Free Three Heroes by Jo Beverley Page B

to their bedrooms she tried to persuade herself that her concerns were only tiredness—hers or his. As her maid undressed her, however, and combed out her long hair then wove it in a plait, she worried.
    When she climbed into bed, she knew that tomorrow she must insist that they travel to Steynings.
    It was duty that drove her. She must correct the terrible wrong that Maurice had done to his family. By now, however, it was more than duty. She had to rescue him. She could bear to let him go, but she could not bear to let him fall back into the pit.
    It was as if she saw a wonderful person through crazed glass. His honor showed in the damnable fact that he'd never again tried to kiss her. His cleverness showed in the way he managed to exhibit devotion and passion in public without ever doing anything improper.
    His natural kindness showed in many ways. He never made fun of anyone. He would dance with clumsy shyness as if with a beauty, talk with a bore as if with a wit, smooth over rudeness so it was almost unrecognized.
    He even spent time with Tante Louise and Oncle Charles, and no one would deny that they were a sour old couple who constantly carped at each other and the world.
    She began to see, however, lying there in the dark, that all his kindnesses came from dogged duty, the same sense of duty that had driven him into the next battle, and the next, and the next.
    Dogged? He had been a madman, an enthusiast, hadn't he?
    Now she wondered, wondered if it had been more a case of never doing things by half measures, and whether that was what he was doing now, bleakness still in his heart.
    And what exactly was he doing now, this very minute?
    She tried to tell herself that he too had gone to bed, but something was screaming that he hadn't.
    That he might have his pistol in hand again. After a struggle, she climbed out of bed and reached for her wrap.
    Oh no. Definitely not. She was not going to look for him in her nightgown!
    Feeling more foolish by the moment, she put on a shift, dug through her drawers for one of her light corsets that hooked up the front, then for her simplest round gown. She wound her plait around her head and pinned it in place.
    When she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw a woman blatantly well past the blush of youth in a plain gown, with plain hair and no ornament. She turned toward her jewel box, but then stopped herself.
    To decorate herself would put a wicked twist on this errand.
    Grabbing her candlestick, she went out to make sure that her demon was not bent on something hellish.
    The house was still. Surely everyone except herself was sensibly asleep. She knew she couldn't sleep until she had made a thorough check, however.
    The ground floor was peaceful. She went back upstairs and checked the drawing room. Nothing.
    She paused in the corridor, accepting what she'd always known. Whatever Vandeimen was up to, he was in the privacy of his bedroom, and she could not invade there.
    Yet she could not let this rest.
    She allowed herself to creep down to his door and listen.
    Silence.
    There, see. He was asleep.
    Then she heard something. A movement, no more, but it suggested that he wasn't asleep.
    He could be ready for bed.
    Even naked.
    She stood there, watching candlelight play red and black on the gleaming mahogany of the door panels, hearing only silence. Then, with a sigh and a wince, she gave a tiny tap on the door.
    A voice. She couldn't tell what he'd said, but she turned the knob and peeped in.
    He was sprawled on the floor in breeches and open-necked shirt, head and shoulders supported by the chaise near the empty fireplace. The room had been in darkness, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes for a moment.
    "Devil take it, it's the angel again," he muttered, lowering his hand and staring at her. An empty glass was almost falling out of his other hand, and a half-empty brandy decanter sat on the floor nearby.
    She almost berated him, but stopped herself. That would do no good. She