Well, maybe not so inadvertently. Her fingers tingled. They actually tingled as she carefully stripped the sleeve off the wounded arm. She found herself standing far too close and not wanting to budge. She wanted to soothe his pain and incite a fever. She wanted to wrap him in her arms and not ever let him go.
He'd been shot, and she simply didn't know how to feel about it, except that she was terrified. And not just from the danger.
And then he turned just a bit more and Felicity’s breath caught in her chest. Sweet God. His other arm. With his shirt off, she could see a line of red, ropy scars that traced his muscles all the way down, almost to his wrist. Burns. She wanted to reach out to touch them, to soothe them as if they were still fresh.
What had happened to him? What had he suffered? The scars weren’t that old, still looking angry and swollen. Weeks? Months? No wonder a gunshot to the arm had barely bothered him.
“Well then, young sir,” Mrs. Windom scolded, rag in hand as she examined the jagged edges of the slice the bullet had taken out of Flint's arm. “It's certainly bled well for ya. Keeps infection down. Poacher, was it?”
“You know there are no poachers here, Mrs. Windom,” he said through gritted teeth.
She shrugged. “Billy Burke'll sort it out.”
Felicity stepped carefully away, needing a bit of room from her own reaction to the complex story of Flint Bracken’s body. Before she could get out of range, Mrs. Windom caught her by the arm and handed her a pad to press against the wound as the housekeeper threaded her needle. Felicity closed her eyes, as if that would help.
“Mrs. Windom,” Flint said. “Can you ask if Lord Brent spoke to any of the staff about Miss Chambers while he was here?”
Pulling away the pad, Mrs. Windom bent to her task. “Wasn't here long enough, my lord. Never left the back salon. Where the drinks table is, isn't it?”
“Anyone else happen to mention her?”
Focused on her work, the housekeeper just shook her head. Felicity was about to make a strategic retreat when the housekeeper turned and handed her a pair of scissors. Oh, blast. Felicity hated this part. Taking in a surreptitious breath, she stepped closer. When Mrs. Windom finished the stitch, Felicity cut the thread. She was proud of herself. She didn’t even shudder.
“Substitute teacher for battlefield medicine?” Flint asked.
Felicity smiled. “Little girls are more rough-and-tumble than men think.”
She cut another thread, wanting all the while to ask about those burns. She tried not to notice that Flint’s hands were curled in on themselves or that she could hear his teeth grind. Knowing how much this must hurt did nothing for her peace of mind. She wanted to hold his hand. She wanted to hold his head. She wanted to go back an hour and prevent this from happening at all. She wanted to go back far enough to prevent every scar on his body.
The only thing she could think to do was distract him.
“Here,” she said, pulling out the locket.
She expected him to glance at it and nod. He didn’t. He went suddenly still, his eyes widening a bit, his nostrils actually flaring.
Her stomach dropped. She almost pulled her hand back and ran.
“Where did you say you got this?” he demanded, reaching out to take it.
Felicity took a breath. “I told you,” she said, grudgingly handing over the locket and broken chain. “My pupil. Mary Lassiter. She got it at a local fair.”
“No.” He didn’t even look up. “She did not.”
Felicity very much feared she had just lost her most precious possession. “How do you know?”
He spared a quick glance for Mrs. Windom, who was wrapping his arm. “I’ll show you when I have two hands.”
Mrs. Windom didn’t even look up from where she was tying off the linen bandage. “Haven’t given away state secrets to the French yet, now, have I?”
Even so, with a scowl at her employer, she gathered her things and departed, her skirts swishing briskly as she walked. Flint waited until the door closed before moving. Handing the locket back to Felicity, he recovered his shirt and gingerly donned it. Felicity resented the little locket of a sudden. Without it she would have happily drunk in the play of Flint’s taut muscles as he lifted his arms and slid the shirt over his head. Instead she found herself rubbing her thumb over the swirling pattern of a lion rampant and thinking of Mary.
“How do you know she didn’t get it at a fair?” she asked the minute his curling auburn hair appeared through the neck of the shirt.
He pointed with one hand while settling his shirt with the other. “See the lion?”
“Yes.”
He reclaimed the locket before she could object. “That particular lion is the identifying mark of a group of traitors known as—-unimaginatively enough—the Lions. Each member carries something like this to identify himself.”
And little Mary had given it to her.
“Traitors how?” she asked, her voice suddenly very small.
He shrugged, still examining the locket. “Traitors the way traitors usually are. Trying to take over the throne. Well,” he amended, slipping his thumbnail into the locket’s opening. “Trying to put Princess Charlotte on the throne so they can control her and bring back the Golden Age of the Aristocracy.”
“But we already have someone on the throne. Several someones, in fact.”
The locket snicked open. “Indeed.”
Another chill chased down Felicity’s spine. She leaned over to see how he would react to what he uncovered.
“A key?” Flint asked.
Not an actual key. The engraving of a key on the inside of the open locket. Other than that, the locket was absolutely empty.
“Indeed,” she echoed. “What do you think it means? I always assumed it was the key to someone’s heart. I imagine you are going to say it is not.”
