But when Piers hired men to dispose of him, all that changed. It was war, plain and simple. Besides, a man capable of treachery did not deserve to step into his shoes. And lately, he had an added reason to think of making England his home.
With renewed energy, he turned to Sattar. “Are you done packing?”
The last of the pile of clothes, unearthed from his trunks and picked over to fit his scheme, was fast disappearing. Since it was summer, he had no need to augment his wardrobe as yet, though he’d purchased a warmer greatcoat against the occasional dismal day. He was not yet used to the difference in temperature.
“It is done, sahib. Yet I fear me all will avail you naught.”
“Then we’ll bid my reverend uncle farewell and take ship back to India. Though I confess it would go against the grain to leave my wicked cousin the victor.”
Sattar shot him a look, the dark eyes narrowed again. “And the memsahib? She will sail also?”
An unexpected pang smote Giff. His flower girl would balk at being taken half across the world. Or would she? A plucky wench was Delia. What was that she’d said of their brief adventure? A change in her humdrum life? Would she think of India in the same light?
“You go too fast, sahib.”
He had forgotten his henchman. Giff stared at him. Too fast? It had not occurred to him to question his own assumptions about his flower girl. What, had he made up his mind already? Had she?
Mentally, he reviewed his forced encounter with her at Weymouth. It had been as if they continued precisely where they left off. Delia anxious for his safety, he as careless of it as Sattar was apt to complain.
He laughed out. “It’s not too fast for Delia, my friend, that much I will swear to.”
Sattar shook his head at him, but his mouth twitched at the corners. “Foolish boy you are. Mayhap this memsahib will cure you.”
“She may try. I’ll give her a run for her money before I knuckle under.”
Yet the thought of dancing to Delia’s piping was oddly attractive. He enjoyed her railing at him, her utter disregard for anything but his potential danger. By God, but she was his already! Too fast? No such thing.
Her last words slipped into his head.Areyoureal?
Giff laughed aloud, gripped by a violent sensation of possession. He’d show her how real he was! Once this was over. No mercy, flower girl!
The library was by no means as extensive as Hatchard’s or Hookham’s in London, but certainly adequate to fulfil Delia’s excuse to get away from the general company — and her too perspicacious aunt. She was restless, beset by anxiety and a sneaking apprehension.
Had she gone too far? What in the world would she say to this Piers if he obeyed her summons? Every time she reviewed what she’d said to the ruffian Barney the other morning, she was beset by qualms. No response had been forthcoming so far, and she’d resumed what passed for normal life in Weymouth in an abstracted mood that drew Lady Matterson’s attention.
“What ails you, child? As jumpy as a cat one moment, head in the clouds the next.”
Unprepared, Delia could only blink at her while she mentally passed spurious explanations under review, discarding them as fast as she thought of them.
“Don’t stare at me like a moonling, girl! What’s to do?”
Goaded, she chose denial. “Nothing, Aunt Gertrude.”
The old lady bridled. “D’ye think I’m in my dotage? I know what I’m seeing. I could almost believe you were in love.”
Delia’s heart sputtered into life and her tongue tied itself in knots. “What? I’m not! Love? What are you —? I’ve never heard such… Really, Aunt, you do talk utter nonsense!”
Lady Matterson regarded her fixedly for several moments, reducing Delia to a flustered wreck. Oh, help! She knew she was blushing, for heat burned in her neck and face. She wanted to put her hands up to hide it, but that would be fatal. She forced herself to a semblance of calm, staring her aunt out.
The old lady’s voice softened. “What aren’t you telling me, child? Is he hopelessly ineligible, is that it?”
Delia gathered her forces. “There is no one, Aunt Gertrude. I have no notion of what you are talking.”
The attack was taking place at the breakfast table, and Delia found her appetite had deserted her. She laid down the forkful of fish and reached for her cup, feeling a measure of calm return as the hot tea slid down.
A surreptitious glance at her great-aunt showed her the older woman’s attention was still on Delia, though she’d resumed eating. Would she leave the subject? Her aunt finished the fish and buttered a roll in silence. Delia watched her take a spoonful of blackberry jam and add a measure of it to the roll, her thoughts wheeling.
Lord, if her aunt knew the truth! Giff ineligible? Impossible more like. He was scarcely a suitor for her hand. She’d never supposed he could be. Dreamed of him, yes. But never in the capacity of a husband. As for love…