The Redemption of a Rogue, стр. 61
There would be time enough to digest all of that later. The duchess was helped into the carriage by a footman and the door closed behind her. Imogen sank her head onto Oscar’s uninjured shoulder as they began to drive toward the blurry future. For her. For them.
Chapter 21
Oscar wasn’t sure what he expected from the safe house the Duchess of Willowby had briefly described on their way here, but as they stepped into a small but perfectly appointed parlor, he knew it wasn’t this. It was a lovely townhouse in one of the quiet, middle-class neighborhoods in London. Many a sophisticated merchant lived on the tidy lane, some of whom were members of his own club.
Certainly it wasn’t the expected place for spies to hole up, waiting for danger to pass. He supposed that made it perfect for the job, as long as they weren’t recognized.
He pivoted to look at Imogen and could see her reading the room the same way he had as she crossed away from him. She smiled at him, a little distant, almost shy. But then, he’d felt that same hesitance the entire carriage ride here. He didn’t like it. He wanted it to stop.
“Imogen—” he began.
Before he could finish, the duchess entered the room, carrying a kit of some kind under her arm. She smiled at them both. “I hope the house will suit you.”
“It’s—it’s lovely,” Imogen said. “It seems very comfortable.”
“Excellent. Everything is prepared,” the duchess explained as she bustled around the room, checking the sideboard for its selection of drinks and the fire for how high it burned. “Our staff is carefully vetted and trained. They’re trustworthy and can protect you if it comes to that.”
“Physically?” Oscar said in disbelief.
The duchess nodded. “Indeed. And they’re always at the ready for unexpected situations, so the rooms are made up. There is a maid who can help you with preparations, my dear. And I’ll arrange for a gown or two to be sent to you in the morning, as well.”
“Thank you. You are very kind, Your Grace,” Imogen said softly, her gaze casting down to her gown. Only then did Oscar realized there were a few small streaks of blood on the fabric. His blood. A testament to how close he’d come to losing it all, and he didn’t mean his life.
The duchess smiled. “I think we’re all going to know each other well enough by the time this is over to forego the formality in private. You may call me Diana.”
“Is that some spy’s trick meant to put her at ease?” Oscar ground out, almost wanting to put himself between the duchess and Imogen as a shield, because as kind as she was, he didn’t fully trust her.
Diana turned and her gaze flitted over him. She didn’t reveal what she thought, but she did move toward him, fearless and seemingly without guile.
“I hope she is at ease,” she said. “I can only imagine the terror she has endured these past few weeks, seeing what she did, running as she had to. I can imagine you didn’t fare much better, Mr. Fitzhugh. It is difficult to see someone we’ve come to care about…hurt. To want to help them and know we aren’t fully equipped.”
He shifted beneath the careful words, meant to have an effect—and succeeding. “I’ve kept her alive.”
Diana nodded. “You have, and I’m glad of it. But now you are not alone in that goal. In the desire to save Imogen’s life and perhaps even put a stop to the horrific acts committed by the people responsible for the threats against her. We’re on the same side, Fitzhugh.”
“I hope that is true,” he said softly, and this time it was he who meant to have an effect. “I have watched many a titled person of power only protect the others who share his…or her status.”
Diana shook her head. “Then you have not dealt with me, nor with my husband. That is not who we are, not as people, not as spies. You don’t have to believe that, for we’ll prove it to you, and hopefully sooner rather than later.” She smiled and then stepped closer, setting her kit on the table beside him and opening it. He could see all matter of tools and wraps and potions inside. “Now let me look at that wound, will you?”
He wrinkled his brow. “Look at the wound?”
“Yes. Mr. Huntington did an admirable job with field dressing.” Diana motioned him to sit and remove his jacket as she spoke. “I would assume he had some experience due to his time in the army. But I’m a trained healer, and I want to get a closer look now that we’re not being actively shot at.”
Oscar glanced at Imogen, who had come closer, as well. The color had left her cheeks as he pulled his jacket away and then untied his cravat. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his head, trying not to react to the sharp pain of the bullet wound he had been ignoring as much as possible.
While he sat down in the chair before her, Diana looked back at Imogen with a knowing smile. “Bring the candle a bit closer if you would, my dear.”
She did so, and when Diana unwrapped the field dressing, Imogen winced. “Oh, Oscar. It looks terrible. You must be in so much pain.”
He glanced down. There was a decidedly ugly hole that went in one side of his arm and out the other. He moved it slightly and a slash of pain rushed through him, but not the kind that indicated broken bones. He was lucky at that.
“It’s not comfortable,” he admitted as dismissively as he could manage so as not to worry Imogen even more. “But I’ve felt worse.”
Diana fussed with the wound a moment, using the light as she cleaned it with a fluid that made the injury sting. She looked up at him. “This isn’t going to be comfortable.”
“It