Page 65 of The Rogue’s Embrace

Sitting in the drawing room at the Revelry's Tempest, Adalia scanned the ballroom beyond the open double French doors that connected the rooms. Not a thing was out of place, the entire level cleaned top to bottom. One would never know a night filled with voracious gaming had happened only a few short hours ago on these floorboards.

Violet truly was remarkable at managing these events. Adalia's friend had always offered invaluable help, but now that it meant her own livelihood, Violet had poured every modicum of her energy into making these evenings successful.

Adalia sipped her tea, eyeing her friend over the rim of the cup. They had just finished going over the books from the previous night. All was perfectly in order. And after the excitement of Lady Whilynn and Captain Trebont, the betting of the evening had reached a new high. Violet was now in position to pay off the rest of the debts within a month, if all went well.

Violet would be fine. She wasn't going to like what Adalia had to tell her next, but Adalia knew her friend would be fine.

Violet set the teapot down on the delicate inlaid rosewood table between them. "So you have obviously reconciled with him in some fashion—I can tell by the flush in your cheeks."

Violet picked up her tea cup and took a sip from it. "Where is your duke now? And why have your guards below multiplied? Were there not only four of them before? You are not in dire danger, are you?"

Adalia said silent thanks that Violet held her tongue where Toren was concerned—her friend had listened to all of Adalia's tirades about her husband, and she knew Violet possessed, at most, an unkind view of him.

"Toren insisted with the guards."

Adalia set her cup down. "My presence here in London makes him nervous, especially when we cannot completely control the crowd that comes to the gaming nights. So he wanted to add two more guards and I have not fought him on it. He believes the issues with Mr. Trether have been resolved, but he is still uncomfortable with how exposed I am."

"And good riddance to that charlatan."

"Yes. And I will be able to breathe in my own space again once we are back in the countryside."

Violet's cup clattered to the table. "You are leaving?"

Instant worry sent Violet's blue eyes wide in panic.

"Yes. At least for the time being. Toren has insisted."

Adalia's fingers tapped on the table. "But it is odd that he is still worried as to Mr. Trether's motives. I did not miss something, did I? Mr. Trether has not shown up at either of the two nights, has he?"

"No. And Logan knows to alert me if he sees Mr. Trether."

Adalia nodded. "Good. You need to be wary of the man as well. But beyond that blackguard, and more important, I miss the twins desperately and want to be with them."

Adalia reached across the table, grasping Violet's hand. "And you need not worry. You are splendid at this, Violet. You manage this place better than I ever have. Plus, Cass is here to help with the gaming nights."

Violet opened her mouth to speak, but Adalia squeezed her hand, interrupting what she knew would be protest. "And I have other news about this place you will be happy to hear."

Violet's head tilted, wary. "What?"

"That is where Toren is. He is buying this house as we speak."

"He is what?"

"He told me this morning. He wants me—us—to own it with no connection to the Pipworth estate. So he is arranging it right now."

Violet's look narrowed, her voice pitching desperate. "No—you cannot let him—he's doing this only so he can close down the Revelry's Tempest."

Adalia's head snapped back slightly. Violet had been deeply wounded by her late husband's betrayals—and there were multiple—but Adalia hadn't realized how deep her mistrust of men had cut. "Violet, no. Toren would not do that. He has never once been dishonest with me—even when it would benefit him."

"Such as?"

"Well, he could have lied long ago, told me he loved me, and kept me in his bed, a willing and dutiful wife. But he couldn't. His honesty is irreproachable. He is even putting the house into a trust owned solely by me. Mine to do with as I see fit."

Violet looked down at her fine bone china, fingering the delicate handle of the cup. "You are positive of his intentions? You know I trust you, Adalia. You and Cass, and that is it."

"And I trust Toren. So yes, yes, I am positive."

Violet gave a slight shake of her chestnut hair. "Well then, I can only applaud you, Adalia. What did you do to make this happen—to make him want to buy this house?"

"Nothing."

Lifting her cup to her lips, Adalia smirked. "Well…it is quite possible there was some tongue exploration involved."

Her friend laughed. "No, seriously."

Her eyebrows arched, the elegant lines of her face turning grave. "Tell me you are not accepting less than you are worth, Adalia. Does he love you? Is that what he came to London to tell you?"

