She let her lungs carry on their job before she became light-headed, but continued to wait for several minutes, in case her father returned. Then she lifted the lid of the window seat and peered from under the cushion. The room lay in darkness; the only light came from the gas lamps on the street, sending pale yellow fingers reaching for the house.
Just to be safe, she waited another hour to be sure her father had gone to bed. She lay nestled in the storage space and counted the soft ticks of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. As it chimed four, Isabel climbed from her hidey-hole and set to work. She didn't dare risk a light that might attract attention from those patrolling outside. Instead she relied on her ingrained knowledge of the room and the small measure of illumination cast by the moon and street lamps.
First she pulled away her father's chair. Then she rolled up the carpet that sat under the enormous desk. She didn't need to move all of it, just that side of the rug directly under where the chair normally resided. Now she had exposed the floorboards. This was where her task became interesting. Taking the knife from the garter on her thigh, she prised one rather short-looking floorboard up.
Underneath was a dark void. With one board out, it was easier to remove its neighbour. This was where she needed a light for her work. The tiny amount making it into the room failed to penetrate the gloom beneath the floor. She would have to risk it. Finding a nub of a candle, she lit the wick and thrust the end into the hole, hoping it would contain the flickering flame and shield it from other eyes that were still awake.
The candle revealed that her father sat on his secrets—quite literally, in this case. A stout iron box sat in the floor directly under her father's chair. His secret safe. One kept closed by a blood lock. The box had been ensorcelled by a mage and imbued with a drop of her father's blood so the lock would only spring open for him.
But magic sometimes had tiny loopholes. A blood lock might also open for the person's direct heir. The duke had no son and Isabel was oft overlooked—to her father's detriment, in this instance. She was still of his blood and, being his only offspring, the lock had sensitivity to her too.
Perhaps one day the duke would regret cutting off Isabel's allowance, as it had compelled her to develop skills to survive without ready cash. A mixture of curiosity and desperation had driven her to discover what the duke kept in the safe, and trial and error taught her how to trick the blood lock.
Isabel clutched the small knife in one hand and then lay on her stomach for the cramped job. She would need both hands in the cavity and didn't want to scorch her skin on the candle's flame. She drew a steadying breath. In her mind she imagined her father, sitting in his chair currently pushed out of the way. She placed herself in that chair and channelled feelings of entitlement, privilege, and control.
With her creator firmly in her mind, Isabel pricked the blade to her finger, breaking the skin. Blood welled up and she directed it into the lock. Blood was the key needed to open this lock. One drop, then two. Still she held the image of her father in her mind.
The third drop of blood fell into the mechanism. Then a soft click sounded as the spell recognised the owner of the safe and released the metal barrels.
She allowed herself a muffled cry of triumph and then stuck her finger in her mouth to suck the prick clean. Reaching inside, she drew out a bundle of letters. Isabel sat up, facing the scant light from the window, and peered at each letter in turn. The jolt through her body as her bare skin touched parchment signalled that she had found what she remembered: two letters with a very large seal on the back bearing the imperial eagle of Napoleon. She steeled herself against the crack of magic as she traced the seal with a fingertip.
"Oh, Father," she whispered. It was one thing to speculate he had turned traitor to his country, quite another to hold the evidence in her hands. It surprised her that it ached her heart; she thought all feelings for him had been buried after his treatment of her.
Isabel shoved the two letters down her bodice, where the enchantment wriggled and tingled next to her skin, as though the paper were made of stinging nettles. She would have a rash across her chest when she removed the letters, but it was a minor inconvenience when she was so close to freedom.
Then she returned the rest of the safe's contents and shut the lid. The click came as it relocked itself. Let her father puzzle over the vanished correspondence. He would probably ascribe the disappearance to the work of a mage. He would never suspect his neglected daughter.
