beauty enticed. Men would tell a beautiful woman anything.

Likewise, a woman would tell a handsome man her own husband’s secrets if asked in the right way.

Over the years, Luce had learned the power of a touch here, a smile there, a lingering gaze, a hand to the small of a woman’s back as they strolled through a crowded ballroom.

Quiet attentions were the most potent, the ones that made a woman feel seen and appreciated.

It was a sad commentary on husbands that there were so many lonely women willing to talk in exchange for so little.

Luce turned the coat inside out to better see the lining.

Was the message sewn inside? Was there something he’d overlooked?

Ah, there! A narrow slit beneath the arm not easily noticed even with the coat turned inside out.

The opening was only large enough for two fingers.

He rooted around carefully, the tips of his fingers brushing against a slip of paper, slim and flat.

Not rolled or folded. Nothing that would bulge.

He retrieved it, marvelling at how small it was.

A quarter sheet of note paper, no more, on which the fate of something as large as a nation might hang in the balance, proving to Luce yet again that the pen was so much mightier than the sword.

He brought the slip back to his chair for further study.

It was as he anticipated: a code. Something that must be written down in order to be cracked.

With coded messages, nuances like spacing mattered.

Everything was part of the pattern. It could not be memorised for oral delivery without potentially losing a vital component.

Graphical shapes met his stare instead of letters drawn with straight lines.

The code was likely written in Arabic. He looked closer.

No, not Arabic. That didn’t seem quite right to a more closely trained eye.

There were more dots than Arabic usually employed.

Perso-Arabic then. He’d have to get his books out tomorrow.

He set the code aside and glanced at the bed.

What else could she tell him about the coded message?

He reached for her hand, taking it in his own, lacing the delicate elegance of her slim fingers through his own.

‘Please, wake up, lovely one. I am going to need you.’ Then, out of reflex, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

She had to wake up. There was a message to deliver. There were men to fight. Luce would need her protection. The earl could not afford to lose another of his Horsemen, another of his beloved grandsons. The Greek cause was counting on her. So many were counting on her if she could just wake up.

Some vital part of her pushed its way forward into consciousness but it was difficult.

Her limbs were heavy, there was an ache and pain and she was so very hot.

Better to stay asleep her body counselled her mind.

In sleep there was healing, there was peace.

To wake up would mean hurt and illness. Those would be the price of consciousness. Did she really want to chase that?

This wasn’t about want. This was about need and she needed to wake. To sleep was dangerous. What might escape her lips if she slept? What secrets might she give up in the throes of fever? For surely that was the source of her heat.

From a distance, she heard a voice, pleading, wishing, for her to wake up.

A hand enfolded hers, its grip firm and healthy, lending her strength as it drew her forward to wakefulness.

Lips brushed her knuckles with an unlooked-for gentleness.

She was closer now. She could hear words.

Wake for me, I need you. Yes. Yes, she thought. She would wake up for this. For him.

She forced her eyes open to meet his gaze, dark and warm like melted chocolate before milk was poured in.

A smile of relief and joy took his face in gradual increments.

His expression gave away much. He’d been worried for her.

He was still worried. Her injury must be severe, then.

It certainly felt severe. Between the ache in her side and the fever, she would not last long in the waking world.

She would need sleep, but before she slipped back, she had to tell him.

‘My coat…’ She could barely make the words. They stuck in her throat.

He had a glass of water to her lips. ‘I have the code,’ he offered softly. ‘You’re not to worry. The message has been delivered. Your attackers are dealt with. You got two of them. I will question the other and learn who sent them.’

Wren swallowed, grateful for the cool water and for his news, delivered as it was in gentle tones and concise words as if he knew she didn’t have long. That every waking second counted. ‘Is it bad?’ Her voice sounded stronger but that strength was an illusion. Already her eyelids were heavy.

‘I’ve stitched you up. The doctor has been sent for.’ He was holding her hand again. She liked the feel of it, the sense of connection it wrought. She wasn’t fighting alone. ‘There will be fever but we will get you through this.’

She wanted so desperately to give a nod. She could not make her head move. She thought she managed a small smile instead as her eyes closed. She could rest now. The business of the message had been dealt with.

‘Wait.’ Luce’s voice was sharp. ‘What’s your name?’

She made a desperate effort to whisper, ‘Wren. Wren Audley.’ That’s when she knew just how worried he was and just how badly she was hurt.

He wanted her name in case he needed it for a tombstone.

But she couldn’t die. Not yet. There was a code to crack and Stepan to find.

There was work to do and she couldn’t do it dead.