by Anne Mallory
He started carefully reading her background information from the beginning. Knowledge was power. If he was going to play a game, he was going to win. No beautiful spy was going to steal the monster.
More than a week in the mad castle and Patience already felt like throwing herself from one of the spires. Groaning, she lifted herself up and examined her stocking feet. She needed to change, get a good book, and crawl into bed.
Calling on Tilly, she took care of the first and pulled her warm nightrail around her. A quick search through her bag took care of the second. A treatise on the role of the Agora in Greek life was nestled in her lap as she curled her toes into the soft sheets and leaned against her pillows. A candle burned brightly at her bedside, and the taper was tall enough to give her the hours that she needed to finish reading. She dove in.
An hour later by the candle’s measure, a series of loud cracks echoed in the night and she heard shouting outside.
Another crack sounded. She threw back the covers and went to the window. It was hard to discern in the cloudy night, but a group of men were dragging something. Something connected by ropes or chains. Her face pressed against the glass, she squinted, trying to determine what they were doing.
She had watched men slip in and out of the estate all week. In and out of the nondescript buildings by the woods. At first her imagination had fancied them spirits drifting in and out of the fog, whereas her more rational side had figured they were probably poachers. But the men always entered and exited the same buildings, and when she had seen Blackfield talking with a few of them earlier, it had become apparent that they were part of the servants’ gossip.
The clouds parted, and using the spyglass she had borrowed from the Ashe collection earlier in the day, she spotted the viscount waving his arms and directing the men. She had to admit that as irritating as he sometimes was, he made a fine sight in the moonlight. Strong, capable, and assured. Something that was lacking in many of the men of her acquaintance.
Sighing, she started to tug the drapes closed. Her breath caught and her hand froze halfway through the action. The men gave a final tug to the chains attached to the lump. A large arm rose from the lump in defiance.
The clouds shrouded the moon, effectively blocking any further view. Try as she might, she couldn’t catch another glimpse. But there was no denying what she had seen. The monster was indeed real. And he was trying to break free.
Chapter 6
Patience wandered through the grounds after the noon meal thinking about the monster from the night before. And about the monster’s master. The man was downright perplexing. All the way down to the pink notes, which he continued to receive each morning.
Her morning work session had been a dismal failure. She was so preoccupied by the mysterious goings-on she had witnessed in the night, she had accomplished little.
What exactly had she seen from her window hundreds of yards away? How could she report that one of the wealthiest men in England had created a monster? And to what end? What did he hope to accomplish?
Would anyone believe her allegations without substantive proof? Definitely not sweet Lady Caroline, who absolutely doted on her nephew. Nor would the townsfolk and servants be sympathetic since their welfare and livelihood depended on the lord. That left her own colleagues, and she grimaced just thinking about their reactions. Mrs. Tecking would most likely accuse her of spreading rumors to increase her own importance or some such tripe. Mr. Tecking’s reaction would probably be a distracted nod and mutterings about accurately recording her observations. And her cousin…he would just say she was being fanciful. No, there was no help from that quarter.
Perhaps she should write a letter to her father detailing her suspicions and misgivings. But no, he was too caught up in museum and Parliament business and would worry needlessly. She would hold her own counsel for the time being and observe Blackfield’s actions and the monster’s more closely.
As a youngster it used to upset her when the village children asked her to prove that fairies and unicorns existed. Of course, she had been unable to do so. It was one of the reasons she was so demanding when verifying antiquities. So rigid in making sure that all the facts were gathered and all her evidence was in order before rendering a judgment on a date or crediting an artisan. Her social reputation might be in tatters, but she was determined that her professional reputation would not be tainted.
It just so happened that she was her own worst enemy when it came to social contact. Perhaps she should just avoid societal gatherings in general. She kicked a stone, then winced as her toe made contact through her kid slipper. Her brain just seemed to shut off in social situations. Work-related things came out of her mouth naturally, then the next thing she knew, her audience was staring at her in consternation, ridicule, or horror.
Strange that she felt at ease when speaking in Blackfield’s company. He appeared amused, but not in a critical manner, at least not after that first morning.
Avoice carried on the wind. Speak of the devil. She rounded a corner and saw him conversing with two men. The shorter of the two was gesturing wildly and wearing a smock smeared with dark red-and-brown streaks. Like blood. She squinted, trying to take a closer look. The man’s plump hands were dirty, and they, too, appeared covered in blood. The taller man was nodding in agreement. Blackfield looked enraged.
“Impossible. How could it have worked itself loose on its own? Someone must have tampered with it.” Blackfield ran an angry hand through his hair. “Do you think it was one of the servants?”
The bloodied man waved his arms. “I don’t know, but we were nearly killed.” His high-pitched voice was in direct contrast to his squat, round figure.
Patience watched in morbid curiosity. Had the monster been set free? And nearly killed them? Judging by the amount of blood on the man, it had to be.
“I know, Jones. There are spies.”
The second man, tall and thin, looked nervous. “We aren’t shutting down the project, are we?”
