His posture shifted as he took in her words, but he did not speak.
“You have to go back to London. Mr. Hawthorne told me—he told me how many people you’ve helped. As long as you’re free, you can go on helping them. You’re not a villain, Gabriel,” she said again. “Don’t let your uncle convince the world—convince you—that you’re really Lord Ash.”
“And how do you propose I stop him?” Stepping back, he folded his arms across his chest and regarded her with that familiar sardonic expression. “Shall I reconsider my plan to force Merrick to give me his support by marrying his daughter?”
She flinched when the words struck her. “I…I do not know.” Despite the sudden weakness in her arms, she held out the bag. “I only know there’s nothing—” Her eyes darted to his face, then flicked to the door and finally settled on her own hands, clenched so tightly before her that her knuckles were white. She had to do this; the longer he stayed, the more danger they were both in. “There’s nothing for you here.”
The lie hovered over them. “Well,” he muttered after a moment, lifting the bag from her grasp, “I suppose it’s better than getting pushed off a cliff. But not by much.”
When he brushed past her and out the door, her heart went with him.
Chapter 21
Though they really should have been unpacking, the warmth of the July afternoon called Erica outside to explore Hampstead Heath, and Cami dutifully followed. A month ago, when her sister had proposed this scheme, Cami had been dubious. But after six weeks of caring for Galen, amusing her little sisters, and telling her parents about her time in the Trenton household while managing to reveal very little of substance, she had once more grown impatient with her lot. It was not that she didn’t love her family, of course. It was the realization that they would go on believing and behaving as if they needed her, even when they didn’t.
Tens of thousands had been killed in the rebellion, and though Ireland’s future was uncertain, it seemed unlikely that the United Irishmen’s dream of independence would be realized. Paris had been crushed by the defeat. Still, life went on. Galen was up and walking again and talking of going to university when the new term began. Mama could certainly manage Daphne and Bell without help, and Papa had his work and his flowers to occupy him. So when Erica had come to her—dressed in half mourning for Henry, because their mother had proclaimed widows’ weeds unseemly for a woman who had never been married—and suggested a way that she and Cami might proclaim their independence, Cami had agreed to seize the chance.
It had taken some doing, convincing Papa to give them the money he had set aside for their dowries, persuading Mama that two sisters living on their own would not be courting scandal. Even Cami had balked when Erica had suggested a house on the outskirts of London. “Dublin is full of painful memories. And the Irish countryside is too unsettled,” Erica had insisted. “London has museums and lectures and the Royal Academy….” Whether those institutions would welcome a young woman and her dreams of becoming a botanist, Cami was skeptical. But she let herself be persuaded, because…well…
The slightest breeze rippled her skirts and the ribbons of her bonnet as she turned and looked down from the heath. From here, she could see the house they shared with Mrs. Drake, a widow, and two of her young sons. Their elder brother had gone off just that spring to join the navy. The youngest had related the news to Erica, breathless with the thrill of it, while his mother looked on, eyes shadowed with worry.
Next door was the sweetest rose-covered cottage, occupied by two middle-aged men, both former sailors. The portly, bespectacled one was a surgeon, at work on experiments having to do with a cure for yellow fever; he had already invited Erica for tea. The other man, considerably more grizzled and gruff, could be seen even now at work in his garden. Cami found it hard to imagine that he was indeed responsible for filling boys’ heads with tales of sea adventures, as Mrs. Drake had claimed.
Cami’s room overlooked Mr. Bewick’s rose garden, and when she had set her new desk on the table by the window, she had felt certain it would be a pleasant place to write. At last, she had the peace and quiet she required for her work. But would her broken heart let her take it up again? Standing here on the heath, with the hazy suggestion of London in the distance, she was only too conscious of the fact that Mayfair was not five miles away.
News of anything other than the rebellion had been scarce in Dublin. If there had been word of the fate of a certain treasonous English nobleman at the hands of his peers, the papers had not wasted ink or space on reporting it. She had written more than one letter to Felicity, but recalling Gabriel’s parting threat to resurrect his marriage scheme, she had never worked up the courage to send any of them. They sat in her writing desk, beside a lengthy explanation and apology to Mr. Dawkins, along with a few other sheets, tear-stained stops and starts that bore no name, no direction, only the words and worries of her heart. Those unsent letters were all the writing she had managed to do in six weeks. In the pit of her stomach, she carried the fear that they were all the writing she would ever do, now.
On the outskirts of London, though, news of Gabriel’s fate would not be hard to come by. Mrs. Drake took the Times;