Adalia took a slow sip of her tea. "Not exactly. But before you admonish me for surrendering, I believe there is hope. I left Dellon Castle because I believed Toren could not love me—but last night—last night I saw a flicker of it in him. More than a flicker. Even if he didn't understand himself what it was he was feeling. I truly have hope that he can love me—that he can figure out what love is and embrace it. Even if he never admits to it."

"You are going to give him that chance?"

Violet leaned in. "I know you, Adalia. I have since we were thirteen years old, giggling at old Mrs. Swanson and her swatting ruler. I had to watch your marriage to Lord Pipworth, how it crushed your heart. So I ask this with caution. Will ambiguity—especially where love is concerned—be enough for you?"

Violet's stare pierced into her, and Adalia resisted the urge to squirm. The problem with having such incredibly close friends was that they knew her far too well. But she wanted this—wanted Toren—and after what she had seen the previous night, she had to try.

And that didn't even take into account how quickly her defenses had fallen around him—she hadn't been able to resist touching him for more than ten minutes.

"I am not going to send Toren to his knees, begging, if that is what you think I need to do, Violet. I left him because I had no hope. But I believe, to my soul, that I saw it in him last night—enough to give me hope. And he cannot discover that he truly loves me if we are living separately."

Adalia set down her cup. "I think he loves me, Violet. It is why he came to London. He wanted to shut this place down, yes, but he came here for me."

The skepticism heavy in Violet's blue eyes, she gave a half smile. "You are so adept at recognizing what others miss in people, Adalia. And you unfailingly want to see the best in everyone. I just pray your unique view is not clouded by misplaced hope in this instance."

Adalia sighed. It was a real possibility, whether she liked to admit it or not. "As do I."

"Well, if you are wrong about your duke—and I pray you are not—you must remember you will always have me and Cass and the twins."

Violet's fingers flipped in a circle above her head. "And this place. This place will always keep you more than busy."

"It is more than enough."

Adalia offered up the right words, even as she wasn't sure she meant them.

The door on the far end of the ballroom opened, and Mr. Walt stepped in, looking around. Spying Adalia and Violet, the butler walked across the deep expanse of the ballroom, his heels clicking evenly on the polished oak floors.

Adalia had hired Mr. Walt when she opened the Revelry's Tempest, as he was a man that adhered to the utmost in propriety. If she couldn't bring full respectability to the place, at least she could hire people with the veneer of it.

Mr. Walt stopped before them, one hand bent behind his back as he bowed to her with the silver salver balanced on his fingertips. "This just arrived for you, your grace, with an air of urgency."

One red-wax-sealed note sat in the middle of the gleaming silver.

She gave Mr. Walt a smile which he did not return. The man was stone—even more so than Toren. She plucked it from the salver. "Thank you, Mr. Walt."

Mr. Walt left them and Adalia pulled off her short gloves, careful not to rub the scabs forming on her left palm, and set them on the table. Her name on the front of the note, she flipped it, using her fingernail to crack the red seal she didn't recognize. She tapped the excess broken wax from the folded paper before opening it to beautifully shaped letters.

The note was short. Not signed.

* * *

Question what you believe of your brother. Come to corner of Berwick and Broad Street for truth.

* * *

Her brow furrowed.

Brother?

She ran over the cryptic line several times before flipping it to the back side to make sure it was addressed to her. It was.

She read the words again, noting the two odd absences of the word "the."

"What is it, Adalia? You are growing pale."

Violet's eyes dipped to the paper and back to her face. "Your duke? Not good news?"

"I am not…"

Her voice trailed off. What you believe of your brother. A chill snaked down her spine. Her brothers were dead. Buried. All of them. Who would even dare to besmirch their memory—to care about them in the slightest?

Adalia shook her head slowly, starting to rise. "I am not sure."

Violet gained her feet, grabbing Adalia's arm. "Wait, you do not look good at all, Adalia. Do I need to speak to your duke? Set him into the right? It is beyond the pale, but I will do it for you."

Adalia's eyes shot to Violet. "No. This is not about him."

Toren. She needed to show this to him. "It—I am fine. But I do need to talk to my husband. You will excuse me?"

