Chapter Twenty-Eight

"You don't think Sofia will try to get revenge, do you?" Ellie asked as she and Harry ushered Hugo into the library of Cobham House. He sank into a chair with a pained grunt.

Harry shook his head. "No. She's been in the game long enough to know not to waste time on a losing streak."

"But do you think she meant to kill you? She aimed right for your heart. If not for that book—"

"I doubt it. When I knew her in Italy, she was just a petty thief, not the sort to commit murder. But who knows? People can change, and not for the better. I'm just glad the three of you were there to save me."

Harry rang the bellpull, and when a servant appeared, he requested tea and toast for the three of them, and laudanum for Hugo.

The older man took a few drops of the painkiller in his tea, and it seemed to take almost immediate effect; he closed his eyes and started to doze, while Ellie sat with Harry on a deep velvet sofa on the opposite side of the room.

"I know it's none of my business," she whispered, careful not to disturb Hugo, "but was Sofia once a lover of yours? That might explain why she felt so bitter toward you. If you left her, I mean."

As hard as it was to sympathize with the other woman, it was all too easy to imagine how hurt and rejected she would feel when Harry moved on to another lover in the future—as he inevitably would.

Harry met her gaze. "She and I had a brief affair. Many years ago, now. I don't think she still holds a torch for me, but she does love drama, and excitement. And perhaps seeing me with someone as lovely as you at my back was hard for her to take."

Ellie shook her head, even as she blushed. "I admit, I was jealous, thinking of you with her. She's very beautiful. And as a fellow thief, you must have plenty in common."

Harry glanced over at a sleeping Hugo, then reached up to brush her cheek.

"Believe me, she doesn't hold a candle to you. She's scheming and opportunistic, and while I know you can be delightfully sneaky yourself, you don't have the ugly, mercenary streak that she does."

"I can't believe I actually shot her, though. I'm never normally so violent!"

"I'm glad you defended me with such ferocity." His face took on a wicked look. "In fact, it makes me think of all the other things you can do with such passion."

She sent him a chiding frown. "You're in no state to be exerting yourself."

"I could be at death's door, and I'd still muster up the energy to make love with you. I bet my chest is bruised. Won't you kiss it better for me?"

"You are a very bad man."

"True. But I'm yours. That has to count for something?"

Her heart gave a foolish gallop at his words, but she told herself not to put too much store in them. He was only being glib. Such things came easily to him. He didn't mean it.

"Perhaps. Do you know, I've been practicing a few Italian phrases?"

"Such as?"

" Vorrei che Harry mi baciasse. "

His brows rose. " I wish Harry would kiss me. That's an excellent one. Allow me to grant your wish."

He leaned in, and Ellie met him halfway, opening her lips beneath his in sheer relief that he was there, alive. She'd been so close to losing him, and her heart gave a painful squeeze at the thought of a world without him in it.

She ran her hands over his chest, needing the reassurance that he truly wasn't hurt, and her fingertip caught in the hole left by the near-fatal bullet. Her heart missed a beat, and she kissed him fiercely, desperately, pouring all her relief and gladness into it. Realization washed over her like a rogue wave.

Dear God, she loved him!

Ellie gasped against his mouth at the shocking revelation. She—sensible, law-abiding, risk-averse Eleanor Law—had fallen irrevocably in love with a nameless, shameless scoundrel!

Oh, this was a disaster.

Their case had been solved. The Book of Hours would be returned to Bullock—albeit with a little damage to the front cover. What if Harry decided to move on to pastures new? What if today's near-miss convinced him that life was more important than solving crimes? What if he decided to take the easy route and simply enjoy his riches without risking his neck?

She'd almost told him she loved him, but now she was perversely glad she hadn't, because she had no idea whether he felt anything remotely similar for her. He was infuriatingly difficult to read. He'd obviously found her attractive enough to make love to her, so he presumably desired her physically, but would he lose interest now that she'd given herself to him?

Ellie gave a hopeless little moan and kissed him again, savoring the precious moment as if it were the last. The embrace turned a little wild as he responded, his tongue delving deeper as he pressed her back against the cushions of the sofa.

"Let's go upstairs," he whispered, "and I'll show you how glad I am to be alive."

"Yes."

He stood, and had just pulled her to her feet when Hugo jolted awake with a snort, and the two of them swung guiltily toward him.

"Oof. Must've dozed off." Hugo's voice was slow and a little slurred, presumably the effects of the laudanum. He ran his hand over his face, then winced in pain as he clearly tweaked his injury. "Harry, m'boy, I think I'll go and have a little lie down upstairs."

Harry exhaled at the interruption, but he released Ellie's hand, and went to help his friend. "Come on then, up with you. I'll see about getting a doctor to check you over."

"You're the very best of nephews," Hugo murmured.

Ellie blinked, certain she'd misheard. "The best what?"

Hugo looked immediately guilty, as if he realized he'd said something he shouldn't.

"Did you say he's your nephew?" Ellie repeated.

Hugo let out a wheezing chuckle as he pushed himself to his feet. He looked like a naughty puppy. "Well, that's done it. The cat's out of the bag. Yes, Harry here is my nephew."

Ellie studied his face, then glanced at Harry, and she couldn't believe she hadn't made the connection before. Of course the two of them were related. They had the same cheeky dimples, the same cocky, charming manner. They even shared the same gestures.

"So your name is Harry Ambrose?" she said to Harry.

"Not exactly." For the first time since she'd met him, Harry actually looked uncomfortable, and Hugo laughed.

"No. His full name is—"

"Stop! I haven't told her!" Harry blustered, but it was too late.

"—Henry James Charles Brooke," Hugo said happily. "And he's the twelfth Earl of Cobham. Isn't that right, my boy?"