It was a somewhat melancholy Isabel who snubbed out the candle and rearranged the furniture. Floorboards, carpet, and chair were replaced exactly where there were supposed to be. She would leave no sign to indicate she had been here or stolen anything.
She cast one last look around her father's domain. She laid one hand on the back of the ornately carved chair and imagined a different world, one in which she had been raised as a beloved daughter who might have adored and admired her father. No, he had his chance, and by his actions he had directed the current outcome. Isabel would have no regrets and Alick waited for her, somewhere.
"Goodbye, father. I'm sorry our lives could not have taken a different path."
Having made her peace there was only one thing left to do.
Escape.
27
Alick
* * *
The Wolves didn't leave until first light the next morning and the wait nearly tore Alick in half. He had wanted to dash away immediately, until Ewan pointed out in his dry manner that Alick had consumed so much alcohol he wouldn't be able to sit his horse. The big Highlander had tried to argue the point, but had to concede when he fell over the stool while trying to rise.
He tried to ignore his hangover, but his head pounded as loud as the horse's hooves as he raced to London. Alick pushed the equine as hard as he dared; a cantering horse was far faster than a running wolf. Particularly a hung-over one that would run in zig-zags.
The others followed behind at a slightly less breakneck speed, and they agreed to meet at Aunt Maggie's Kensington house. By late afternoon, Alick made London in near record time, but he still didn't pause. He jumped to the ground and left the exhausted gelding in the mews not far from Maggie's home. As much as he wanted to shift and run to Mayfair, Hamish had forbidden it after Quinn had terrified pedestrians when his wolf dashed through the crowds to save Ianthe.
Instead he hailed a hackney to take him to the duke's Mayfair residence. He wouldn't leave Isabel alone, even if all he could do was stand in the street. After his mad dash to reach her, he ended up slumped against a tree trunk for hours.
He stood sentry as dusk faded into twilight. Then all through the night he kept up his vigil. From the shelter of trees in a central green space, he stared at what he could spot of the Berkley Square mansion. A tall stone wall encircled the house to keep out the rabble like him. He could only wonder what was happening behind the wall.
Nervous residents cast him suspicious looks and held their shopping closer as they scurried up their front paths. Once safe inside, they no doubt secured their silverware, terrified he would rob them in their sleep. At least he was intimidating enough that no one tried to move him on, but curtains occasionally twitched as a bold butler checked if the scoundrel still lurked. He only hoped someone inside Balcairn's house spotted him and mentioned the scarred face outside to Isabel, so she would know he waited.
He watched a carriage arrive and disappear behind the ornate gates, but that was the only movement after several hours. His mind and heart squabbled all through the dark hours. He desperately wanted to believe that Isabel had a plan and would return to him, but a tiny part called him a fool. Given she had everything, including a noble husband, why would she want a gruff and scarred soldier? Not to mention an Unnatural to boot. There were those who thought them worse than pond-dwelling scum.
His pocket watch read three a.m. when the iron gates were pushed open by lantern-wielding servants and a carriage with a matched pair of blood bays tr
otted out. He couldn't see who was within from his post slouched against a tree; he could only hope it wasn't Isabel.
Time wove itself among the stars overhead and eventually colour blushed the horizon like a maid's cheeks and he let out a deep sigh. Still no sign of her. Perhaps he should return to Kensington. He decided to walk the high wall one more time and then see if Aster had any more clever ideas. As he watched pink and orange stroke the clouds above, a faint scrabbling caught his attention. He stared at the seven-foot stone sentinel surrounding the house, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise.
He walked the perimeter, one slow step at a time, until he found the spot. As he looked up, a hand appeared, clinging to the top stone. Then a booted foot scraped along, finding purchase. Faint huffs and puffs now punctuated the air. The two extremities of hand and boot were followed by a knee, a flounce of gown, a battered-looking satchel and then another hand.
