Rafe tossed back his drink. “Perhaps, but the guilt gnaws at my soul.” He set his empty glass on the table and looked Garrett in the eye. “The same as it does yours.”
Garrett sucked air through his nostrils. “I understand, Cavendish. I do. But you shouldn’t blame yourself.”
Cavendish cocked a brow. “Perhaps you should take your own advice, Upton.”
* * *
Garrett strode down the club’s stone steps minutes later. He’d had that drink, after all, and another. What Rafe Cavendish said resonated. Finally. Through all the years and all the nightmares. All the people telling him it wasn’t his fault when he’d believed damn well it was … he finally felt … free. Damn Harold Langford for taking that bullet. Damn Isabella Langford for being conniving. And damn him for allowing his guilt to push him in a direction he had no business going.
It was true. No one blamed Cavendish for Donald Swift’s death. The earl had recklessly volunteered to go on a mission to France for the War Office under the guise of diplomacy. Rafe was one of the best spies the War Office had. Donald gave them away. It had ended in their capture and torture. Rafe barely escaped with his life and had spent the past six months slowly recuperating. Rafe was alive in spite of Donald, not the other way around. But Rafe felt guilt. He was the only other man who understood, the only other person who could absolve Garrett.
“Perhaps you should take your own advice.” Garrett repeated Cavendish’s words. The captain was damn right. Garrett could no longer live in the past, blaming himself for the actions of another man.
After ten years of allowing guilt to ride him, control him, today he was done. Harold Langford had chosen Isabella. Harold Langford had chosen to throw himself in front of that bullet.
Garrett Upton had his own choices to make.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Garrett’s invitation to come back to the library whenever she liked was an enticement Jane couldn’t resist. If looking about Upton’s town house led to the opportunity to search for a certain letter, so be it. Of course, she’d pointed out to Lucy that she might just ask Garrett for the letter, but nothing was simple when Lucy Hunt was involved.
Jane had come straight from Lucy’s house, in fact. Less chance to encounter her mother and be forced to explain why Mrs. Bunbury hadn’t yet materialized. One problem at a time.
Cartwright and the dogs greeted Jane at the door again and ushered her into the library. “Mr. Upton is not here at present,” the butler intoned. “We expect him back at any moment.”
“Thank you. I’ll be happily entertained by the books,” she replied.
Cartwright served the tea tray and Jane partook of a teacake. She waited twenty entire minutes before tiptoeing to the door—tiptoeing seemed appropriate when one was engaged in clandestine activities—and peeking into the corridor. The dogs, who remained at her heels, peeked out too.
“The study is just down the way, is it not?” she asked the dogs, who merely wagged their tails in reply.
She took a deep breath. Be bold. Jane straightened her shoulders, closed her eyes briefly, darted out of the room, down the corridor, and slipped into the far door on the right.
The dogs ran with her, and moments later, all three were happily behind the closed study door.
“Thank you for not barking,” she said to them. “That was well done of you.”
The dogs each took a turn getting a pat on the head. Then Jane glanced around the study. Decorated in masculine hues of dark blue, it smelled vaguely like Upton. She took a deep breath to savor the scent. A large mahogany desk sat in front of a bay window, two large leather chairs in front of it. A few dark wooden bookshelves lined the walls—more books!—and a large comfortable-looking chair rested on a round rug in front of the fireplace. A cozy and useful space.
She hurried to the desk and scanned the tabletop. It was neatly arranged. A pile of what appeared to be outgoing mail, an inkwell, several quills, a large square glass paperweight. Nothing appeared to be correspondence, however. She tiptoed again, this time around to take a seat in the large chair. She closed her eyes. The lemony scent of furniture polish and a hint of ink filled her nostrils. It felt like Upton in here. Peaceful, calm, sensible. She suddenly missed him.
She took another deep breath. “I am not proud of myself for doing this,” she announced to the dogs. “I assure you, I’m not usually the type of person who sneaks about and pries into other people’s belongings.”
The dogs looked at her with wide, trusting eyes.
“I’m doing this for you too. You don’t want that horrible woman as your stepmother.”