Without waiting for Violet to reply, Adalia rushed to the door of the drawing room and ran down the stairs. She skidded to a stop in the foyer at the sight of her guards in the parlor adjacent to the foyer, realizing she had no carriage handy. Toren had dropped her off much earlier, promising to be back with haste.

Where the hell was he? She needed to get to Berwick and Broad Street.

Just as she spun to go back up the stairs to tell Violet she was commandeering her carriage, Adalia caught sight through a window of Toren's carriage going past the townhouse. It didn't stop to let him out, so Adalia opened the front door to watch where it went.

The shiny black coach turned at the end of the block. The mews. Toren must need to speak to the stable master. Adalia slammed the front door closed and raced through the house to get to the back alleyway.

She had made it halfway through the rear gardens when Toren came through the back gate from the mews.

He jumped at seeing her running full force at him. A smile flashed, and then vanished as he realized what was on her face.

Panic. Pure, terrifying panic had taken a hold of her.

"Adalia—what—what has happened?"

She stumbled at the last second, falling into him and catching herself on his chest. His hands were instantly on her upper arms, bracing her from falling further.

She waved the note in his face. "This. This came, Toren."

His worried eyes didn't leave her face. "Adalia, you are near hysterics."

She shoved the piece of paper in front of his eyes. "Look at the note, Toren. Just look at it."

He stilled, reading the note. The paper between their faces, she couldn't see his reaction, but his fingers tightened, digging into her arm muscles before he abruptly released her and took a step backward.

Her hand dropped, the crinkled paper no longer between them.

Toren's face had gone impossibly indifferent. Cold.

She waved the note. "What could this be? Who would do this? About Caldwell? Alfred? Theo? Why?"

He didn't answer her—no reaction.

She stared at him, at the stiffness his body exuded, at the mask—void of any emotion—that had taken over his face. Dammit. No. Not now. Not when she needed him.

And then a possibility crept ever so slowly into her consciousness. "Wait—you understand—you know what this note is about, don't you?"

His brown eyes left her, his look going to the top of the tall evergreen hedge that lined the perimeter of the garden. "I had thought…there is no way out of it."

Belying the mask of indifference he had erected, the words slipped, muttered, from his lips.

But Adalia heard. She heard perfectly clear.

"What? No way out of what? What are you not telling me, Toren?"

"I thought I could, but I can hide the truth no longer, Adalia. Not with your safety at stake."

His look dropped to her, his facade of detachment splintering, cracking in his brown eyes. That alone chilled her, her blood turning to ice, heavy in her veins.

"Truth?"

Her whisper escaped, so soft she wasn't sure he heard her, and then he flinched.

"Theodore is alive."

"What?"

The question came abrupt, loud from her lips, what she thought she heard so ridiculous she knew she had misunderstood.

"Your brother is alive, Adalia."

Her hands flew up, her palms blocking him. She couldn't have heard him correctly. She couldn't have.

Toren stepped toward her, his chest almost to her hands. His voice was low, a growl, forcing upon her what she didn't want to hear. Didn't want to believe. "Theodore is alive. He has been all along."

Her hands started to shake. "No. Stop. What you are saying—impossible—stop it, Toren."

He grabbed her wrists, the shaking in them so violent his own steady hands could not calm them. "He is alive, Adalia. We thought he was dead, but he is not. He was taken months ago and they are attempting to extract information from him."

"Alive?"

She jerked her wrists from his grasp, jumping backward, her voice shrill. "They? Who is ‘they'? No. No. No. You are mistaken. Theo died. And extract information? What does that mean? What information? What could he possibly have to talk about?"

"We are in the midst of war, Adalia."

He took a cautious step toward her with his palms raised, attempting to calm the panic in her. "Theodore was not lost in Caribbean waters for the past two years. He was on the continent, an agent working for the crown. He has been all this time. The intelligence he has gathered is admirable. He manages a number of active spies infiltrating Napoleon's army. And he is extremely valuable. But once your eldest brother died, and the title was his, we have been attempting to bring him home. Yet he insisted…he insisted…month after month he refused to board a ship—there was always one more mission he had to complete. He?—"

"What…what are you telling me? What..."

Savage spikes of disbelief ravaged her body, sending her quivering, staggering backward.

Theo was alive.

And Toren knew.

He kept advancing, and she kept retreating through the lanes in the garden, her legs quickly failing her. Toren had known for months—months that Theo was alive.

