If I Fall (32 page)

Up until that moment, Sarah could rightly say that the evening had been inauspicious.

Aside from the excitement of Bridget’s strange exit from Sarah’s room and their conversation, and then Bridget’s subsequent
announcement that she would not be attending that evening’s festivities, Sarah had begun to think the night would turn out to be terribly dull.

So far, everything about the dinner party was going according to plan. The people invited were glittering in their diamonds and feathers, the majority of the ladies donning Indies-inspired fashions. Sarah had to admit that the golden embroidery along her hem was the scrolling leaves and decorative flowers associated with Indian textiles. But there was absolutely no reason for the Marchioness of Broughton to be wearing peacock feathers in her outlandishly styled turban, making her almost twice the height of her usually diminutive form.

Sarah had arrived early with her mother in tow, and helped the Comte and Georgina, whose natural timidity had returned in force, her eyes shining with presumed nerves as she shook hands with everyone who entered. But by the time the last person had made their way down the row of the Comte, Georgina, and Mr. Ashin Pha (who looked regal in an elaborate headdress, the feathers of which tickled the nose of more than one guest, he bowed so deeply), Georgina had relaxed a bit, and they took them all into dinner.

Sarah was not seated next to the Comte as planned. Instead, she found herself next to Marcus Worth, although she had been certain she had arranged the seating differently. But it mattered little—the Comte’s voice carried, and his stories were ones Sarah had heard far too many times at this point. The gaiety of the guests, as well as the unexpected delight of the traditional Indian courses that were served, kept the spirits of the room up, but Sarah’s mind could not help but flicker to the man who at that moment must have been sneaking about the house, and where he could possibly be.

It made appreciating the dinner and the conversation very difficult.

Finally, after half a dozen courses of exotic meats and spices had been massacred on the table, Georgina, prompted into her role of hostess by Mrs. Hill, stood up and led the ladies into the drawing room.

And that was when she saw him.

Or at the very least she saw something, thanks to Georgina forgetting to follow protocol and have the higher ranking ladies
walk with her, instead grabbing Sarah’s arm and pulling her along. When her hand touched Sarah’s skin, she could tell why. Her hands were shaking.

“I’m more nervous about sitting with the ladies than I was about dinner. At least at dinner Jean was able to carry the conversation.” Georgina whispered to Sarah in her little voice. Georgina’s sweetness and timidity snapped Sarah out of her worrying about the Blue Raven’s whereabouts, and instead back to the difficulties of the dinner party itself.

“They are all so much more … glamorous than I.” Georgina’s eyes darted to the far-too-fashionable plumes and turbans of the other women there, and then down at her lovely, if somewhat plainly designed gown, which maintained a sole note of interest due to the red Indian silk it was made of.

“You’re doing fine,” Sarah replied, patting her hand. “Now, you should make sure the servants are ready with the special tea you brought back from India with you—”

It was at that moment that the burly footmen opened the doors to the main hall, ushering the ladies out—and Sarah, at the front of the women, caught a glimpse of movement.

It was just a flash, a sliver of light as a brass door handle moved a fraction of an inch—but it was enough to start Sarah’s heart beating faster. It was all she could do not to run to the door just then and fly into the unknown room. Instead, she was careful not to spare the door a second glance, while memorizing which one it was. She knew he was in there. She felt it in her bones.

And a mere ten minutes later, she was proven right.

Because no one else kissed like the Blue Raven, she thought on a sigh, as she leaned into his arms.

Although, there was something different this time.

“Where—where is your moustache?” she said in a whisper, when he finally broke off the kiss.

“Ah—I shaved it,” he replied quickly, after returning his knife to its place in his boot. Then he looked up at her from the depths of his cloak. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” she replied, chastised. “I know it’s stupid. I should have stayed with the ladies.”

“You’ll be missed, and soon,” he warned, as he stalked over to the fireplace, and began inspecting the ashes.

“I know,” she repeated.

“Then why are you here?” he asked, frustrated.