After running his fingers over all the surfaces as if seeking an opening he hadn’t expected, he snapped it shut. “What can the G be for?” he asked himself, still turning the little gold-colored trinket in his hands. “G…G.” He shook his head. “Can’t think of anyone among the Lions with the initial...”
“You know who these people are?”
“We have an idea. You say that Bucky visited the Lassiters while you were there. Did anyone else?”
“Of course. The Lassiters were a very social couple. But I don’t know anyone else’s name. The only reason I know Bucky is because of his music. He would sometimes help the children perfect lessons on the pianoforte when he was there. None of the Lassiters’ other friends would have been that considerate. Nor thought to be introduced to the governess.” She paused, suddenly appalled. “You cannot think Bucky is a traitor.”
“At this point, I can count no one out. If Mary had told you the truth about where she got this, we might have a better idea. Any of the Lassiters or their friends could just as easily be our target. Or all of them could be.”
“Or she really did get it from the fair.”
He was already shaking his head. “No. No little girl would be able to afford a gold locket. And no one would mistake it for anything but gold.”
No one but Felicity, evidently.
“I imagine they see what they expect to,” she murmured in her own defense.
His whole attention was on the locket. Felicity’s was on him. She was feeling the ground slip out from under her. She had been subject to too many warring emotions in too short a time.
Suddenly his words caught up with her. “You said our,” she said.
He didn’t look up. “Hmmm?”
“You said our. We. We who?”
That got his attention. He looked up, and suddenly those sharp green eyes had somehow gone opaque. “Well…,” he said, finally looking up. “The, uh, government...”
Felicity blinked, waiting for more.
“The government,” she prompted when he stopped. “You serve the government?”
He shifted, as if anxious to flee. “In a way.�
�
“In what way?”
She kept watching him, waiting for more. Feeling as if she should already know the answer. He kept turning the locket in his hand. She had a feeling he was in the process of inventing some outlandish answer. And then, out of the blue, she swore she could hear Pip’s voice.
“Nobody can know, of course. He’d murder me if he knew I told you.”
The pieces of the puzzle clicked right into place.
“Oh, my heavens,” Felicity breathed. “You’re a rake!”
He froze as if she’d called him a witch, but only for a second. Then his patented grin flashed. “Merely popular.”
She scowled at him. “You know perfectly well what I mean. You work with Pip’s brother Alex and his friends. Don’t you?”
“How do you…Oh.” If he weren’t so in control, his shoulders would have slumped. “Pip knows.”
“Well, of course Pip knows. We are speaking of Pip here. She told us when her brother Alex brought her friend Fiona back to school after she ran off. Pip was trying to convince us that we could trust Alex to get her back. Because he was a spy. A member of Drake’s Rakes.”
“Not a...”
She scowled. “A spy. Among a group of other spies who were all sons of the aristocracy. Have you done this since you left the army? Or did you do it then too?”
It was his turn to scowl. “I help when I can. I have helped on the Lion investigation. But you cannot tell anyone else.”
Felicity spared him a scowl. Something still made her feel uncomfortable, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Maybe she would be able to better contemplate it later when she was in her room. Away from the very distracting presence of Lord Flint Bracken.
In the meantime, she could protect her locket.
“You’ve seen it,” she said, her own hand hovering over his that was closed around her necklace. “Would there be any harm in my having it back?”
She didn’t want to beg, but she would.
Flint’s smile was rueful. “Not yet. This has to be shared with others who might be able to recognize something important that I don’t. Fortunately, a couple are in the vicinity.”
She would never get it back. She didn't know how she was so certain, but her little locket was already lost. Her throat closed a moment against the sharp sting of tears, but she nodded and deliberately took a step back.
“I’ll take very good care of it, Felicity,” he said, his voice soft.
She nodded again and backed a few more steps away. “I’ll, uh, just...” She gave her hand a little wave. “You need to change, don’t you?”
And before he could say another word, she turned and walked out, shutting the door behind her, her emotions in more of a turmoil than she could ever remember. Without thinking, she headed down toward the servants’ stairs and the kitchen. Cook looked up in surprise as Felicity hurried past, but she couldn’t stop.
“Your dress, Miss….”
She just needed some air. Some space. She needed to sit among a few flowers that didn’t want anything from her but to bloom. To scent the air. They didn’t even mind if she got a bit sniffly. Ridiculous thing to get weepy over, an empty locket. Rather maudlin, actually. Poor little orphan girl losing her most precious possession, which wasn’t precious at all, except to spies. And her.
Her escape to the garden was probably a mistake. Autumn seemed to have taken hold while she wasn’t watching. Low, thick clouds rolled across the sky, herded along by a chilly snapping breeze that managed to sneak right up under skirts and chill the skin. The flowers were all but gone. She should have known. The bench she sought out sat in isolated splendor in a naked walled garden that already slept. No blooms. No pretty color or comforting scents to remind her that no matter which way she turned after this moment there would still be spring.
And the bench was cold.
