The Trouble with Love (The Mason Siblings Series Book 2)

by Cheri Champagne

  The blasted man’s golden eyes gleamed with acuity. “Consider it done. But…might I ask why we are observing the lady when she is likely to be entertaining her guest? Do we suspect her or her friend of espionage? Treason?”

  Damn the man.

  “You know that I do not,” Charles grumbled. “It is a delicate matter, and I trust I can count on your discretion.”

  Jones strode forward to sit in one of the armchairs in front of Stevens’ desk. “You can always count on our discretion, sir.”

  “Excellent.” Charles’ balled fists began to unfurl. “In this particular case, simple reconnaissance will do. I will expect a verbal report on the events first thing on the following Monday mornings.”

  “As you wish.” Both men responded simultaneously.

  “Marvellous. Now that that is settled…” He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out the letter. He unfolded it, reading it quickly. “Damnation,” he grumbled.

  “Another assignment?” Jones inquired.

  “Yes, dash it all. I returned not an hour ago, and already I must set out on another.” He handed Stevens the letter for him to read.

  “An assignment in London, I see,” Stevens mumbled as he read.

  “Yes, I expect I will be away from the castle above one week at least.” That would give him plenty of time to put his jumbled thoughts together in some semblance of order.

  “We will carry on in your absence,” Stevens assured him as he handed Jones the letter. “Our primary objective at the moment is Lady Bridget’s safety; you have nothing to fear.”

  “Very good. Now, there is another matter of which I feel you both should be made aware.” Charles paused, wishing he did not have to confide this to his comrades. But as they would learn of Bridget’s hobby next Sunday, Charles ought to give them a modicum of warning. “Bridget fences.”

  The men gaped at him.

  “I beg your pardon?” Stevens choked.

  Charles held back his tumultuous emotions as he outlined the discussion he’d just had with Bridget.

  When Charles concluded, Jones stared silently and Stevens rested against the back of his seat once more, linking his fingers over his stomach. “I suppose it would be prudent of me to reserve judgment until I have evidence in-hand. But based solely on what you have said, either scenario is feasible.

  “From what I have observed of her in the short time that I have known her, she does not behave as though she would act in the manner you seem to assume. But I do not know Lady Bridget well enough to make an informed decision on her character. That conclusion we will leave up to evidence and good, reliable reconnaissance work.” Stevens’ lips turned up in a sly grin.

  Chapter 12

  “Thank you, gentlemen, for agreeing to this rendezvous on such short notice,” Charles muttered. He placed his fists against the surface of the table, his knuckles abrading against the roughened wood as he leaned into them.

  The room was cold, dank, and carried the odour of ale and urine. A green slime seemed to ooze from the wood-panelled walls and a faint whistle came from somewhere overhead. They were utilizing a small room at the rear of a seedy London taproom and, due to proximity, the sound of intoxication continuously drifted through the space.

  “When do we ever have more warning when one of us needs the others, Hydra?” Kieran Richards, known to Charles as Hermes, winked. “’Tis what we do. Go on, now. Tell us of your troubles.”

  Charles was fortunate to have such comrades. Lord Wellington had recruited them within one month of each other. They spent two years together fighting Bonaparte’s spies on the continent before injuries brought them home one-by-one. Jacob McKinnon—Hades—had returned first, Charles was second, and Andrew Smith—Ares—and Hermes came two months after.

  While he considered the men close friends, Charles saw them infrequently. They had always been fearful of the potential danger, and cautious about drawing undue attention to themselves. All of them worked under Gilley in the Home Office, but each organized and assembled their own group of spies to carry out assignments.

  “No matter how many times I think on it,” Charles began, “I still cannot piece together this metaphorical puzzle.”

  Hades scratched at his red beard. “Describe the pieces.” His voice was so soft, one had to strain to hear it over the drunken laughter from the taproom.