Blackfield shook his head. “No, we are too close. Instruct the men to be more vigilant. Make certain the doors are locked at all times. I’ll alert the necessary villagers and arrange for everyone to meet at midnight.” As he lifted his head, Patience ducked quickly behind a hedgerow.
She fully intended on spying on that meeting. She needed to see the monsters firsthand before alerting the authorities.
Thomas watched Patience Harrington duck into the maze. If she was a spy, she was a darn poor one.
Yet Samuel’s investigation had been thorough and damning. And if all was true, all he needed to do was let Miss Harrington and her coconspirators hang themselves.
The project was too important to let a group of bumbling spies wreak havoc. He needed to cut off the serpent’s head before it struck again. If the knowledge of what they were doing, and even worse, if the actual model was found or stolen…no, he didn’t want to think of the consequences. They would just have to increase security. And make certain that any spies were…taken care of. No matter how fascinating they were.
Patience trudged to supper as one might walk to Madame Guillotine. She had passed the viscount hours after overhearing his conversation with the duo outside. The look he had given her bode ill. She wondered if he suspected she had discovered his secret. Or if he just thought she had unwittingly decapitated a prized hydrangea somewhere in the garden.
Samuel Simmons joined them at dinner, and the dynamics at the table changed dramatically in their dysfunctional little group. Mrs. Tecking perked up at having a gentleman at the table who was both amusing and attentive. A gentleman who seemed to be on “her” side. How she had obtained that impression, Patience wasn’t sure. It might have been Samuel’s careless, perpetually amused air, or his interest in gossip. He seemed to find everything entertaining, especially Blackfield’s silence.
Patience watched Mrs. Tecking revel in one of Samuel’s compliments, making her appear more youthful, a visage of the debutante that she had
been seventeen years earlier rather than the dragon she had become. The change smoothed some of the frown lines from her face and made her attractive. Judging from the transformation, the woman had probably been quite a sensation before she had allowed herself to become permanently pinched.
The new seating arrangement had placed Patience minutely closer to Blackfield, and she felt every inch of the lost table space.
Blackfield leaned toward her. “Do you like English fare, Miss Harrington?” It was the first thing he had said to her all night, his voice low.
Patience frowned at the undercurrent in his voice, unsure what his game was. “Yes.” There was a slight question in her response.
“What about French cuisine?”
She warmed to the question. “I love it. Actually, I find French sauces far superior to most found in England.”
Kenfield entered the room and approached the table. “Excuse me, my lord, but one of the ‘landscape designers’ says it’s imperative that he speak with you. He’s standing just outside the doorway.”
“Thank you, Kenfield.”
At that moment servants opened the door to bring in another food course, and Patience spotted a scuffed and rumpled figure wringing his hands. Blackfield looked at Samuel, who nodded and excused himself from the table to join the scruffy man in the hall.
Not missing a beat, and offering no explanation for the man’s unusual appearance or their verbal exchange, Blackfield leaned back in his chair and trapped her gaze again. “So you love French food and find it superior to English fare?”
“Is there something wrong with enjoying cuisine from France, my lord?”
“No. Are there any other things from France you love?”
Her frown pulled tighter. “Is there something you wish to imply, Lord Blackfield?”
He shrugged. “Some people love the countryside. The fashions. The wine. The politics. Some love frolicking with young Frenchmen.”
A hiss spewed from Mrs. Tecking. She had obviously been listening to the conversation since her preferred dinner partner had left. Her expression seemed torn between outrage and elation. As if frolicking with Frenchmen was exactly what she thought of women of Patience’s “ilk.” Patience ignored her.
“There is nothing wrong with loving French culture. However, that has nothing to do with having affairs with members of that culture.”
“Now really—”
“I can’t believe—”
“What would you expect—”
“Excellent pheasant.”
John, Caroline, Mrs. and Mr. Tecking were talking over one another, the first three paying rapt attention to the conversation between Patience and Blackfield. Blackfield merely examined Patience and sipped his wine.
He waited for a pause in the chaos before saying, “And yet you claim to be ‘enamored’ of the culture.”
The others halted and looked at Patience. “There is nothing wrong with enjoying another country, its traditions and its people,” she replied.
“Dangerous to make claims like that these days.”
Patience nearly dropped her wineglass. The viscount was leaning back in his chair, the very picture of insouciant innocence.
“Are you implying that I would side with France against England if it came to that?”
Mrs. Tecking’s fork clattered to her plate, and even Caroline looked as if she had a less than steady grip on her silverware.
The viscount looked amused for the first time that evening. “Not one to dance around an issue, are you, Miss Harrington?”
“No, my lord. I find plain speaking to be far more effective and efficient.”
“Patience—”
“No, John. I’m anxious to hear what Lord Blackfield has to say. He seems intent on besmirching my honor.”
John looked resigned, but he turned his attention to the viscount.
“Are you sympathetic to the French, Miss Harrington?”
“Of course I am, Lord Blackfield.”
A gasp came from Mrs. Tecking’s direction, and John even raised a brow.