She wasn’t certain how long she sat there, her hands clasped in her lap, her head down, thinking nothing. Not how much import she had put on a silly little necklace, not how much she was beginning to put on a handsome man. Not what would happen next or what price she would pay. She just sat, the silence gathering like a clean wall between past and future. Autumn and spring. Experience and possibility or pain. Undoubtedly pain, if past experience counted for anything.
“Miss Chambers! Oh, thank heavens!” she heard.
She snapped to attention, her head up, her mouth open to call out.
“No,” Bucky begged, hand up, face crumpled in distress.
Looking at him now, who could think he was a traitor? He crept around the garden wall like a dog expecting to be whipped, his plump young face creased in distress, his usually perfectly styled Brutus cut gone wild.
“Did you shoot at me, Bucky?” she demanded.
“No!” He stepped closer so that she noticed that his attire was just as crumpled as his expression. If there was one thing Bucky was proud of, it was his sartorial elegance. If his current look was any indication, he was in terrible distress.
“Please,” he begged. “You must have my watch fob. Mary gave it to you, didn’t she? I need it back. You need to give the code to me and the list before both of us are murdered. They won’t take no for an answer.”
Felicity found herself shaking her head. “I don’t have it, Bucky. Would you like to come in and talk to Lord Flint?”
His color went ashen. “Are you mad? They’ll kill me for sure. As it is, I’ll be off for...well, away anyway. But I need to get them the list before I go, or I will be hunted down.”
“Bucky, you cannot mean to help overthrow the throne.”
“Of course not,” he snapped. “It was a game. A...well...just an exercise. How could I know he meant it?”
“He who?”
But he was shaking his head and looking around, even though they were in a walled garden. “Can’t you get it for me? If not the locket. The list.”
“List?” She echoed. “I have no list.”
“Of course, you do. I gave it to you myself.”
“No, you didn’t, Bucky. I only brought along what was absolutely mine. I don’t have anything else.”
She honestly thought he was going to weep.
“Then I have to go. Be careful. They think you have it. They will continue to be after you.”
“They who? Who shot at me, Bucky?”
“Reed. Just tell Bracken it was Reed. He’ll know. Be careful. Reed knows the ins and outs of this place. He visits Lady Winifred because of John Harvester. Bracken will understand. And Miss Chambers? If you do find that list…destroy it. It would be better than letting it get into their hands, truly. Tell Bracken it’s all I can do.”
And before she could think of anything else to say to keep him there, he ran out of the garden. Within a minute, she heard hoofbeats thunder off toward the road.
She sat back down, the air completely taken out of her.
Bucky. She had to tell Flint. She had to get out of this garden, no longer a safe haven, if Bucky was right. But if he was right, nowhere was a safe haven.
She rose to her feet, her knees a bit shaky, and returned through the kitchen door.
“Miss!” the cook protested as she passed. “Your dress! It must be sponged.”
Felicity just nodded and kept walking. List. Bucky thought she had a list. And a code. She’d have to think about that. After she told Flint.
But when she reached the study, Flint was gone. He and the locket had disappeared along with his horse, and no one could say when he’d be back.
“Did Mr. Burke go too?” she asked Higgins when she met him in the hall.
“Yes, Miss.”
She nodded absently. “I know that you take the safety of this house seriously, Higgins.”
“His lordship has increased the security,” he assured her, straightening. “We’re all tucked in like badgers in a sett.”
“Of course. Do you know a person named Reed? I understand he comes to visit Lady Winifred.”
He frowne
d. “Mr. Francis? Of course.”
“Well, if you see Lord Flint, warn him that Mr. Reed is the one who shot at me.”
Higgins stiffened as if she’d accused him. “Mr. Francis? Oh no, Miss. That couldn’t be. Why, Mr. Francis is here all the time visiting Lady Winifred. He wouldn’t...”
Felicity faced him down. “He did, Higgins. There is also something about a John Harvester. Do you know him?”
“He used to visit as well. Served with Lord Flint.”
Used to. Past tense. At least not a current threat.
“Please secure Mr. Reed if he appears. It will be up to Lord Flint what do to with him. And if you would let me know when Lord Flint gets back...”
She didn’t wait for his answer, just turned to the stairs and her room. She needed to change into her one other dress. Cook was right. This one needed to be sponged. There was blood on it. Flint’s blood. Flint, who was a spy. Flint who had just ridden right back out as if the person who had shot him no longer posed a threat.
The person who was not Bucky, but Reed, who evidently felt right at home at Hedgehog Haven because he visited Aunt Winnie.
Maybe Flint would understand. She certainly didn’t.
“Miss,” the maid said as Felicity passed. “Miss St. Clair was hoping to see you when you have a minute. Something about the larder.”
Felicity almost smiled. Aunt Winnie was never that polite. “In a little bit, Sukie.”
Should she say something to Aunt Winnie? She wondered heading on past. No. Not until she spoke to Flint. Reed wouldn’t get past Higgins 'til then.
Deciding she’d had quite enough, she escaped into her room. She closed the door behind her and slipped out of her dress. Then, feeling as if she didn’t have an ounce more energy left in her, she stretched out on her bed and closed her eyes.
And promptly remembered quite clearly where the list was.
Chapter 13
Miss Felicity's Dilemma Page 12