by Anne Mallory
Blackfield idly tapped the back of his cards. “A man who grows bloated by others’ praise is a man who grows complacent in his failings. His ego will be his downfall.”
She sent him a sharp look. “Quite possibly the wisest thing you’ve said all night, Lord Blackfield.”
He raised a brow, but Samuel cut in. “You think Bonaparte will grow stronger, Miss Harrington?”
“I do. But at the same time, I agree with Lord Blackfield.” She grimaced. “Strong leaders only remain as strong as those they surround themselves with, and if Bonaparte’s ego continues to grow, he most likely will begin punishing those who do not fall to his will. And that will lead to his downfall. He will poison his own council and follow it to its sweet death. The ultimate failing of those with extreme power.”
She glanced at Blackfield and was surprised by the guarded respect she saw in his eyes. Unwilling respect, but respect nonetheless. She turned her gaze back to Samuel, who was looking at her in contemplation.
“You are interested in France, Miss Harrington?”
“My mother was French.”
“An émigrée?”
“Yes.”
“Do you feel loyalty toward France?”
She inhaled and willed her hackles down, reminding herself that he had been absent during that part of the conversation. “Let me be frank, Mr. Simmons, I am an Englishwoman first and foremost. That doesn’t mean I do not sympathize with the French struggles. The people are confused. They are looking for leadership and a way to rebuild their economy. I may not like the way Bonaparte is handling things or care for the man, but I can understand how easy it is for the common folk to be swayed. They are only human, and, just like our fellow countrymen in England, all they want is a better life. They believe Bonaparte will give it to them.”
“Do you?”
“No, I do not.”
Samuel gave her a searching glance and played his card, allowing the game to continue. Blackfield maintained an unreadable expression for the rest of the game.
The card games had left her restless, and Patience decided to work a bit before sleuthing. Work generally focused her mind. She walked from her chambers, head down as she tried to decipher George Ashe’s notes on the Egyptian mask. For a man so serious about his collection, George had really taken haphazard and shoddy notes. The rumor that he had a fabulous memory and had been able to remember every detail about his collections, no matter how small, seemed to have merit. She’d ask Caroline in the morning.
She read over the last sentence in his work journal. Osiris? Anubis? That sure looked like a round letter at the beginning and an “is” at the end. She squinted, pulled the paper closer, and plowed straight into someone.
Looking up, she met the dark eyes of Anubis himself and gave a small squeak.
Anubis lifted a brow. A familiar one. “Miss Harrington?”
“Er, Lord Blackfield. Fancy meeting you here.” She tried to steady her heartbeat.
“I do live here.”
“So you do.” She moved to skirt around him and consequently hide her cheeks, which were flaming from embarrassment. “Good night.”
“Off so soon?”
His words had a challenging bite, and she stopped and met his eyes.
“Was there something you wished to discuss?” she asked evenly.
“Interesting conversation tonight.”
“I’m sure that you found it so. I’m left either to my initial impression that you wish all antiquarians ill, or that you’ve just targeted me.”
He leaned against the wall, and a painting, a Tintoretto, if she identified it correctly, shifted behind his back. He didn’t seem too concerned that the priceless piece might come crashing down. She wondered if he treated all his possessions in such a careless manner. Perhaps they burned priceless objects and antiques in a huge bonfire each new moon, as a sacrifice to whatever monster they were raising. Perhaps they were even now devising which pieces would see their devastating end in a week.
“Miss Harrington?”
“What?” she snapped, still picturing the antique burning monster in her head.
“I asked if you had everything you needed?”
Her eyes narrowed. “For what? Burning portraits?”
He looked stunned for about two seconds, before his sarcastic mien appeared. “Is that what you are doing in there? I’m not sure that is what Caroline had in mind when she donated the collection. But please, have at it, no loss to me.”
He shrugged, and the picture on his other side, a Raphael, shifted as well. Her ire increased, even as part of her brain screamed that she must have had way too much tea that day.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” she muttered. “Anyone with monsters, minions, vampires—”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “What did you say about monsters?”
She snorted, not the least impressed by his obvious anger. “They are all over the place here.”
He took two steps forward and pinned her to the wall. “Be careful what you say, Miss Harrington. Monsters come in various shapes and sizes.”
She shivered, whether from his words or his body so close to hers, she didn’t know. As much as she should feel nervous pinned in place, with not a servant in sight, Blackfield didn’t scare her. Oh, he made her feel many emotions—anger, irritation, confusion. He caused her stomach to clench and her chest to feel as if someone were sitting on it. She didn’t know what any of those things meant, but she knew they weren’t evidences of fright.
She wondered how she knew that. There was just something about him, something unidentifiable that spoke to her, something that would override all else, even if she found out he was a vampire after all.
“Are you a monster, Lord Blackfield?”
He released her, but didn’t step back. “What do you fear, Miss Harrington?”
She looked into his eyes. Loneliness, the loss of her family, the loss of her freedom, proving to be unlovable, other nameless things.