A rather unladylike curse broke free as Isabel made the top of the wall and tumbled over. Alick caught her like a falling star—albeit one with a rather filthy turn of phrase. His heart swelled until it couldn't fit in his chest and the organ seemed to stop functioning. She was here, in his arms. Did that mean she had returned to him, or that she simply wanted to see her father brought down for what he did? Or was this simply one last escapade before she settled down with the earl?
He set her down and then dropped his hands. His gaze stared at the ground as he waited. What could he say? His heart was already exposed and battered. Any words he tried to muster tasted pathetic on his tongue. He was the kicked dog crawling back on its stomach, hoping for a pat but fearing another boot.
A gentle touch stroked along the scar dividing his face. "I am so sorry. Can you ever forgive me? I had no time to explain my actions."
Only now could he dare to meet her gaze, but he still couldn't breathe. "Truly?"
Her eyes were moist with unshed tears. "I love you, Alick. I never meant to hurt you. I couldn't say anything in front of Father without giving away my intention to fool him and he would not allow me to be alone with you."
Three little words he had never expected to hear from a woman. He thought he might find companionship, at best, from life. Never did he dream to hold the love of such a noble woman, plucked from her mansion and gifted to him. There was only one thing he could do. He kissed her. Hard. He backed her up against the rough wall and while his tongue had no mastery at words, he could still use it to make her knees buckle.
"Are you terribly cross I didn't tell you what I was about?" she asked with a breathy whisper that belied the mischief shimmering in her eyes.
A low growl rumbled from his chest. "You will need to be most thoroughly punished for running off without saying a word."
Gooseflesh rose along her arms and her pupils dilated even as her tongue darted out to wet her lips. "Oh, yes. I have been a most disobedient wife. You will have to spank me, I fear."
A pang shot through his groin and he bit back a groan. Lord, the things he would do to her, until they were both too exhausted to move. Then he kissed her again. Only when he had completely reassured himself she was real and in his arms did he pull back and rest his forehead on hers. "I love you, but feared you would never feel the same for me."
Her hand stroked his scar. "You are the only man I could ever love. I'm not sure anyone else would put up with me, frankly."
He kissed her palm. "You are my mate. You have my love and loyalty for as long as there is breath in my body."
"Aster said wolves love more fiercely than ordinary men." She nestled closer to him against the chill of early morning.
"Aye." One word was all he could manage. Even if he possessed the skill to write sonnets he still couldn't capture the depth of his love for her.
The practicalities of their situation leaked through his fuddled mind. "You're wearing a nightgown and we're standing in the street. We should get moving."
"Yes. And I have the letters." Her eyes shone with excitement as she tapped her bodice. "I also overheard an odd conversation. Father and Linwood were talking about some enterprise at the West India docks and then I heard that name, Forge."
"My clever, clever Izzy-Cat." That was the lead they needed to find the turncoat agent.
"I also liberated the ballgown I wore the night we first met. I thought we might find some occasion for me to wear it." She reached into the leather satchel at her side and pulled out a tuft of orange silk.
"My bright gerbera. I'd like you to wear it, so I can take it off you." Now that he knew for sure she was his, he couldn't stop kissing her. But they still had much to do before he could spank her lush derriere for running into trouble without him. He grabbed her hand and they ran down the street to find a hackney.
Once in Kensington, Alick barged into the house and past the unblinking butler. The man had seen too much in his service to Aunt Maggie, and didn't even raise an eyebrow at the man dragging in a nightgown-wearing noble.
"A change of clothes awaits Mrs. Ferguson in your room," the butler said. He then offered to show Isabel the way.
Alick waited downstairs and paced up and down the hallway. He didn't trust himself to be involved in Isabel changing clothes. He preferred her out of them and didn't need the distraction this morning. Fifteen minutes later, the woman Alick loved was back, wearing breeches, boots, and a man's waistcoat tailored to her smaller waist.
"I see you were prepared once again. Thank you," she said and kissed his cheek.