“They are people just like you and I.” She cast a critical gaze over his person. “Well, the rest of us, at any rate.”
Blackfield smiled, but his eyes were cold. “You and your father exchange goods on the Continent, do you not?”
“Of course.”
“What manner of goods?”
“I don’t see what business it is of yours, but to answer your question, we mostly deal with antiquities. What do you think we trade?”
He leaned toward her, ignoring her question. “It is my business to know the character of people I allow to stay under my roof.”
She leaned toward him as well. “That can be rectified.”
“Yes, it can.”
“Thomas, please.” Caroline nervously fingered her napkin. “There must be a misunderstanding. There is nothing wrong here. Miss Harrington and her father come highly recommended. The best in their field. And furthermore they are friends. Friends that I invited here. You insult me as well.”
Thomas leaned back. “My apologies, Caroline. That was not my intention. I just thought it best to warn Miss Harrington. One’s political sympathies can be called into question. Gossip can be rather damaging to one’s reputation.”
Patience balled her fists in her lap. John sent her an imploring glance to remain silent. But she couldn’t resist saying, “Thank you for your consideration, Lord Blackfield. It is people like you who destroy good reputations.”
Blackfield stared at her, and she felt sure that he would retort, but he surprised her by merely lifting his fork and stabbing his fowl.
Samuel rejoined the meal several minutes later, much to the relief of the diners. He looked on, his amused face firmly back in place. “Did I miss anything exciting?”
“No, nothing,” Caroline said, quickly forestalling any retort Mrs. Tecking might make. Mrs. Tecking closed her mouth with a click, looking like a child whose toy had been snatched away.
The conversation returned to the amiable state it had been in prior to Samuel’s departure. John and Caroline drew Mr. Tecking and Patience into conversation, Mrs. Tecking flirted unabashedly with Samuel, and Blackfield sipped his wine, his narrowed eyes watching them all.
Dessert was finally served and Patience nearly sighed in relief. The slight rustle of fabric was the only sound in the room as everyone savored the heavenly strawberry torte.
If she could just make it out of the dining room without being burned to a crisp by Blackfield’s gaze, she would count herself lucky. No matter what topic of conversation she had been pulled into, she could feel his eyes on her, dissecting and questioning. Once again she marveled at his sheer presence. Annoying as it had become. He said nothing, and yet she was cognizant of his every move.
After dinner, Caroline nervously suggested a game of whist, and, to no one’s surprise, Mr. Tecking declined. However, Mrs. Tecking voiced her intention to stay, the first time during the week she had not retired with her husband. And John’s announcement that he needed to continue with his research tonight also proved surprising, since he was an avid cardplayer.
Retiring to the game room, the players drew lots for partners. Much to her chagrin Patience ended up with Blackfield. Caroline and Samuel partnered, and Mrs. Tecking sat out the first game.
Play began and Patience shot a wary glance across the table as Blackfield read her hand correctly, and they won the first point. On two previous evenings she and John had been partnered against Blackfield and Caroline. She found Blackfield an infuriating opponent. She was of the mind that she’d find him an infuriating partner as well, but as the match progressed she was surprised to find their bidding and playing styles complemented one another. He had a brilliant head for strategy, and she had occasional moments of intuitive brilliance. Conversely, she had moments of intuitive disaster, but his steadiness balanced her mistakes.
To her further surprise she found that she and Caroline were swept up into a cutthroat
rivalry between Blackfield and Samuel. The boasting, glaring, and braying continued unabated until they reached the deciding game of the rubber—and then silent concentration reigned supreme.
Luck was with them on the last hand as she and Blackfield held all four honors, giving them an extra four points and the rubber.
“Maybe next time, Samuel old boy.”
Samuel glared good-naturedly and scooped the cards up, shuffling fiercely. Lots were drawn, and Caroline sat the next one out. Lady Fate was having a good time at their expense, because Blackfield ended up as Patience’s partner again.
Play resumed. Mrs. Tecking broke the silence as she leaned toward Samuel in a conspiratorial manner, her cards dipping forward the slightest bit. “Any news in London during our absence?”
“It’s been a dreadful bore these last few weeks.” He played his card, the humor on his face briefly extinguished. “All the talk concerns Napoleon Bonaparte, France, Italy, and what he might crown himself king of next.”
Blackfield appeared thoughtful. “Once he turned the Italian Republic into the Kingdom of Italy, it was only a matter of time really before he crowned himself King of Italy. I’m surprised he waited two months.”
Patience could only nod in agreement as she scooped their trick.
Samuel scoffed, but maintained his good-natured facade. “France can’t even keep itself together to have a government longer than five years. The Directory, the Consulate, and now this ‘Empire.’ This ‘Emperor’ upstart will be gone soon, mark my words. King of Italy.” He snorted.
Patience held her cards to her chest, not amused. “I think you underestimate him. Look at the people with whom he surrounds himself. And I hear that his very presence demands obedience. Men rally to his side.” She looked around the table. “That’s a dangerous man. Look at how easily Cambacérès and Lebrun were pushed aside.”