Page 41 of The Art of Theft

?Livia was astonished at herself, in that she hadn’t devolved into a blubbering mess that needed to be scraped from the floor. After Mr. Marbleton’s bath, they had spent some time reading aloud to each other from the French novel she’d chosen for his amusement. And then she’d been content for him to shoo her out so she could get some rest.

She didn’t feel sleepy yet, only dull and uncoordinated. She walked slowly, occasionally bracing a hand on the wall.

Someone took hold of her arm. “Did you eat?”

Charlotte.

Livia nodded, though she could no longer remember what she had eaten.

“And how is Mr. Marbleton?”

“When I left him, he was planning to read a little more,” answered Livia, smiling to herself. “Lord Ingram?”

“He’s fine. Monsieur Forêt is looking after him.”

Livia had a vague memory of someone urging a plate on her, reminding her that she must keep up her strength. That would have been Monsieur Forêt. The implication of Charlotte’s words sank in a moment later. “You weren’t with Lord Ingram just now?”

“I was with Mrs. Watson.”

Livia’s heart pinched. “How is she?”

“Racked by guilt that the gentlemen went into danger for her cause—and that the outcome could have been much worse.”

Livia rather thought that she, too, would have been tortured by her conscience. After all, Mr. Marbleton wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for her. Instead she was simply glad that he had recovered. Every cell in her body sang with relief, leaving no room for self-recrimination.

Or maybe she was simply too tired to feel anything else.

“Mrs. Watson ought to be proud of herself,” she said. “You should have seen her ministering to the gentlemen. They are far better off than they would be otherwise.”

“One can always count on Mrs. Watson in an emergency,” said Charlotte. “But at the moment, she is far from appreciative of herself.”

Livia shook her head and allowed herself to be guided by Charlotte, as she was too muddled to remember which room she hadbeen assigned. But when they stopped before a door, a thought dropped into her head and knocked her sideways.

“Charlotte, you don’t suppose—you don’t suppose Mrs. Watson will call the whole thing off tomorrow, do you?”

If she did... Livia didn’t know how she’d feel about that.

Charlotte opened the door for her. “At the moment,” she said, “I believe that is what Mrs. Watson intends to do.”

Nine

Mrs. Watson opened her heavy eyes. Her neck was stiff. Her right hand, caught under her body during the night, had turned numb. And somewhere in the back of her mind throbbed a dull yet persistent dread.

She blinked a few times. Light seeped into the unfamiliar room from behind curtains. Her travel alarm clock, on the nightstand, read a quarter after eight.

So late.

Memories rushed back. She bolted upright and flung aside the covers—she must see how the gentlemen were doing this morning. Then she dropped her head into her hands. Her entire body sagged. No, she couldn’t face them, not after having put them through so much danger and suffering.

A soft knock came at the door.

“Yes?”

“A letter for you, Madame Watson,” came Forêt’s soft voice. “I’ll put it in under the door.”

A letter for her? Here? Even Penelope didn’t know she was in town.

She scrambled off her bed, pulled on a dressing gown, and went to the door. When she picked up the envelope, she recognized the handwriting immediately. Mr. Mears’s.