Why was she here? She narrowed her eyes furiously. “Maybe I’m here trying to find the necessary, which is the excuse I gave the ladies when I stepped out of the room. Maybe I’m here because I’ve spent a week planning a party that you asked me to create and I wanted to make certain that you were finding what you needed, and I find myself invested in the outcome of this adventure. Or maybe I’m here because I haven’t seen you in over that amount of time and with all I’m doing for you, don’t I have a right to a little consideration?”

He straightened, having apparently not found anything in the fireplace. “It’s too dangerous for you to be here. You have to go,” he claimed, taking her by the arm, and pulling her toward the door.

“If I go back to the room now, it would be even more suspicious.” Sarah rationalized. “Women know how long it takes for us to … arrange ourselves.” He paused right before the door. “Besides, you look like you could use some help.”

He seemed to be indecisive. His thumb on her arm began to move gently back in forth, making his mind up. Finally he breathed, “Damn it.”

“Have you found what you’re looking for?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he admitted. “And this is the last room to check.”

He released her arm, and stalked back to the desk, which was littered with papers.

“Let me help. What are we looking for?” she asked.

“A letter. There will likely be … droplets of blood on it,” he answered as she paled. “But these are all just bills—from reputable companies.”

“High ones,” Sarah said drily, returning to regular color as she perused the papers. She placed the paper back down where she found it. “Well, let’s get to work, then.”

Over the next few minutes, they scoured every surface, explored every piece of paper in the room, every book, every crevice that could hold a note, every tiny little scrap, straining their eyes to read in the moonlight.

And coming up with nothing.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered after some minutes.
“If I know the Comte, he’s the type of man who would hide his secrets in plain sight, thinking he’s being clever and outwitting everyone.”

“Which makes this lack of anything suspicious all the more confounding. Unless, of course, he’s not guilty of treasonous activities as suspected.”

“You suspect him of treason,” Sarah repeated, feeling a line of coldness trickle down her spine. “You never told me that.”

“I didn’t want you to know,” he grumbled, as he began feeling around the seams of the desk—hoping for a secret pocket, or a button to depress, most likely. “For your safety.”

“And yet you left me alone with him all week,” she replied quietly.

Without changing from his course, he answered easily, “You were never alone with him.”

“How do you know that?” she asked, suspicious.

He froze in his movements, his head coming up ever so slightly. Even in the dark, she could tell that he was regretting his words. Words that gave him away.

“How do you know that?” she asked again, taking a step closer to him. “Were you … were you keeping an eye on me from afar?”

“Something like that,” he replied, his voice strangled. Then, he turned to her, his voice intense. “Sarah, I should tell you—”

“How did you do it? Did you pay off the servants, or—”

“Jesus, Sarah, I can’t keep lying—”

“Truth be told I don’t care how you did it—I’m just glad you did.” She smiled at him, her eyes a little watery. “I’m glad you trusted me enough to help with your mission, and glad that you cared enough to make sure I was safe.”

She rose on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. This was not an expression of passion, of heat—but of gratitude. She was just happy to know that he cared.

But that kiss seemed to break something in him. Because he pulled her to him, holding her steady, as he braced her against the desk.

“Of course I care,” he rasped, as he leaned over her. “I’ve always cared. You may not think so, but I have.”

Sarah felt her heart going fast, so fast she thought she
might faint. But being here, in this moment with this man of all men staring down at her, was far too important to succumb to such weakness. Far too important to give any attention to the soft click of a lock, or the silent creak of a door. The way he stared at her—only the shine of his eyes from beneath his cloak visible—she knew he was on the verge of telling her something imperative. Something real.

Something that would have to wait.

“You really think this is the best time for that?” came a whispered voice from the door. Sarah whipped her head around, and was astonished to see Sir Marcus, Phillippa’s husband, peeking his head around the door. He slid into the room and quickly crossed to them.

Curiously, he didn’t seemed shocked at all to see a cloaked man embracing her.

“You have been missed,” Sir Marcus addressed her. “And you have been too long in this room,” he said, turning his attention to the Blue Raven.

