A Wife Worth Investing In. Marguerite Kaye

still not sure how—my affaire with Pascal. She did not tell me that I was making a mistake in investing the money she had given me in the restaurant, she promised both Estelle and I that we could spend our settlement as we pleased, but I could see she was very concerned. I tried to persuade her she need not worry, but she obviously did, for she sent Estelle to talk sense into me at the end of last year. My twin had no compunction in making her feelings known. We parted on very bad terms.’

      ‘And Estelle would say I told you so, if you went to her now?’

      ‘Probably, and she’d have every right to, but she’d reserve her vitriol for Pascal. It may be perverse of me, but I don’t relish the idea of being seen as a witless victim. It was my decision to go to Paris, a gamble that didn’t pay off. Pascal exploited my passion and ambition, but I—oh, I was easily duped, let’s face it. He told me what I wanted to hear.’

      For the first time, a tear escaped her eye, though she wiped it hurriedly away. ‘I can’t get in touch with Estelle. She’ll be furious with me for keeping her in ignorance, but she’d drop everything and come running regardless, if she knew I was in such dire straits, and I don’t want her to do that. I’ve never been at odds with her like this before. We have been out of touch ever since our arguement. I miss her so desperately, but I can’t—I absolutely cannot make up with her until I’ve redeemed myself. Do you think you can assist me to do that?’

      ‘Mr Harrington?’

      Owen blinked. Judging by the concern on her face he’d had one of his episodes, where his mind froze and went blank. But for how long?

      ‘Mr Harrington, are you in pain?’

      Not too long, by the sounds of it, or she’d have rung for help. ‘I’ve been sitting still for too long, that’s all,’ he said brusquely, removing his leg cautiously from the footstool. Pins and needles made it numb. He had no option but to wait until they passed before standing up. ‘You were saying?’

      ‘Are you sure you are—can I get you anything?’

      ‘No, I thank you,’ he said, hauling himself upright. ‘I need to think about what you have told me.’

      ‘Oh. Yes. Indeed.’ Miss Brannagh got to her feet. ‘I expect I’ll stay at the posting house tonight, until I can make other arrangements. You could send a note to me there, if you think of a suitable position.’

      She held out her hand, and he took it in his gloved one. Though he had lost some of the feeling in his fingers, her touch still sent a jolt through him, conjuring the fleeting memory of the last time they had held hands like this, and the way time had seemed to stop. He looked down at her work-roughened hands, the tiny healed cuts, the result of constant chopping, the outline of old blisters from cooking on a hot stove. A permanent reminder, as his scars were, in a very different way, of her broken dreams. He no longer dreamed, but if he could help Miss Phoebe Brannagh to pick up the pieces of her life, then he would have rescued something, for her if not for him. It was scant consolation but it was better than nothing.

      The kernel of an idea began to form in his mind. It was an outrageous idea. No, he couldn’t possibly—or could he? ‘You can’t stay in a posting house. I’ll have Bremner organise a hotel for you.’

      ‘Mr Harrington, I’m afraid I don’t have the funds...’

      ‘You can pay me back.’

      ‘I can’t possibly...’

      ‘What you need is a good dinner and a night’s rest in a comfortable bed,’ Owen said firmly, ringing the bell to summon his butler. ‘You’ll wake up refreshed, and much more prepared to face whatever the day may bring. I will brook no argument.’

      ‘Very well, if you insist, but I will refund you as soon as I can.’

      ‘Fine. Now, I’m going to hand you over to Bremner. Eat well, Miss Brannagh, and sleep well. I will send my carriage for you in the morning.’

      She smiled tremulously. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. You are very kind.’

      Not kind, determined, Owen thought, and already feeling a hundred times better than when he’d woken up this morning. ‘Until tomorrow,’ he said, releasing her hand as Bremner appeared, his man listening with well-disguised surprise to his clipped instructions.

      The door closed on the pair of them, and Owen dropped heavily into the nearest chair. It was only just noon but the day, which usually stretched like a vast empty desert in front of him, seemed too short. He had a great deal of thinking to do.