Alick led her to the dining room and pulled out a chair. "Take a seat. We may as well have breakfast while we make plans."
He didn't know about her, but his stomach was rumbling and he needed sustenance after all night propping up a tree. Then he had a reunion with his wife to look forward to, and they both needed energy for what he had planned. He rang a bell by the buffet and then carried over the teapot.
Once he saw to Isabel's immediate needs, he stuck his head out the door and, rather than go knock on everyone's door, he simply bellowed, "Get down here! Isabel has news!"
By the time everyone assembled, the staff had laid out the rest of breakfast. Some of them looked more awake than others. Quinn kept smirking at Ianthe. Aster looked sleepy-eyed, but there was a smouldering edge to her violet gaze. Ewan looked bored, as though he had been awake all night reading a dull book. For once, Alick felt sorry for the lieutenant. He was now the only one of their number without a mate to warm his frozen heart.
Alick elbowed his cousin as they stood at the buffet, plates in hands. "Did I wake you?"
Hamish's lips twitched. "Oh, I was awake."
Alick took a seat next to Isabel and concentrated on his breakfast. His wolf basked in having its mate safe and nearby, and Alick was content to leave the chatter to everyone else.
"Once again you broke free of your gilded cage, Isabel," Ewan said.
"Find anything of interest?" Ianthe enquired.
"In the moments between a boring dinner and scrambling out the window and over the wall, I did happen upon a rather interesting correspondence." Isabel reached down her décolleté and extracted papers from next to her breast.
Alick huffed. "I could have done that for you."
"You can play hide the French letters later," Ewan said as he plucked the warm package from Isabel's fingers and handed them to Hamish.
Hamish opened the first letter and stared at the page. "There is an enchantment on them. This is a rather boring recitation of a banquet and a hand of cards."
Aster pulled a small vial from the pocket of her gown and passed it to Hamish. "From Lady Miles. I visited her yesterday and said we had letters that would have a residual spell to stop them from being read. Just dust the paper."
Hamish laid out both letters on the table and then sprinkled the contents of the vial over the page. Wisps of mist arose from the paper, as though a summer sun evaporated morning dew. The words rearranged themselves like little caterpillars crawling over the page. One by one they found a new spot in th
e page and created different paragraphs to the ones that were there before.
Then Hamish picked them up and scanned the contents. The room fell silent as he read and swore under his breath. "They are from Napoleon to the duke. He offers to make him a vassal king of England in exchange for his assistance to win the war."
Isabel swallowed a gasp on hearing the extent of her father's betrayal.
Alick couldn't leave her wallowing in shame. He laid a hand on her shoulder. "Your father makes his own choices. No one here judges you for his decisions."
She flashed him a grateful smile. Certainly none of the others would dare say a word against her, or they would answer to him.
Hamish looked up from the sheet of paper and then passed the damning missives back to Ewan. "The second letter would imply your father was negotiating terms. Napoleon states your father can appoint his own prime minister and parliament as long as England becomes part of the French empire."
"Father told me that the Earl of Linwood would make a fine prime minister for the right king. He was thinking of himself wearing the crown and creating a new order amongst the ton." Isabel's hand tightened on the teacup, and then with a sigh she dropped it away.
Alick growled on hearing that name. Linwood was the man Balcairn intended to hand the far larger prize—Isabel. Her smaller hand found his, and she squeezed his fingers.
His spitting wildcat raised her gaze to Hamish. "Father said that Alick and I are not wed, and that he had planned all along to give me to Linwood. Apparently my marriage to Alick was a sham, he simply needed me tamed so he could fashion the perfect docile wife for his ally."
Aster gasped. Ianthe snorted and teacups rattled all round.
"What?" Quinn said, his gaze incredulous.
Words choked in Alick's throat. His hands changed from fingers to clawed pads as his wolf tried to break through in outrage. What could he say to reassure the stunning creature at his side that she was his and he would never let her go?
Layers to Peel Page 24
