by Kit Donner
Not long after, Lem and Lucky returned with a cart. The three of them carefully lifted the squirming animal onto the cart and turned toward the stables, with Lucky pulling the cart behind him in a zigzag pattern, given his slightly foxed state. Patience and Lem followed close behind; Gulliver’s eyes never left Patience.
Once safely in the stables, Lucky and Patience worked to create a poultice for the dog. The night air must have helped wake Lucky because as Patience held the greyhound’s head in her lap, the groomsman was lucid enough to apply the thick mixture of water and bruised linseed, and rewrapped the dog’s paw with a clean bandage. Eager to help, Lem provided water, which Gulliver lapped up.
The three of them sat on the floor of the stables and watched over their patient for a time.
Needing to stretch her tired muscles, and confident that Lucky and Lem would see to Gulliver, Patience rose and wandered out of the stables, wanting more than anything to pull off her uncomfortable disguise.
She stopped abruptly when she heard the sound of horses’ hooves pounding down the lane. Puzzled, she looked back to the trees which lined the road and caught a glimmer of a light from a lantern.
Could the earl have an appointment this evening? This might be important. Perhaps if she stayed in the shelter of the trees, she could avoid detection. Surely his lordship was about to betray his hand.
Chapter 6
Stars dotted the night sky, forming a quiltlike pattern over slumbering angels whilst mortal men fought their battle below. Where had that poetic nonsense originated from? Bryce wiped the slight moisture from his brow. He wanted to take off his coat but couldn’t. Not when he expected a visitor.
Here in the woods near his home, he planned for any unforeseen events, fingering the steel of his pistol warming in his hand. He had no idea why the French spy had chosen this location, but did not question it. He thought of Keegan back at the house, who was annoyed that he was not invited to this party of two.
But Bryce could take no chances. If the spy thought a trap lay in store for him, all his plans would be for naught.
Shadowy trees shook their leaves in conversation. Strange popping and crackling noises filled the air from a frenzy of animals embarking on their nightly activities. Bryce had relied on Red to arrange this rendezvous, and his valet had not disappointed before.
Finally, after these months of cat-and-mouse games, his mission seemed to be nearing completion. Resting lightly against a large waist-high boulder, he prepared himself to meet perhaps Carstairs’s murderer or Sansouche. He did not know whom to expect, but vowed to unmask a villain this night.
Periodically he flashed his oil lantern toward the road in signal to his prey. A glance at the darkened house assured him all occupants were abed.
Suddenly, a whisper of wind rustled his senses, warning him of someone’s approach. Soft, muffled horse’s hooves rhythmically padded across the forest bed. His horse, Defiance, moved restlessly nearby.
He quickly reviewed his “turncoat” plan. Bryce hoped to convince the spy that he would be willing to trade his country’s secrets for a handsome purse. And in the process Bryce hoped to learn who led the nest of spies here on the coast, and, more importantly, the date of the planned French invasion. He had to convince the spy he was one of them in order to accomplish his plan.
A gruff, raspy voice disturbed the dead of night. “My lord, this is indeed a victory for France. I would have you show your face and proof of your loyalty to our cause.” The spy slowly approached the clearing on horseback; a black mask and black greatcoat cloaked the rider’s identity.
Bryce leaned an elbow on the rock. “You ask for trust but you remain atop your horse and with a mask? Can we not meet face to face, eye to eye?”
“If we were civil men, I would have been asked to your study and not to the woods.” The black stallion remained steady beneath tightly controlled reins.
“Ah, then we must not be civil men. Let us not waste our time. Our meeting here was for your safety, not mine.” Bryce’s words were cool and dispassionate.
A snicker behind the mask. “My safety? Your concern is touching. My contact tells me you are anxious to take Carstairs’s place. Why the hurry? After all, he is dead.” The throaty voice breathed smugness.
Bryce’s jaw tightened, but he offered no riposte.
The masked spy continued, “Although many might wish to join our forces, all do not serve. Why should I consider you?”
“You already have, your presence implies that. Before I tell you what I have to offer, I would like to know if I deal with a second or Napoleon’s own man.” Brow furrowed, Bryce stared at the figure, trying to discover any clues to his identity. The lantern at his feet helped little to discern any distinguishable features. But he was certain the rider was not Sansouche.
“Due to your worthy status”—the masked rider dipped his head in mock honor—“I thought to meet you myself. I know much of you and believe not that you wish to change sides. What can you offer me that might change my mind?”
Bryce controlled the urge to knock the pompous ass off his horse. He sauntered closer. “Do your sources tell you that I have the locations of all England’s military army settlements along the coast? Of which I am looking for a buyer. Is this enough proof?”
He reached his hand up to his coat but his actions stalled.
“My bullet will be between your eyes before your next breath.”
Patience settled comfortably into a tree with knotted vines draping old and young branches. The earl and his friend met a few yards away, but through the foliage it proved difficult to see very well. The wind blowing and the night suddenly noisy, she even had difficulty following their conversation. She dared move no closer without being caught.
A few words floated back to her tree nest. Could the earl actually be planning to sell his secrets to another spy?