  “In the past fortnight, I have been sent on two assignments. Both were rendezvous with men said to have pertinent information. When I arrived in London on both occasions, the men were already deceased.” Charles sat at the filthy table and rapped its surface with his knuckles.

  “Curious. My last assignment turned up murdered, as well,” Ares rumbled, leaning back in his seat and drumming his fingers on his thigh.

  “And mine,” Hermes added.

  Hades lifted a hand in the air and nodded, giving his silent answer.

  Charles cursed. “Have any of you discussed this with Gilley?”

  A low, rumbling noise escaped Ares before he spoke. “No. You?”

  Nodding, Charles recounted the events of his last meeting, the whole vivid scene playing out in his mind’s eye.

  Charles had only known Gilley for approximately eleven months, but something seemed off about him. His lips twitched and a light, beading sweat settled at his temples.

  “I do not have time for this meeting, Hydra.” Gilley’s jowls flapped with every movement. “I am a very busy and important man, surely this meeting could take place at another, more convenient, time.”

  Charles shifted his seat in the stiff armchair before Gilley’s desk. “I am afraid that what I wish to say is of the utmost importance. I must return to High Wycombe, sir; this is the only moment I have for this discussion.”

  Gilley waved one chubby, bejewelled hand through the air, and waited expectantly for Charles to begin.

  “After my most recent assignments were murdered, I began making inquiries. I spoke to club owners, military men, and others from the Secret Service. It would seem that there were more informant deaths than mine alone. And I believe, now, that I know how the deaths are connected.”

  Gilley cleared his throat. “Go on, Hydra.”

  Charles pushed past his uneasiness and sat forward in his seat. “Each man was in possession of information. More specifically, tactical and intelligence information; lists, maps, names, plans, I could go on. But each of the men that have been murdered recently had only one piece of information. Put together, the pieces could prove to be the blade that strikes at the heart of England. It could lead to an easy escape for Napoleon.” He looked Gilley’s rounded, squat form up and down, then back into his disinterested eyes. “Sir, those papers have gone missing.”

  Ares uttered a dark curse under his breath.

  “Blimey.” Hermes twisted the gold ring on his little finger. “What was Gilley’s response?”

  Charles shrugged one shoulder. “He expressed his concern, of course. He said that he would send men out to investigate, and told me to return to High Wycombe.”

  A muffled bark of laughter and the clink of glasses sounded on the other side of the wall.

  Leaning forward with his elbows on the table, Charles lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Something horrible is coming. I can feel it.”

  * * *

  “Excellent throw, Henry!” Bridget exclaimed as the smooth, rounded stone skipped along the glass-like surface of the water, creating little waves with each skip.

  Bridget handed him another stone and watched once more as he bent low to toss it across the surface of the lake. The spot they’d chosen was simply breathtaking, hidden beyond the forest on Mr. Stevens’ grand estate. There were rolling hills in the distance, and dense trees surrounding them. The glass-like surface of the lake was only disturbed by the stones skipping across it.

  It was a chilly, late October Saturday afternoon, but Bridget had insisted that they escape Henry’s studies for a brief respite out of doors before supper.

>   Henry had progressed splendidly over the past days; he had adapted rapidly to their schedule together, and he was startlingly intelligent for a boy his age. His mind was a veritable sponge for knowledge.

  “One, two, three, four, five, six…seven!” Henry jumped up excitedly, his arms held aloft and his blond hair waving in the cold breeze. “I skipped it seven times, Lady Bridget!”

  “That is wonderful, Henry!” She smiled warmly at him as her breath fogged around her face. The boy was such a treasure.

  She looked over to Thomson who stood nearby, watching their actions. “What do you say, Thomson? Was it not a splendid toss?”

  His eyebrows briefly rose in surprise at being included in the activity. “Indeed, my lady.”

  Bridget gazed at Thomson for a moment, internally debating whether or not she should ask him the question she had been burning to ask.

  If he didn’t answer, she could accept that, but not asking at all would just bother her further. “There is a question I have been meaning to ask, Thomson, and I wonder if you could answer it for me?”

