Page 5 of How to Seduce a Viscount (Wed Within a Year #3)

S he didn’t die, although there were times over the next three days when she thought she might, especially if one counted dying of embarrassment.

For someone who detested being dependent on others for even the merest of assistance, Wren had been reliant on the immensely kind Mrs Hartley and the stoically practical Rose for everything, large or small.

And Luce, too. Whenever she’d been awake, he’d been there at her bedside.

She’d rather have starved than let him feed her beef broth from a spoon as if she were an infant, but Luce wouldn’t hear of such foolishness.

Wren did understand though that she was lucky the sting to her pride was greater than the sting of her injury.

A mid-grade fever had subsided, leaving her grouchy and restless in a bed she was truly too weak to leave.

That didn’t mean she hadn’t tried. Day two, she had attempted to get out of bed and managed to stand up by herself for all of twenty seconds before taking a tentative step and falling over.

Her folly had brought Luce running to pick her up off the floor and a visit from the doctor to check her stitches.

Such bravado had added two more days of bedrest to the doctor’s orders.

Unfortunately, Wren couldn’t argue with the suggestion.

She was kitten-weak in ways that went beyond the gash in her side.

Bedrest would ease her wound, but only time would restore the blood she’d lost. That last contributed prominently to her grouchiness.

She could hardly track down word of Stepan stuck in a bed, wearing one of Luce’s nightshirts.

But she decided, after her two days of extra bedrest were up, it wouldn’t stop her from helping with the first part of her mission.

Her brain was in perfect working order even though her strength was not.

She could still contribute on that front.

Fuelled with determination, Wren carefully got out of bed and stood slowly, this time making sure to hold tight to the poster as she inched towards the dressing robe draped over the chair.

Luce’s chair. Where he sat when he came to visit, which wasn’t as often as she’d like but she understood.

He had a message to decode and time was of the essence.

He was working. He didn’t have time to read aloud to her or play cards.

Although, Mrs Hartley had mentioned he’d not left her side that first night when she’d been in the most danger.

It was only when the danger had passed that he’d vacated his chair, seeing her for a few minutes for a bedside supper.

He spent those minutes giving her an update on her health and offering assurances that she was healing well.

But they had not discussed the message after that first night.

Nor had he asked any further personal questions.

Wren reached for Luce’s robe, a black silk garment that smelt faintly of winter woods and spice.

She breathed it in and laughed at her silliness.

Of course it would happen this way: that she’d manage to capture Luce Parkhurst’s attentions only while she was asleep.

That was how her luck was. She often got what she wished for but in ways she’d not intended.

Wren gingerly slid her arms through the sleeves, her movements stiff and slow.

A person never quite realised how connected one’s muscles all were until some of those muscles were out of operation.

Any motion of her arm pulled at her side.

It would be a while before she could even think about using her stiletto.

Just the thought of trying to stab with it in her present condition made her wince.

Now for the door. Just five steps. She rested triumphantly when she reached it without mishap.

She opened the door and stepped into the hall to make the journey to the library.

The length of the corridor looked daunting.

She would take it one door at a time, she told herself.

There was no rush. Thank goodness this was not like her usual jobs for the earl where stealth was required.

There’d be nothing stealthy about her progress today and she certainly didn’t have the strength to hide.

If any of the servants came upon her in the hall, she’d have to persuade them to help her along instead of sending her back to bed.

It was indeed a journey by the time she reached the library but well worth it for those windows.

She leaned quietly against the door frame, gathering herself from that final effort, and took it all in.

The enormous bank of cathedral windows that let in copious amounts of daylight even in winter, the pleasant warmth of the room she could feel even from where she stood and the man who sat, enthralled in his work at the long table with hair mussed, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled up and glasses perched on his fine, long nose.

Not even the windows could compete with the sight of that.

‘Beautiful view,’ Wren commented, dragging her reluctant gaze back to the windows. ‘I see the snow has lasted.’ The limbs of the sycamores lining the drive glistened in the sunlight beyond the windows, majestic and magical in their snow-kissed glory.