She didn’t answer and he leaned in close, only a breath away from her lips. “That is where you will find your monsters.” And with that he was gone, his coat snapping behind him as he turned the corner.
Patience leaned against the wall, the forgotten journal lying on the floor next to her, dropped without thought minutes before. Her heart raced, her breath caught.
She was going to that meeting tonight if it was the last thing she did.
Chapter 7
Patience sighed as she changed into darker clothes and settled into a comfortable chair to read. Blackfield was turning out to be one of the most aggravating men she knew. One moment hot and the next cold. She’d give a pretty penny to know what went on inside his head.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t dealt with people making insinuating comments. Especially men. But there was something about Blackfield that made it harder to deflect his barbs. She wondered if it was something about the man himself, or perhaps it was the way they had met, before they had known each other’s identities. Or perhaps how she reveled when she coaxed a smile from him, something rare and to be treasured if his normal behavior were anything to go by—if being a sarcastic beast in darkened hallways counted as normal behavior for anyone.
The candle had burned down to a stub by the time Patience closed her book, a fascinating look at the ancient influence on seventeenth-century life. She had discovered it in Mr. Ashe’s collection. She checked the time. Half past eleven. Nearly time for the viscount’s meeting. After that night’s experience, Patience was more than ready to discover what was going on.
Throwing on her dark dressing gown and shoes, she slipped into the hall. The shadows swirled, but Patience threw her shoulders back and strode forward with purpose. She was on a mission.
Said mission ground to an abrupt halt as a man turned the corner. Just in time she ducked into a darkened doorway. The man marched past, thankfully without looking her way. It was the thin man she had observed talking to the viscount and bloodstained man earlier i
n the day. Unlike the leashed control of Blackfield, or the wild-eyed fervor of the bloodstained man, this man was nondescript. A slight twitch to his step and face gave him a nervous appearance. He didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything but where he was going and moved along steadily.
Patience stepped into the hall and followed him, sticking to the shadows. Trailing him was her best chance. If she waited, and the meeting didn’t occur in that outlying building, she might never find the meeting place.
If caught indoors, she could say she was going to the library and got lost. It wouldn’t be a total fabrication. With over two hundred rooms in the castle, Patience wasn’t sure she could make it to the library without guidance, having only set foot in the room once. And she did want to revisit. She just hadn’t had time yet.
Her first challenge while trailing the man came at the main staircase. She waited for him to descend and turn the corner before following. Hurrying after him, she was able to catch up as he exited the castle. She noticed others heading in the same direction—toward the plain buildings at the edge of the woods. She continued on, sticking close to the gardens, then finally ducking into a hedge. The others were all entering the mysterious building farthest northeast.
Patience counted to one hundred and sprinted to the building. She rounded the corner looking for an open window or another entrance. No such luck. Changing tack, she returned to the entrance and pried the door open a crack. No one was present.
She walked nervously through the vestibule, checking behind her every few seconds. Her plan had seemed like a good one when she had first devised it, but the more she thought about it, the more dangerous it appeared. If she admitted it to herself, she was a little deprived of excitement. Spending most of her life in libraries and archives really didn’t do much for her sense of physical adventure. But having an adventure was one thing, being stupid was something else.
The entrance door opened with a bang. Eyes wide, Patience threw herself into action and scurried around a corner and down the hall. Muffled voices came from a door ahead. She could hear the door to the building opening again and two men in conversation. Patience opened the first door on the right and leapt inside. A closet. Just her luck.
The decision to return to the castle evaporated.
The voices passed by, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The muffled voices were a little louder from inside the closet, as the rooms appeared to share a common wall.
She could only catch snatches of the conversation.
“…we need them ready in time…”
“…watch for anything out of the ordinary…”
“…need guards at all times…”
“…Fool! Send someone to the front now…”
Heavy footsteps trudged past. Patience sucked in a breath. She put her head in her hands as the discussion resumed. Perhaps she had opened a cursed burial artifact.
“…the government would be against it…”
“…prototypes…”
“…dangerous…”
“…destructive…”
“…if this gets out…entire forces destroyed…”
“…do it…”
“…use all means necessary…”
Patience started chewing her nails. What were they doing? From the snippets of conversation it could not be good. The discussion grew muffled as voices broke into groups, and conversations layered on top of each other, becoming indistinguishable. This continued for what seemed like hours, and Patience grew increasingly uncomfortable and tired. She was wedged between shelves and the door, and something was poking the small of her back. She reminded herself that contrary to popular belief, not all aspects of an adventure were filled with boundless excitement.
Finally, the voices ceased and feet tromped passed the cramped closet. It took another fifteen to twenty minutes until she was sure that she was as alone as she was going to be. She carefully opened the door and peered out. She could hear two people talking near the entrance. Guards. Great.
Heading toward the meeting room, she slowly pushed open the door. The room was dark. No one was in sight.
She let out a sigh of relief.