Biting her lip in frustration, she decided to move farther out on a dipping limb. She felt safe among the profuse scattering of leaves and gnarling branches, and confident her movements would not be detected by the spies.
Patience took a deep breath to slow her racing heart and edged closer to the edge, the rough bark poking her sweaty hands. So intent and excited about hearing words of great import, she scarcely noticed the branch trembling beneath her weight.
A loud crack signaled her first sign of trouble before she felt the support give way beneath her. Patience clawed wildly for a lifeline but came up empty.
The pistol-sounding pop alarmed the other forest visitors. They both sensed a trap, and the rider spun around and shot wildly in the direction of the noise, then turned to fire at Bryce.
But the earl had vanished. With a jerk, the stallion and rider leapt back into the satanic folds of the forest.
Bryce watched in anger from the shelter of the rock, his pistol cocked, as his prey flew from his hands. He could hardly prove his loyalty to the spy by shooting at him, although he acknowledged to himself it was probably too late.
What was the noise? The Frenchman certainly would not have shot at his own men. Could it have been Red or Kilkennen following him? After a quick search in the mossy rooted forest, he caught sight of a still figure at the foot of a nearby tree. A trained finger on the trigger, he slowly approached and studied the scene carefully.
The broken branch nearby explained everything but the mysterious intruder’s identity. At a glance, Bryce could tell it was not one of his friends. Upon closer inspection, he discerned the figure to be a woman in a common housemaid uniform.
Anxiously, he turned the woman over and felt for a heartbeat. Steady and strong. He let out a sigh of relief. He did not know where she had come from or what she was doing here, but he would glean all of her answers, and soon. First, he must see to her welfare.
A quick examination revealed her left arm had been shot and blood seeped out of the wound. He whipped out a handkerchief to bind her injury, knowing he had to get her back to the house to care for her. He picked up th
e unconscious woman in his arms, found her spectacles nearby, and mounted Defiance. They managed a slow procession back to the house with Bryce holding the slight form in his arms. What had she been doing out here? Spying? On whom?
Able to slip undetected into the back entrance and then into his room, Bryce laid the stilled woman gently on his bed. He had nowhere else to take her that would not bring on endless questions by the curious. The young woman’s countenance was as pale as the white linens on which she lay. He threw off his greatcoat to attend to her. She had not yet awakened, and Bryce thought to have a physician called.
He removed her shoes and cloak before turning to her mobcap which covered much of her face. He reached up and cautiously removed her cap. Deep brown hair spilled across his pillow in a sweep of silky heat. Bryce rose and stepped back, too astonished for words.
It was she. The woman from the fair, the one he had been searching for, Mrs. Grundy. And somehow, he was not surprised.
Chapter 7
The candlewick burned low as Bryce’s unwavering gaze remained on the still form lying in his bed. The chair creaked as he rose and walked to the bed, settling gently on the edge. A sigh escaping from the young woman’s full parted lips surprised Bryce. He quickly returned to his vigil in the chair.
Only an hour had passed since he had brought her here. After attending to the arm that the French spy’s bullet had grazed and finding no indications of lasting head injuries, he had used the time to plan a course of action.
As he leaned back into his chair, he could not tear himself away from the young beauty before him. The candlelight caught reddish hues in tresses lying over one shoulder. He had opened her bodice slightly when he noticed it seemed a trifle snug. Unconscious, her innocence appealed to his protective nature, but he wondered where her true loyalty would lie at dawn’s light. Long eyelashes concealed remembered bright hazel eyes.
Ironically, he had Red Tattoo searching over the district, when the woman he sought was in his own home. But why was she here and who was she? And why was he reluctant to call the constable and have her arrested? For what? He didn’t quite know the answers yet.
He watched with concern when the young woman turned over on her good side and began to breathe deeply. Although he was no physician, he could tell she had settled into a deep sleep.
He stepped around to the other side of the bed. Her wounded arm stretched out across the sheets as she rested her head on her other arm. In sleep, her movements were graceful, and by the look of the blisters on her hands, unused to hard labor. She was no mere servant, of that he could be sure.
Observing her more closely, Bryce noticed the faint smudges under her eyes. From what? Worry? Fatigue? He painted her soft cheek with the back of his finger.
Shaking his head in bewilderment, he walked back to the chair. By lying on her side, she provided him a lovely view of her charming round backside encased in his linen sheets. Enough. He determined to marshal his wayward thoughts.
He strode to the far side of the room in punishment. Perhaps she was part of the ring of spies sent to watch him. Needing to clear his head and stem his arousal, he opened the casement window and gulped fresh air. What should he do?
Should he confront her or continue to allow her to play this charade? What had she been doing outside his window that night? If she was spying on him, she was obviously not very good at it. But until he knew her purpose, he had to keep her here under his protection and watchful eye.
A painful groan from his attractive and distracting subject arrested him from his thoughts. He turned and found her staring at him, holding the sheet to her chest.
“What am I doing here?” The fogginess in her eyes quickly disappeared as she watched Bryce approach her bedside. She closed her eyes, remembering her fall out of that blasted tree, and felt a painful burning in her upper left arm.