Lied. Toren had lied for months.

And then it welled. A storm swirling in her gut, taking her breath. Tingles spiking up and down her arms. Sweat breaking along her brow.

She bumped into the corner of the evergreens, the needles pricking her bare neck.

"Adalia…"

She spun, curling over as she vomited, losing all control of her body. Trembling uncontrollably, she bent, unable to stop the heaves, stop the horror of what Toren was trying to tell her.

His hand on her back, stroking her spine didn't surprise her. Not that she could stand his touch at the moment, but she was incapable of removing herself from him.

Minutes passed where she gasped for breath, bent over, her fingers gripping her thighs as she fought to not collapse to the ground. She stared at the black hem of her muslin dress.

Theo was alive.

He was alive and she was in black mourning because he was dead. Toren had lied to her. She blinked hard, the black muslin blurring before her eyes. What sort of hell had just happened?

A silver flask in Toren's hand appeared in front of her, the stopper already removed. Where he had produced it from, she didn't know, but she took, taking a quick swallow and swishing it around her mouth. Brandy. It stung, yet she held it in her mouth for seconds, the sharp pain grounding her to the moment at hand.

She spit the liquid out, now so far past the devastating embarrassment of upending her stomach in the corner of the garden that spitting seemed like the least of her worries.

Without looking up or uncurling, she held the flask out for Toren to take it. He did so, and her hand dropped to brace against her knee once more.

Breathe. She had to get a full breath into her lungs. She sucked air. It got no further than the base of her throat.

His hand settled onto her back again. "I am sorry, Adalia. I know it is a shock that Theodore is alive."

"Don't touch me."

His words spurred her body into sudden action, sending a solidifying burst of energy into her legs. She stumbled to the side, out of his reach, pulling herself upright. Or at least partially upright. She still needed to curl her belly around her forearms. But she managed to look up at him, her eyes piercing him. "Who are you? How do you even know this?"

His hands lifted, presumably to steady her. She stepped backward, running into the evergreen hedge. She didn't need to be steadied. She needed answers.

He froze, his hands poised in midair. "I know because Theodore works for me. At least while we are at war. I head one of the many bands of crown agents. My title does not allow me to participate past English soil, but I can strategize, wield the power of the ducal title and reserves as needed. And I am effective at the work because I hold no emotion. I merely do what is necessary."

His voice low—they were standing in the middle of the garden and not in the privacy of the townhouse—his words came fast. He took the slightest step forward, his hands still in the air. "This note—it is proof. I am positive now Theodore was the reason there were attempts to steal the girls—to use them to get Theodore to talk. I suspected as much when you first came to me, but then the threat of Mr. Trether made me question everything. But this note—it is them. There is no doubt."

"But the man at Dellington—he gave you Mr. Trether's name."

"They know all about you, Adalia, all of your dealings, and they merely used Mr. Trether to deflect suspicion. Theodore has war secrets—he knows at least half of our spies currently in their country. They are trying to break him—and they will not stop at stealing a little girl—or you—to get him to talk. They were the ones that tried to take both Mary and Josalyn—not Mr. Trether. That is what the note is about, Adalia. They are attempting to lure you to a place where they can take you."

"Where is he?"

A pained look flashed across Toren's face. "We don't know where they are. Somewhere outside of London, within a day's ride, but we have not located them yet. We were close once, but they had a half-day's start on us. We are doing everything we can to find him, Adalia. Everything."

Her eyes closed as his words washed over her, numb in her ears.

Theo was alive—and a spy—and a prisoner.

And her husband knew. Knew the whole time. A stranger. She was listening to a stranger. A stranger that had lied to her.

Her eyes cracked open to him. "You lied to me? This whole time? The whole time we were married—before we were married."

Her hand went to her forehead, attempting to hold in the thousands of thoughts flying like rabid bees in her head, swelling into a swarm. "What else did you lie to me about, Toren? Oh, hell, you came here for me—you made me think you cared for me—and you don't. This is all part of your plot to keep your secrets safe."

"Don't you dare say that, Adalia. I came here for?—"

"For what? This whole time for what?"

Her fingers moved up from her forehead, digging into her hair.

His jaw twitched to the side, his ire starting to rise against her own.

