An undeniable passion had flared between them. She’d spoken words of love that he longed, even now, to return. But there was truth in what she’d said aboard the ship as they crossed the Irish Sea. England and Ireland were too close to be fully independent of one another, but too different to be successfully joined. Couldn’t the same thing be said of an Irish patriot and an English rake? If Granville and Róisín could not find happiness, even in the pages of fiction, how could he and Camellia hope to find it in this world?
Outside the door to Galen’s room, he paused, then went in. The boy was sleeping fitfully. Soon, he would wake and call for his sister. This, at least, was a burden he could lift from her shoulders. After checking to see that Galen was not feverish, Gabriel settled himself into the chair in the corner of the room to keep watch.
Twice during that short night, he soothed the boy back to sleep, the second time administering a dose of the laudanum the physician had left. Sometime after that, he dozed and was awoken by the patter of rain on the window. By the gray light of dawn, he could just make out a dark-haired figure kneeling beside the bed. Paris gripped his younger brother’s hand and appeared to utter a silent prayer.
Despite the dissimilarities of their circumstances, Gabriel could recognize in the man something of his own brashness, a confidence that a combination of good looks and brains would carry him over any rough patches, even those of his own making.
He also knew guilt when he saw it.
After a few minutes Paris rose and left the room, giving no sign he had noticed Gabriel. Galen slept soundly now, and some of the color had returned to his face. Satisfied that the boy would rest quietly for some time, Gabriel ventured downstairs.
His better nature, such as it was, hoped Camellia was asleep somewhere. The rest of him was selfish enough to be glad at finding her in the cozy kitchen, though she was not alone. Paris sat, head in hand, poring over papers spread before him on a scarred table.
“Camellia,” Gabriel said quietly as he crossed the threshold. She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.
Paris turned with a scowl, covering his papers with one arm. “Still here, Ashborough?”
“His presence is not a danger to this family, Paris.”
“I’m not so sure.” He shared his sister’s black hair and slender build, but his eyes were dark and they cast a disapproving glare between him and Camellia before returning to his reading.
“It’s you who’s the danger, Paris.” Erica brushed Gabriel’s shoulder as she passed into the room. Like her sister, she was red eyed and haggard. “Look what you’ve already done to your brother,” she demanded shrilly. “And to me.”
“Shh.” Camellia stepped between them. “You’ll wake the girls. And Galen—”
“Was resting comfortably when I left his room a few minutes ago,” Gabriel said.
Her eyes flared with a mixture of gratitude and surprise. “Thank you for checking on him.”
Paris’s expression was more wary. “I shouldn’t have let Galen get involved in all this,” he admitted, rising. “But Henry was his own man.”
In a quieter voice, Erica said, “I think we both know that wasn’t the case.”
Camellia stepped closer to Gabriel. “Henry Edgeworth was Paris’s dear friend and Erica’s betrothed,” she explained in a low voice. “He was killed last night.”
“What are those?” Erica asked, leaning over her brother’s shoulder.
The question earned Gabriel another wary look.
“I’m not here on behalf of the Crown, Burke,” he said. “I’m here for your sister’s sake.” In the harsh light from the lamp above the table, Camellia looked to be on the verge of splintering into a thousand pieces, holding herself together with her arms wrapped around her body. How he wished he could be the one to keep her whole, but in truth, he feared his touch might instead be the breaking point. “And as I told you last night, I’ll stay until she says otherwise.”
“Dispatches from Dublin Castle,” Paris said at last. “Edgeworth overtook the runner and managed to hand them off before he…well.” With a shudder, he broke off the explanation. “We’re hopeful this will tell us what they know about our plans, prevent another massacre. But—”
As he eased back in his chair, Camellia peered forward to see what was written on the papers. “That’s nothing more than gibberish.”
“It’s some kind of code.” Paris ran a shaking hand through his hair, disordering its dark waves. “I’ve studied it forwards, backwards, and sideways. The leaders of the Society are counting on me to figure it out, but I’ll be damned if I can break it.”
“Encryption is mathematics, plain and simple,” Gabriel said. “Well, perhaps not simple, but…”
“Lord Ashborough is something of a mathematician,” Camellia explained, then shook her head. “But you can’t do this,” she said to him in a voice that was intended to brook no argument. “You’re English.”
It was the third time in less than a day that a member of the Burke family had made the observation. It was the first time the words had