Her eyes had adjusted to the dark hours ago and she could see the faint outlines of machines and hanging objects. She walked farther into the room. The windows were too high to escape from, but they let in enough moonlight to allow her to look around. Walking over to a workbench, she picked up an object lying there.
Manacles. The dark shadows shifted. She dropped the manacles and inched toward the door. Perhaps it was time to leave.
Scurrying back to the hall, she headed into one of the other rooms and was pleased to see a Patience-sized window. She unlatched it and edged it up slowly before slipping through and pulling it back down. Satisfied, she headed back toward the castle, staying away from the open paths that might allow the guards to see her.
She released another breath when she was inside the castle and moving toward the stairs. A noise to her right alerted her, and she ducked into the hall on her left. Unfortunately, the person turned left as well.
Just when she despaired that luck had completely deserted her, she spotted an open door. An open door that led to the library. She scooted inside and stood stock-still behind the door.
The footsteps neared, then stopped. Patience closed her eyes, praying for deliverance. The pendulum of the library clock swung in measure with her racing heart. Time seemed suspended. Eventually, the person moved on, and she exhaled the breath she had been holding.
A hand shot out and grasped her arm, pulling her against a hard body.
“And what do we have here?”
Nerves gripped her as she recognized the viscount’s voice. “I was just picking up a book. I couldn’t sleep.”
“It’s late to be out. People could get the wrong impression.” His breath tickled her neck, and she involuntarily moved back against him. “Or have the wrong intentions.”
Her muscles tightened. She stepped away and twisted to face him. “That they could. You should heed your own advice, my lord.”
She was pleased to note that her voice was cool and calm, in direct contrast to the rest of her body.
The viscount let go of her and leaned negligently against the doorframe. “And why would I do that? Of what do I need to take heed?” He leaned forward, his lips inches from hers. “This is my domain, and I can take what I want.”
She forced herself to remain still, not wanting to give an inch.
His expression was both smirking and triumphant, and it was mixed with something she couldn’t identify. “I have never claimed Patience; perhaps I should work on that besetting sin.” And the last inch of space between them was lost.
Chapter 8
Thomas had been halfheartedly walking toward his study to work after the meeting, his mind wrapped up in other matters. Female matters. Matters concerning a particular female.
He needed to discover if she was really a spy. She didn’t seem the type, but then neither had the woman who had spied on Kevin McSweeney. From all accounts she had been considered a pleasant, somewhat meek woman. Patience Harrington wasn’t meek, she was spontaneous and…seemingly naive. A cultivated naïveté, if the rumors were true.
She always had a quip to add, no matter the appropriateness. He needed to figure out how to twist her tongue to his bidding. He stopped. Now there was an image. The woman threw herself into everything, be it an inappropriate conversation or her antiquities. He wondered what it would feel like to have that passion directed at him.
Actually…that wasn’t a bad idea. Not bad at all. Get her to confess her secrets between the sheets and gain a, what looked to be, fierce lover in the process.
It wasn’t like she wasn’t experienced. The other antiquarian woman had made sure to show her disapproval of Patience and a fast reputation, all couched in seemingly concerned tones and sentences, of course. Samuel’s report had only confirmed, and worsened, her reputation.
Thomas had
no desire to bed the servants or villagers, women that he would interact with on a daily or weekly basis. So he went months between his major trips to London in forced celibacy. Yes, the seduction of Patience Harrington was a great idea.
He started a general plan in his head and walked into the library to find the book that he knew was directly on the left shelf. He was only two feet into the room when sudden movement drew his attention. A spy! He reached out, and the next thing he knew he had an armful of warm, wiggling woman.
Just the spy he was looking for. Lord knew there was no time like the present to put a plan into action.
Patience gasped as Blackfield’s lips touched hers. His mouth was soft and warm, and searching, so unlike the man himself. The contrast held her spellbound for a moment before she tentatively moved her lips against his, little tingles traveling through her body at the sensation. At the apparent invitation, he deepened the kiss, applying more pressure. His fingers tangled into her hair at the base of her head, pulling her closer.
She melted into him as he ran his tongue along her bottom lip. She felt hot and flustered, and somewhat dreamy.
His tongue caressed hers lightly.
The brief caress caused her to tense and pull away, wresting control back from the romantic innocent portion of her brain. What was she doing letting Blackfield kiss her? The man had been dreadful to her just hours before.
She backed into the wall. “Wh—what are you doing?”
He put a hand against the wall near her head and leaned close. “Just having a taste.” He twirled one of her unruly strands between his fingers and brought it to his lips. Her breath caught, and a funny feeling bloomed in her stomach.
“Well, I hope you enjoyed it.”
Dammit. Her mouth was doing that thing again where it ceased listening to her brain.
He smiled. A slow, feral smile as he dragged the captured strands across her lower lip, similar to what he had done with his thumb that first night and in her dreams every night thereafter. “Oh, I did. Your beautiful mouth is put to much better use this way.”
