Free Teresa Grant by Imperial Scandal Page A

nurse.”
    Harry stared at his wife. “I always underestimate the risks you’ll run. You’ve brought her to Brussels?”
    “Where else would she be? I’m her mother.”
    He took two steps toward her and seized her wrist. “This isn’t a game, Cordelia, whatever the holidaymakers thronging to Brussels may think. It was dangerous enough two months ago, but now we could be at war at any moment. If you choose to play dice with your own safety that’s your affair, but to drag the child into it—”
    She jerked away from his grip. “What right—”
    “A father’s. At least in name.”
    She smoothed the links of her diamond bracelet, twisted by his grip. “You’ve never set eyes on her or written to her. You’ve scarcely even asked after her. How dare you—”
    “How dare I what?”
    “Presume I don’t have her interests at heart.” She snapped a link back into place. “Presume to know me at all.”
    A harsh laugh broke from his lips. “You’re right. That was always my error.” He stared for a moment into the eyes that had caught him across a ballroom all those years ago. “Can you honestly tell me you wanted me to ask after her? To try to see her? To be anything approaching a father? To come anywhere near either of you?”
    “I—” She swallowed. “I didn’t ask you to leave.”
    “It would have been a bit crowded if I’d remained.”
    The tension drained from her shoulders. She closed her eyes for a moment. “You did more for Livia than anyone could have expected,” she said, in a tone that reminded him of a rifleman after an exchange of fire. “But that doesn’t—”
    “Give me the right to interfere?”
    “Harry—” She put out her hand, then snatched it back. “I warned you I’d make you a damnable wife. You didn’t believe me.”
    “No.” For a moment it was five years ago and he was stripped as raw as he’d been when he met her. “Even through my haze of infatuation I believed you. It was just that having you on any terms seemed infinitely preferable to not having you at all.”
     
    Harry went into the adjoining salon, where he knew Malcolm Rannoch had been interrogating the footmen. He found Rannoch alone, frowning at the notebook in his hand.
    “Any luck?” Harry asked.
    “The note was left on a footman’s tray among the champagne glasses. Just about any of the guests could have put it there.”
    “So someone wanted to confront Julia at the château alone. Someone who knew about her rendezvous with the prince.”
    “So it would seem.” Rannoch looked up at him. “Did you talk to your—To Lady Cordelia?”
    Harry nodded. “And took her to see her sister’s body. She insisted on it.”
    Rannoch didn’t express the surprise or horror he expected. “Many people shy away from looking at the dead, but it makes it easier to accept the loss, I think. In the long run. Did Lady Cordelia know about her sister’s affair?”
    “She claimed not to.”
    “But—?”
    Harry dropped into a chair. “She knows more than she’s admitting. I’ve never been very good at reading Cordelia, but I could tell that much.”
    Stuart poked his head round the door. “I’ve got evening clothes laid out for you in a room upstairs.”
    “Thank you.” Harry glanced down at his stained coat. “But there’s no need for me to go into the ballroom. I expect I’ll be leaving Brussels by dawn—”
    “Not according to Wellington. He says he’s keeping you here to work with Rannoch. Expect I’ve breached protocol by telling you myself, but sometimes can’t see the sense in waiting for official channels. Third bedchamber by the top of the stairs, Malcolm. You know the way. Have to get back to the party or there’ll be more rumors of God knows what.”
    “I’m sorry,” Malcolm said when Stuart had ducked out. “You were eager to return to Grant.”
    “Couldn’t wait to be back sleeping on the hard ground, but I’ll make do with a featherbed and proper sheets if duty calls.” One