  He gazed hesitantly at her, but nodded tersely nonetheless. “I could try.”

  “Why are there no women employed in Mr. Stevens’ castle? Why only young, robust men?”

  Thomson first appeared stunned at the question, then frustrated. “I don’t rightly know, my lady.”

  Bridget could see that Thomson did not wish to answer. It was clear that something odd was happening in the castle, but Bridget could not figure out what it was. She was not certain she wished to discover what it was; the servants were conciliatory and kind. She had no desire to change that.

  She smiled in an attempt to lighten his mood. “Please excuse me, Thomson. I did not mean to pry.”

  “It is quite all right, my lady.”

  “Watch, Lady Bridget! Watch me throw another one!” She turned to watch Henry bend low and toss another stone across the lake’s surface.

  Bridget suppressed a sigh. She would not get any information from Thomson, and Helen has said that the servants belowstairs were frustratingly tight-lipped.

  A faint click echoed in the trees behind Bridget, and her gaze darted toward Thomson in confusion. “Did you hear—”

  “Yes!” Thomson let out a roar and ran at her. Shock rippled through her, rooting her to the ground. He spread his arms wide just as a deafening crack echoed through the forest and over the lake.

  Bridget’s breath left her in a whoosh as fire blazed through her arm and Thomson’s body crushed hers.

  * * *

  Charles nudged Riot faster. The great beast moved fluidly over gravel and dirt, snuffing and puffing as he ran. The air was chilled, leaving a nip to Charles’ cheeks as the wind swept past.

  While his journey had yielded information, it had taken more time than he’d anticipated. He had been away from the castle—and from Bridget—for far too long. Were his men protecting her? Was she well?

  His stomach twisted as a litany of worries travelled through his mind. Ought he to have cut his meeting with his comrades shorter? Shame washed over him at the thought. He was bordering on treason. His work with the Secret Service should come first in his mind…but Bridget came first in his heart. His lips thinned and he nudged Riot ever faster.

  * * *

  Bridget stared in bewilderment back into Thomson’s dark, fearless eyes.

  “Are you well, Lady Bridget?” he grunted.

  She felt his ribs expand and contract with every deep breath, as he lay atop her. Pain radiated through her; Thomson’s weight on her chest hurt, her back and head ached, and her arm throbbed with a dull burning sensation.

  She frowned in thought. “I do not know. What happened?”

  Thomson brushed a dispassionate, cursory hand over her head, down her neck and her right arm to her waist, then did the same with her other side. Bridget might have felt outraged, but something within her sensed the seriousness of this circumstance. Thomson paused as he reached her upper left arm, then cursed under his breath.

  He raised himself off of her, settling himself on his knees on the grass beside her, then turned to yell over his shoulder. “Lady Bridget has been shot!”

  Her eyes widened. “Shot!” She looked down at her arm to the growing crimson stain on her sleeve. “Bloody hell!”

  Thomson blinked, but Bridget paid his reaction no heed.

  “Where is Henry? Is he well?”

  He held his hands out in a placating gesture. “Henry is fine; Brown ushered him inside to safety immediately.”

  “Brown was out of doors?” She turned her head, looking to either side of her. “Where in heaven’s name did all these men come from? And what do you mean, safety? Was it the stray bullet of a hunter? If not, do you know who shot at us? Why would someone do that?”

  Thomson ignored her questions and moved to lift her in his arms, but she waved his hands away.

  “Thank you, but I believe I can stand on my own.”

  He straightened, muttering what sounded like “stubborn woman” and held his hand out to aid her to her feet.

  Bridget accepted, and gracelessly attempted to stand. “Goodness.” She put a hand to her spinning head, then glanced down at her left arm. “Goodness!” The stain upon the sleeve of her pale grey spencer grew rapidly, even as she looked on.

