“A practical costume for reconnaissance work. And I assure you, I am perfectly capable of defending myself.”
“Which brings me to another question. How in heaven’s name did you manage to best Charles in a match of swords? And those thugs?”
Another blush rose to her cheeks as she realized that she had never told Lane this of herself. Though why she should feel embarrassed, she did not know.
“I have been taking lessons for several years in the art of fencing and swordsmanship. I know essentially everything there is to know about the art, and am rather proficient.”
The level of astonishment on Lane’s features would be comical if she did not feel so very anxious.
Slowly, Lane nodded, his ruffled blond locks moving with the motion. “I suppose that even should I refuse to allow you on your quest, you will find a way to escape through your window?” He raised his eyebrows at her in question.
She could not help but smile in response. “It is inevitable, dear brother. I will not rest until I have been victorious in this pursuit.”
“Very well. Then I support you in your decision. Though you must know how very much we love you. Your sisters, our mother, and I miss you dreadfully.”
“And I miss them.” She felt the familiar sting of tears behind her eyelids. “Thank you, Lane.” She pulled him into her embrace once more and gave him a quick sisterly kiss on his cheek. “Now I must return briefly to my bedchamber before I rendezvous with Stevens and Jones.”
They both stood and Lane led Bridget out into the hall.
“Thank you for speaking with me, Bridget.”
“I—oh! I feel terrible for it having slipped my mind, but how is dear Henry?”
His smile lit the corner of his deep blue eyes. “He is a pleasure to have in our home. He is getting on splendidly; Katherine has taken over the position of his governess, while Emaline has spoiled him with the love and affection of her animals. I am afraid that he may not wish to be placed in another home after having been here.” He pasted a rueful expression on his face, but Bridget saw the fondness and regard behind the gesture.
“I am pleased, indeed, dear brother. I shall see you very soon, upon my word.”
Before she could delay longer with more inquiries about the wellbeing of her family, Bridget made her way through the darkened halls to her bedchamber.
* * *
As Bridget disappeared through the doorway of the family room Lane slumped in is seat. What a disaster. Not only had Bridget been reduced to the role of soiled dove, but she had now assumed the role of spy.
He had believed Charles an upstanding fellow. Lane had actually felt guilty when he’d taken Anna’s innocence out of wedlock. Charles had even called him out on the matter! But lo and behold, Charles had done the very same thing to Lane’s own beloved sister, Bridget.
The man should be ashamed of his behaviour, the bloody hypocrite.
Lane wished that there was some way for Bridget’s plan to come to fruition without her life being put in danger. He supposed that it had been in danger since the moment she left Hertfordshire, and as of yet she’d managed well enough on her own. If Charles believed her capable enough to invite her to join him in his spy activity, then Lane supposed that he would agree with the man, as little as he was fond of the idea.
He would just have to hope that it all played out in their favour.
* * *
Once ensconced inside her welcoming bedchamber, Bridget hurriedly lit a candle and removed her coat. She reached into the pocket and withdrew her dagger. Hiding the blade in her sleeve should not be a complicated endeavour, but Bridget had spent the majority of her allotted time speaking with Lane and not preparing herself for what was to come.
Very carefully, she wiggled the point of the dagger between the stitching at the cuff of her sleeve, creating a small, undetectable hole. She pulled at the material, widening the hole just enough to slip in her dagger.
The task was rather simple, though she required a needle and thread to sew the seam of her right sleeve together. Thankfully, someone had returned her needlework to her bedchamber. As quickly as she could, she selected dark thread and began to sew the dagger into her sleeve.
In the event that she could only retrieve it with one hand, she left the end unknotted so she could pull it to release the stitching with ease.
Once it was completed, Bridget put her coat on and viewed her reflection in the mirror.
Splendid. The weight of the dagger was undetectable.
Just as she turned to extinguish her candle, the door to her bedchamber opened. Bridget looked up, expecting Lane or one of her sisters come to bid her farewell. But it was Helen who stood in the doorway.
“Oh! How good to see you, Helen,” she smiled at her maid. “I had so despaired that you’d had difficulty returning home. I apologize if Lane woke you; I will not have need of your services this evening.”
“It is quite all right, my lady. I am pleased that I was woken.” Her green eyes glittered as she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “I wondered when you would return to Mason Hall.”
The low light of Bridget’s bedchamber flickered over Helen’s slender form. Her dark hair was styled high atop her head, the thin, loose locks about her face lending her a pleasing softness.
“Yes, well, occurrences beyond my control prevented my returning sooner. How have you faired in my absence?” Bridget glanced at the mantle clock, then returned her attention to Helen. She was out of time.
“Ill. I have faired very ill, my lady,” her maid sneered.
Bridget blinked, stymied by Helen’s tone. “I am sorry to hear of your misfortunes, dear, but I am afraid that we will have to continue our discussion at a later date; I would greatly enjoy conversing over tea, should you be amenable.”
“That will not do.” Helen advanced further into the room and into the ring of light created by the candle. Something about her did seem ill. Her eyes were narrowed and piercing, her spine stiffly erect, and her stance one of powerful pride.