Patience opened her eyes, focused, and saw the earl watching her with what looked to be deep concern. Taking a minute to peruse her surroundings, she realized she was back in the earl’s bedroom. But how? She thought quickly and realized he must have found her in the woods and brought her back to the house. She gently touched the bandage on her arm. He had obviously attended to her injury. Questions about her presence and identity could only be moments away.
What believable story could she conjure to convince this man that she was practically innocent of any wrongdoing? Perhaps amnesia? She simply did not have enough time to invent a plausible story before his lordship’s interrogation.
She wet her dry lips and tried to console herself. Could she be imprisoned for impersonating a maid? She had never heard of such a thing. If he knew she was spying on him, what would he do to her? Perhaps kill her and throw her off a cliff? Hysterical thoughts, to be sure. Perhaps she could throw herself on his mercy? If he had any.
“How are you feeling?” He leaned over her, concern in his vigilant gaze.
“My arm hurts. What happened?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“You were shot in the arm. I brought you back to my bedchambers to tend to your wound. Luckily, it only grazed your arm. I can only surmise you hit your head when you fell out of the tree.”
She mumbled, “Oh,” anxious to look anywhere in the room other than into his intent stare. “I think I should return to my room now. Thank you for assisting me.” She started to raise herself up.
He pushed her gently back. “A little longer so I can attest that you are feeling better.”
He left her side to return to the shadows near the fireplace. “I must know what you were doing out there tonight, if you are strong enough?”
She faltered under his questioning, then rubbed her forehead, trying to gain time. “I decided to go for a walk and saw the light near the road. With the news about spies, I thought the tree might be a safe place to see what was happening, only I suppose that proved far from the truth,” she finished ruefully.
“I see. A simple explanation. You thought you were eavesdropping on spies.” The tone of his voice gave explicit doubt to her reasoning. “And, Mrs. Grundy, if that is your name, how came you to be in my home wearing a maid’s disguise?”
The moment of defeat had arrived before a thought occurred to her. Suddenly, she found the beautiful designs on the counterpane quite fascinating. “You see, my lord, uh…I am, my…my brother…my brother wants me to marry a man I abhor.”
Where had that story come from? She hurriedly continued. “He is at least ten years older than me. I have run away, and since I was afraid my brother would find me, I thought it best to disguise myself.” She raised her gaze to him in innocent supplication. “I hope you might reconsider discharging me.” Her voice trembled, assuming the worst for her transgressions.
“It is certainly vexing that you must resort to such measures to avoid an unwanted marriage. Nonetheless, you are welcome to stay under my protection as long as you desire it. But you cannot run away from your responsibilities forever,” his voice sounding almost kind.
She blinked in astonishment. Was he offering her protection from her fabricated enforced-matrimonial story? Oh, goodness, why did she seem to keep falling into more lies?
His next question took her by surprise only by the timing. “What is your real name?” he asked, gazing intently at her.
A little unnerved by his intent stare, she managed a small smile and said, “Patience Simmons, my lord,” remembering the surname she had given Mr. Gibbs upon her hire.
A sudden brisk wind issued into the room through the open window. She felt the coolness on her chest, and looked down to find that in her misadventures her bodice had come untied and now the top half of her bosom was displayed more than was prudent. Finding herself almost unclothed and unmasked shocked her into complete wakefulness.
Hoping to distract his lordship, she remembered her earlier endeavor and looked up at him. “Have you seen Gulliver? I am sure he will be better in no time.”
He looked taken aback as he rested one hip on the end of th
e bed, watching his prey, or least she felt like it.
“What about Gulliver? I know nothing of this.” He straightened up and waited for her response.
“Lem and I found Gulliver in the woods, his paw having been caught in a rabbit trap. We brought him to the stables and did our best to repair the damage. I believe Lem is with him now.”
Bryce stood and walked to her side. “I will check on Gulliver directly. Thank you for seeing to his injuries.”
Once more the room remained silent. She felt an utter fool under his watchful stare, and her wounded arm pricked pain at the back of her eyes. She looked away, trying to hide the unshed tears.
His next suggestion flabbergasted her. “I would like you to stay on, as I need assistance with my books. My house steward has left my employ, and I have no one whom I can rely upon. It is a temporary position. That is, of course, assuming you can read and write?”
She lifted her chin. “I am well-versed in many subjects—history, Greek, Latin, and more. I can sew, thread a fishing pole, speak French, and care for sick animals.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You neglected to mention playing the pianoforte and singing like an angel,” his mouth in a slight smirk.
She avoided his gaze before replying. “Ah, I cannot claim singing or playing the pianoforte. They are virtues, however, my parents believed their children should be well taught in many subjects. Education should be available to all who wish to learn. Do you not agree?”
“True. Perhaps some of your duties could also include tutoring Lem. I daresay he cannot spell his own name, and I do not wish my servants to be ignorant of their basic letters.”
Patience stared in shock at the earl. Why should he care whether Lem could read or write, or any of his servants for that matter? His lordship was proving a puzzlement. And why was he not sending her on her way? And not only allowing her to remain but placing her with his books?