He took a full step toward her, bearing over her, his voice a hiss. "There is no plot, Adalia. The only plot I have is to keep you and the girls safe. And if you are too obstinate to see that?—"

"How could you lie to me—about his body—about his death, Toren?"

That made him pause. He leaned back slightly. "When I first did, I did not think on it—honestly. You didn't need to know. And you were so distraught about the twins I knew it was better if you believed him to be dead."

"Better for who?"

"For you. For Theodore. For all of us."

"You told me he was dead—beaten to death. Not whole. You told me you had him buried. What did I visit at Glenhaven? Whose gravestone did I cry against? Whose dirt did my fingers rip from the ground?"

His face went steely. "No one. No one is buried at his gravesite. Not yet…"

"What?"

Her voice shot into a shriek. Damn to hell anyone who was listening.

She had lost all ability to be discreet. Her dead brother was alive. The man she had fallen in love with had lied to her about that very thing—and who knows what else. And now he was talking about burying Theo again.

The churning in her stomach started again. She bit back bile.

"I apologize."

Toren's head shook. "I should not have said that. I still have hopes that we can locate him."

"Locate him?"

Wetness hit her cheeks, tears she didn't even know she cried streaming. "Wait—we can still find him, can we not? I—I can help."

Toren stilled, suspicion thick in his look. "No, you cannot, Adalia. You cannot and you will not."

"I can—you said they were after the twins to try and make him talk—so they would take me just as easily as one of the girls."

She wiped her face and then grabbed his arm, tugging it. "That was what the note was about—you said so yourself. If they took me then that would lead you to them."

His hands curled into instant fists, the muscles in his arm going impossibly hard under her fingers. His voice dropped to a dangerous growl, each word ground out between gritted teeth. "Dammit, Adalia, you are not bait—do not even suggest such a blasphemous idea."

"No? Why not? This is my brother, Toren. If there is a chance that Theo is alive I will do anything within my power to help him."

"Do you even know what they would do to you, Adalia?"

His mouth had pulled back into a furious line. "How they would use you to make him talk?"

She blanched with a quick breath. "Torture?"

Her hands fell from his arm, wrapping across her stomach.

"You cannot even imagine what these men are capable of, Adalia."

Her head shook slowly as she tried to imagine just what they could do to her. The picture in her mind was not pretty. And if they would do that to her…

Her look jumped to Toren. "So what are they doing to Theo right now, Toren? You said yourself they were trying to make him talk—just how are they doing that?"

His lips drew inward, refusing to answer her.

"Exactly. Torture. I cannot stand by in a safe cocoon while they are doing that to Theo."

Her eyes narrowed at him. "But you wouldn't understand—you have no idea of what I'm feeling—what I would do to save him. Because you were right—you have no concept of love."

He winced. Her blow piercing its target.

The line of his jaw pulsating, it took a long second for him to answer. "You think I can't imagine what I would do for someone I loved?"

"No."

Her lip snarled, her chest expanding, wanting to expel all of the hurt, all of the pain that had just consumed her. "You will never understand love, Toren. Never. If you did, you never would have lied to me. And I would be on that street corner, inviting an abduction at this very moment in order to get to Theo—whatever it takes."

"You are not going to be used as bait, Adalia."

"You cannot stop me."

She spun from him, moving toward the back gate of the garden.

Three steps, and he grabbed her arm, twisting her back to him, his anger palatable. "I damn well can, and we both know it, Adalia. Do not make me have to do it in a way that we both will regret—because, make no mistake, I refuse to let you put yourself in the way of harm. So you can stop the idiocy running through your mind this instant. I don't give a damn about what you think you must do, because you aren't going to do it."

She heaved a breath, stewing, her eyes whipping daggers at him. She should have been faster. Should have run. Damn him. "Were you ever going to tell me about Theo?"

"Yes. No."

"Blast it, Toren, that is not an answer."

His hand on her upper arm refused to loosen. "Yes, I was going to tell you after we found him alive."

"And the ‘no'?"

"No, I never would have told you if we were too late in finding him and he had been killed. There would have been no purpose to tell you. I would have quietly had his body interred into the gravesite at Glenhaven."

"And I would have been none the wiser to the fact."