Then Bridget realized what it was that Helen had said. “If you do not wish to have tea, I will not importune you—”
Suddenly Helen broke into an unrestrained, unnerving laughter and Bridget retreated a step. This was a side of Helen that Bridget had not before witnessed. She did not like it.
“I beg you to regain control of yourself, Helen.”
A menacing calm stole over Helen. “And I beg you to silence yourself, harlot.”
Bridget’s jaw dropped open. “I hardly think—”
“That is precisely the problem. You hardly think. Have you not made the connections yet?”
The niggling at the back of Bridget’s mind exploded in one great moment of understanding. “No. It could not have been…”
“It is about time that you figured out that I was the one who shot you. That it was I that has utilized my time in the Castle by searching that idiot Major and his friend’s belongings.”
Bridget retreated a step. “How long?”
The handsome, vile woman smirked. “Why, since you hired me, of course.”
Two years… Good God! Since Charles had returned from war. Their entire acquaintance had been a falsehood. Bridget’s stomach roiled.
“How could you—”
“Enough of your questions!” Helen hissed.
Bridget reached for her sword, but the click of a pistol being cocked halted her.
“Did you truly believe that I would arrive unarmed?” Helen scoffed. “Foolish girl.” She advanced until she was standing directly in front of Bridget. “Unlike the last time I shot you, at this range and without your guards, I would most certainly not miss. Today, however, I am not come to murder you. I have been sent to retrieve you.”
Several thoughts flashed through Bridget’s mind; who sent Helen? Who did she work for? Why would she turn traitor? Where was Bridget being sent? How was she to get word to Stevens and Jones? And how, oh how, had Bridget not known that
Helen was a spy for the French?
A movement at Bridget’s bedchamber window caught her eye, just as Helen hissed in a breath. “Good night, my lady.” Helen bared her teeth.
Before Bridget could glimpse more than a silhouette of the large man climbing in through the window, the butt of Helen’s pistol hit the side of her head and the world went black.
Chapter 34
Bramwell Stevens resisted the urge to shift his feet anxiously. Bridget knew when they were to rendezvous; surely she would appear soon.
“Where do you suppose she is?” Jones’ hushed whisper created a puff of mist against the frigid air.
“I told her to meet me within half an hour in the vegetable garden. It has been…” Bram looked at his pocket watch, “just above three quarters of an hour. That is odd; she is usually punctual.”
Just then, a movement in the darkness caught his attention.
He gestured for Jones to look, then squinted in an attempt to make out the figures. He was thankful that the moon was bright this night, for without it he would likely not have seen them at all.
One willowy woman in servant’s attire and one large brute of a man with something carried over his shoulder were walking through the dark gardens. Bram squinted yet further. His stomach dropped.
Holy hell! That dark lump over the man’s shoulder was Bridget! He could not mistake her white-blonde locks in the long braid hanging down the man’s back.
“Damn, Stevens,” Jones’ voice was barely audible, “but I think that is Lady Bridget.”
“It is Bridget, Jones. They must have cornered her in her bedchamber.” He stood and, on light feet, began to follow their direction. “Jones, I have the feeling we are going to need our horses.”
* * *
With a sputtering cough, Charles sat upright, shaking his head in an attempt to dispel the ice-cold water sluicing down his face and hair. He had been awakened by many unpleasant things before, but a bucket of icy water splashed in his face was near the top of the list.
“Get up,” one of Gilley’s thugs growled. “It’s mornin’ and Gilley wants to make a detour.”
A detour? Where could Gilley possibly wish to take him that would lessen the time he got to enjoy watching Charles squirm in the Brack? Wherever it was, it could not be good.
The large man grabbed one of Charles’ arms and pulled him to his feet.
Charles scowled at him, grinding his teeth at the pain in his leg. Damn but he wished his arms weren’t tied behind his back so he could throw a punch at the blackguard. “I am capable of standing on my own,” he lied. But that did not stop him from behaving contradictorily.
The wound on his leg hurt like the devil, and he knew he had lost a significant amount of blood, for this wooziness would not fade.
The man ignored him and kept his punishing grip on Charles’ arm as they crossed the room.
The door opened and a second large man joined them, taking Charles’ other arm. The two of them dragged him forcibly from the room, through a maze of hallways and stairs, and out the front door of the inn where a hack was waiting.
Another tremor travelled down him as the cold, misty morning air reached the wetness of his person. Damn, but he might very well freeze.
Charles was at least marginally grateful that he was not required to ride a horse again. His body still ached after having fallen the night before.
The two men pushed him through the door of the hack, and Charles fell bodily on the rear-facing seat. He blinked his eyes several times, but was unable to focus his gaze on the form seated across from him. Damn this dizziness.
“I see you are prepared for our journey this morning, Major.” Gilley’s voice dripped with distain.
Charles doubted that Gilley desired a reply, so he remained silent as he righted himself on the seat and attempted to regain his focus.