“I know, but this is the only room to have any potential. Everything else is neat and spare, to the point of bareness,” the Blue Raven whispered back.

“Sir Marcus, you … know each other,” Sarah stated the fact, her brain catching up to the situation. “Of course you do—you’re the head of the War Department now. I keep forgetting.”

“Many people do,” Marcus replied jovially. “A truth that works to my advantage on occasion.” Then, more pointedly, “I take it that information was withheld from you does not bother you?”

“Not as much as one might suppose,” Sarah replied. “On the contrary, I am happy to learn that he has not been alone in this.” She touched the Blue Raven’s arm. He remained still, impassive, not responding to her touch. Embarrassed, she withdrew her hand.

“Yes, well, your part has been played admirably, Miss Forrester, and it’s time to get back to it. People are questioning your absence and I volunteered to fetch you.”

“But we’ve been searching—”

“No more. You’ve risked enough,” the Blue Raven said tersely.

“So I must risk my patience instead?” she replied, frustrated. “Playing along with people I find as false as that painting?”

All eyes flicked to the wall she indicated. “This painting?” Marcus asked, as he took two steps toward the painting. It was a huge portrait, from the time of the Tudor court. A woman, who must have been very, very wealthy, or perhaps a mistress of the King, stood proud and tall in her court dress. “How can you tell it’s false?”

“I cannot,” Sarah replied. “But my father—he’s head of the Historical Society, you know—he’s been talking about this painting for weeks now. The Holbein. Apparently the society just purchased it in a private auction. So if the society has the original, this one must be a fake.” She looked between the two men. “Am I wrong?”

“No, you’re not wrong,” the Blue Raven mused. “There is a Holbein at the Historical Society, which looks remarkably like this one.”

“And while you may not be able to ascertain its falsity, Miss Forrester, I can,” Sir Marcus piped up, leaning close to the painting and touching a section of blue dress that held his fingerprint. “It’s only been done in the past few weeks. It’s still a bit wet—and I can practically smell the linseed oil.”

Sir Marcus leaned in closer, looking around the edges of the painting this time, circling out to the wall behind it. “There’s a seam here. In the wall.”

“There’s one over here, too,” the Blue Raven replied. “It’s a door,” he breathed. “But there was no door on the architect’s drawings.”

“Must have been added later,” Marcus replied. “The painting is attached to the wall most securely—perhaps if we pull on it, it will open…”

The Blue Raven nodded from within his cloak, taking his meaning. Together, they began to pull on the painting from the gilt frame. Neither the wall nor the painting budged an inch.

“There has to be a latch somewhere,” Sarah added, and moved in between the two of them, and began inspecting the seams. “Here, let me—”

Unfortunately, she decided to do this as Marcus and the Blue Raven decided to give pulling at the painting one last try, and … the results were predictable.

But, for Sarah, inconceivable.

She and the Blue Raven fell back at the same time, he threw his arm out to catch her. Their tumbling over set a number of books on the edge of the large desk in the center of the room, gravity having them crash to the floor in a muffled racket.

Sarah cringed at the noise. Then she turned to the man who held her, her first instinct to ask if he was unharmed, but before she could, she saw his face.

She saw his face
.

In all the movement, the hood of his cloak that he kept up so protectively had fallen back, revealing his profile. The half mask still covered the top half of his features, of course … but she could see his jaw and, without a moustache, his lips perfectly. Lips that she had seen set into a hard line of condemnation or, lately, twist in wry amusement, hundreds of times.

His eyes met hers, and he must have recognized her shock. But he did not move. Possibly because she was lying on his arm, but his stillness allowed her to silently reach up, and pull the half mask off, revealing his face in full.

Revealing
Jackson Fletcher’s
face in full.

“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice shaking. Her gaze darted quickly between Marcus Worth and Jack. Jack! How the hell—it couldn’t be … “I don’t understand,” she repeated again.

It was as if all the sound fell away, dampened by a heavy curtain, enveloping her and Jack and blocking out everything else. And then the curtain lifted, and all the sound came roaring back.