Her heart contracted, so much so, she knew a piece of it was dying. Her fingers lifted to her mouth, pressing on her lips, her words eerily quiet. "You were just going to let me think, for the rest of my life, that Theo died in the rookeries."

"Correct."

She looked down to his hand gripping her arm, her voice calm. "I need you to leave, Toren."

"You can go inside and I will wait for you in the study. That is all I will allow. We are leaving for Dellon Castle this afternoon, Adalia."

"No."

The yell echoed up against the brick of the surrounding townhouses as she twisted violently, yanking her arm. He didn't let her escape. "I need you to leave. Leave my life. Leave me alone. Leave me. I don't want to see you. Don't want to hear your voice. Don't want your hands anywhere near me, Toren."

"I am not leaving you here in London, Adalia. We are going back to the castle."

With all her weight she shoved off from him, ripping her arm from his grasp. "I am not going anywhere with you, you bloody liar."

He stood, hands twitching to grab her, heaving a sigh as he shook his head. "I don't want to do this as I am about to, Adalia, but I cannot trust you and I need you safe."

"What?"

Her hands flew up, palms to the sky. "What the devil could you possibly do to me now?"

She spun before he answered, stomping toward the rear door of the townhouse.

Her feet left the ground in a whoosh, her body twisting in the air until his shoulder jammed into her stomach. It stole her breath for a moment, and Toren was through the back gate to the mews before she comprehended that he had actually thrown her over his shoulder.

She beat at his back with the one fist she managed to free. "Of all the blasted, high-handed, moronic, Neanderthal things to do—every insult I ever hurled at you was true, you pious ogre. You infuriating, tyrannical?—"

Her words cut off as he tossed her into his carriage still waiting by the mews. He was in, slamming the door of the coach before she could right herself on the bench.

The carriage lurched forward. She slipped off what little balance she had gained. Two sharp turns that stretched the capacity of the coach's springs, and they were a full block away from the townhouse before she managed to sit upright.

Centering her look on Toren, the well of insults had only just begun. She opened her mouth.

"Do not test me, Adalia."

Her mouth clamped shut.

He was right. She needed to be quiet. Needed to conserve her energy. Needed to strategize.

For she couldn't figure out how to escape Toren and find Theo if she was too busy yelling at her husband.

The fiend probably planned that as well.

She sat, arms crossed over her chest, refusing to look at Toren for two hours. Through the London streets, past the outskirts of tiny cottages and into the countryside. She couldn't bear to acknowledge his presence.

Nor did he attempt to make her.

Still stuck deep in stewing, Adalia at first didn't realize that the carriage had begun to tip. Gradually, heavy in the fall, the center of gravity shifted beneath her so slowly that by the time she knew what was happening, she was helpless to do anything about it.

Toren had no such problem.

He launched himself across the carriage, grabbing her, wrapping her into his chest just before her body flew off the bench, weightless in the air for a moment.

The embankment was steep—she had seen that out the window as they had turned onto this road. And the last thought she had before Toren shielded her head, blocking all sight of everything but his black coat, was that this was going to be painful.

The weightlessness lasted only a moment, and their bodies hit the side of the carriage, tossed from wall to floor to roof to wall as the coach rolled over and over. His grip not faltering, Toren blocked her from the blows the entire way down.

The last crash, deafening.

And then nothing. Silence. Splintering wood creaking. Silence.

Toren's arm around the back of her head went slack, and she shifted. Instant, bruising pain invaded every muscle.

If she was in that much pain—Toren had to be pulverized from head to toe. And he was still. So very still.

No. Heaven no. Please.

Fear gripping her, she forced herself to move. Wedged against one of the carriage benches, she lifted her head awkwardly to find his face, only to see blood creasing his brow, his eyes closed.

Before she could even poke him, reach her hand up to his face, wood creaked above her.

The coach door. She could hear it being yanked open above her head. Their driver. He could help.

She tried to twist, looking up.

A figure blocked the daylight from above. A man she didn't recognize.

"Aye, she be movin'. Hold me leg."

The man rustled above her. Adalia squinted, trying to see who it was, trying to untangle herself from Toren's limbs enough to turn fully upward.

"We be watchin' ye, lil mouse."

A burly hand came down at her.

She realized just before his thick fingers wrapped around her head what he intended.

Her head slammed into the wood of the bench.

The world went blank.