“I would have preferred it if those louts did not wet you. It smells like wet dog in here.” He raised a handkerchief with one pudgy hand and held it to his nose in distaste.
Charles retracted his previous feelings on being awakened with water. If it made Gilley unhappy, then Charles was pleased to have been doused.
The weight of Gilley’s three men mounting the back of the hack and the driver’s seat lowered the vehicle. With the crack of a whip, the hack jolted to a start and they were trotting out of the innyard.
Charles did not know how long they sat in silence, but found himself increasingly disturbed by the man across from him. Gilley was a veritable beacon of delight. Wherever he was taking Charles, it must be worse than the Brack. And he had been certain that there was nothing as horrifying.
“Where…” he croaked, “where are we going, Gilley?”
The man laughed wickedly.
“You must wait for that treat, boy.” Gilley said, his jowls flapping as he spoke. “I received the most diverting letter this morning from someone you are familiar with. Oh no, boy, not an English spy. A French spy; one that has fed me some fascinating news about your little lover. Don’t look at me that way; of course I know about your pathetic infatuation with the lightskirt.”
If he was not painfully aware of his lack of weapon and the three men outside the hack, Charles would have leapt across the distance between them and throttled Gilley until his corpulent face turned purple. For now, he satisfied himself with the small fantasy.
That small diversion did nothing, however, to dispel the dread that had settled in his gut like a stone. What news had Gilley of Bridget? Where was she? Had she found Stevens? Were they searching for him? Damn, but he wished he knew.
They slowed to a stop as they neared a nondescript building. Charles looked out the window. It appeared to be an abandoned mill.
The hack lifted as Gilley’s hired thugs stepped down to open the door.
Gilley alighted, looking smug as two of his men reached in, grabbed Charles, and hauled him out of the equipage. Another icy blast of cold air overtook him.
“Bring him inside and tie him to a chair. I do not want him escaping.”
Splendid.
Gilley’s men did as they were told. Without preamble, they dragged him into the mill and through several corridors before they reached their desired room.
They tossed Charles in a stiff wooden chair and tied thick rope tight across his chest, holding him to the backrest. His hands were tied behind his back, and his ankles were tied to the chair legs.
Charles gazed around the room in which he had been put. It was not terribly large in size, but it was rectangular in shape; Charles suspected it had been used as a common eating area for the workers of the mill. There was a table pressed against the wall, nearest the door through which he had entered. Another door and a fireplace dominated the opposite wall. The fourth wall had windows with drab, grey window coverings over them, giving the room an odd, foggy appearance.
Although, Charles amended, the fogginess could certainly be from his own eyes, as his light-headedness had not faded. The scent of mould and dust assailed his senses. Clearly this mill had been abandoned for some time.
Gilley came to stand before him, his face lit with delight. He used his handkerchief up to wipe at the beads of sweat forming on his brow and his numerous chins. He had a startling resemblance to a sweaty, menacing, and hideous version of Father Christmas. “If you must know, I have brought you here to meet The Boss.” He laughed gleefully.
The Boss!
“Yes, boy. I’m sure you are piecing it together by now.” He was positively glowing with joy.
What was it that Charles had to piece together? He shook his head in an attempt to dispel the fogginess gripping his mind.
The Boss. Lightskirt. Letter from a French spy. This morning. Lover. Infatuation. This morning. The Boss…Bridget!
No, no, no! Charles felt the blood drain from his face as his heart gave a hard thump.
Gilley threw back his head in another laugh. “Yes! You have finally put together my little clues.” He turned to yell over his
shoulder. “Bring her in!”
Good God, Bridget is here? No. Please don’t let it be so!
A great steel door opened to reveal yet another large man with an unconscious Bridget hanging over his shoulder.
“No!” he croaked. “Let her go! She has naught to do with this!”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Hydra. You know very well that she has enough to do with our dealings to warrant this. She knows far too much.” Gilley pointed to another chair in the small room they occupied. “Put her in that one. There is enough rope to tie her up as well.”
The man complied, dropping Bridget into the wooden seat and tied her as they had done with Charles. He could not tear his gaze from her. Was she seriously hurt? He did not see any blood on her person, but as her head lolled to one side, he could not see her face. No, no, no! There was a sizeable lump and a thin trail of blood running through her hair. Lord, they had knocked her out.
How was he to get both of them out of this horrible situation? Freeing only himself out of this circumstance was challenging enough with his injury and dashed dizziness, he hadn’t the faintest idea how he was going to rescue Bridget, as well. His heart skipped a beat. This was precisely what I’d been afraid of.
Perhaps Charles should divert their attention from her. “I had thought you were going to introduce me to The Boss. Where is he?”
As Charles finished his sentence, two others entered the room; a tall, lanky man, and a thin, handsome woman in servant’s clothing.
“Hello, Hydra,” the woman sneered.
Shock rippled through Charles as recognition hit. “By God! Helen!” He’d never have even considered his nemesis to be female. It served him right, he supposed, for underestimating a woman. He’d never do it again, by damn.
The Trouble with Love (The Mason Siblings Series Book 2) Page 26