‘Wren! What are you doing out of bed? Did you walk all the way on your own?’ Luce pushed back from the table and raced to her side.

‘All the way down the hall,’ she offered wryly.

‘It must be a whole hundred yards. Quite the journey,’ she glibly mitigated the accomplishment.

‘You needn’t fuss.’ But silently she was grateful for his arm about her and the support he offered as he settled her in a chair beside the fire.

Her efforts had cost her more than she’d anticipated.

Luce gave her a stern obsidian stare. ‘You could have fallen. For someone so eager to be up and about you seem very willing to risk bedrest again.’ He reached for a soft velvety throw the shade of deep mahogany and draped it over her lap.

‘I’m not in my dotage,’ she scolded even as her fingers luxuriated in the plushness of the blanket and her mind basked in the indulgence of being cared for in spite of her protests to the contrary.

‘No, but you are barefoot in a nightshirt in a house undergoing renovations in the middle of January.’ Luce took the seat across from her, his gaze making her keenly aware of her rather unsatisfactory dishabille.

She must look a fright, drowning in his nightshirt and robe, her hair a-tangle from lying abed.

The words ‘waif’ and ‘orphan’ came to mind.

Hardly words for how she’d like Luce Parkhurst to remember her.

Luce tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, a smile curling on his mouth as he offered a friendly scolding of his own. ‘ You are stubborn. You don’t like others taking care of you, even when you need it.’

‘I don’t like owing others. It makes a person weak.

’ She didn’t allow people to fuss over her in part because she knew no one would.

Who was there to fuss over her? There were no parents, no siblings, no beloved friend.

If she were to disappear, only the earl would note her absence.

When he died, there’d be no one. It was best not to get used to such pleasures when she knew she’d lose them.

‘Relying on others can be dangerous in my line of work.’

‘Which would be what, exactly?’ Luce queried with a hard stare that made her wonder if he’d believe a half truth or at least accept it if he couldn’t believe it.

‘You already know. I work for your grandfather. I run messages for him.’ All true.

There wasn’t a single lie among those words, except that they weren’t complete.

She did more than run messages. But did it matter?

The words wouldn’t be true much longer. Soon, she’d be retired.

Wren pushed the thought away. She didn’t want to think about that yet. Who would she be if she wasn’t Falcon?

Luce gave a considering nod. ‘What else do you do for him?’

‘Why do you think there’s anything else?’ She knit her brow in an attempt at subterfuge, hoping to throw him off the scent, minimal as that hope might be.

Luce gave a chuckle. ‘Because, Miss Wren Audley, you left me two dead men on my doorstep to discreetly dispose of courtesy of your blade. It’s a most wicked weapon for a messenger to carry. Which brings me back to my previous question. What else do you do for my grandfather?’

‘A girl alone in the world can’t be too careful.

I like to cover all my bases, Mr Parkhurst, or do you prefer Lord Waring these days?

’ She offered the question with a smile made to distract.

If subterfuge didn’t work, perhaps redirection would.

She’d far rather talk about his new title than talk about herself.

But he wasn’t fooled by her enquiry or her smile. ‘Luce is fine. And a girl alone indeed. It’s an odd choice for my grandfather and a rather fraught one. He must be very sure of your abilities to put you in such situations.’

‘He is, and you should be, too. I’m only sorry I didn’t get the third man.’ Perhaps distracting him by discussing business would be more successful.

Luce gave another enigmatic nod. Was that a nod of approval?

Or a nod of concession acknowledging he’d get nothing more out of her at the moment?

She hoped for the latter. ‘It would have been better for the third man if you had killed him. Then his identity could have died with him.’ As would have anything the man knew.

It was always a shame to lose information but sometimes that was the cost of doing business.

Wren leaned forward, impatient to hear the rest. ‘Well? What did you learn? Was he hired by one of Roan’s old minions set on revenge? Or was he from the Ottomans, sent to “retrieve” the message before it can be decoded?’