  “We must get you back to the castle, Lady Bridget,” Thomson said urgently. “Are you able to walk on your own or shall I carry you? I assure you, I am perfectly capable of doing so with minimal effort.”

  Based on how his arms had felt wrapped around her, and how heavy the man had been lying atop her, she had no doubt of his strength. Nevertheless…

  “Yes, I believe I am able to walk on my own. But please do walk beside me, for in the event that I should need help, I would like you nearby.”

  “Of course, my lady.” He undid his cravat and tugged it from around his neck with a swish. “Here,” he motioned for her to hold out her arm, “this will minimize the bleeding.”

  She carefully lifted her arm and he wrapped and tied his cravat over the bulk of her wound.

  “Thank you, Thomson.”

  A man Bridget recognized as one of the belowstairs footmen, came running in their direction from the forest. “Thomson!”

  Thomson swung around at the call, then turned back to face her. “If you will stay here for just a moment, my lady, I must speak with Greene. Will you be well for a moment?”

  Bridget nodded, and Thomson went to meet with Greene. She could not hear the conversation, but it was not a pleasant one from what she could infer. Both men seemed concerned and angry. Bridget supposed they had a valid reason, as their master’s grounds had been intruded upon, and an employee shot.

  Mr. Stevens had stated upon her arrival that she was not to leave the castle or its grounds without an escort, and now Bridget had an idea of why he had insisted upon it. Goodness, what would have happened if Thomson had not been there? Or Brown to take young Henry to safety?

  A shiver ran up her spine. That did not bear thinking on.

  Thomson hastened back toward her as Greene ran toward the castle.

  “Greene will run ahead to the castle to send for the physician.” He held his arm out to her. “Shall we?”

  She nodded her head in response, a short wave of dizziness fogging her mind for a moment. She quickly linked her uninjured arm through his and they carefully made their way back to the castle. Bridget still could not ascertain how so many men had appeared once the shot had been fired. Had they been walking nearby? Had they been gardening? Had she fainted and not known it?

  In addition to that, why had someone shot at her? What purpose did it serve? And how, in heaven’s name had Mr. Stevens known that there were dangers out of doors? Had someone previously been shot on his property? If so, why had he not told her?

  Her mind was whirling. She wanted nothing more than to be examined by the doctor, have a nice hot cup of tea, then have a few hours in solitude to begin putting the pie
ces of her scattered thoughts together.

  Chapter 13

  Charles walked Riot into the castle stables, stretching the ache from his legs. He brought Riot to his stall, but had yet to see any sign of his men. Where the devil has everyone gone?

  He removed Riot’s saddle, fed him, watered him, and brushed him down. As he latched Riot’s stall behind him, he heard the heavy breathing and shuffling feet of someone rushing into the stables.

  Charles strode down the aisle and turned the corner to see Greene hastily saddling a grey mare. “What’s the hurry, Greene?”

  The young man jumped and spun around. “Hydra!”

  “What has happened?”

  “It’s Lady Bridget, sir. She has been shot. I have been sent to retrieve the physician.”

  “Shot!” His stomach dropped to his feet and his heart began to beat erratically beneath his ribs. Oh God, oh God! “Where is she?”

  “With Thomson. On their way back to the castle from the lake.”

  Charles did not wait to hear anything further. He took off at a run toward the lake with the hope of intercepting them.

  How could this have happened? How could Bridget have gotten shot under their protection? His stomach flipped over once more. He would not allow a repeat of history! The thought of her injured sent tremors of horror through him, the likes of which he had never felt before.

  He ran through the castle’s gardens and around a copse of shrubbery, his heart racing and his lungs burning. It was several minutes before he came across Bridget and Thomson slowly walking toward the castle, several men following behind them.

  “Bridget!” His heart stuttered to a halt as he saw the blood staining the sleeve of her spencer and rapidly showing through the once-white cravat that had been tied there. He broke into a run once more, his legs pumping as fast as they could until he reached her side.

  “Major!” Her eyes were wide in her pale face. “What are you doing here?”