Читать книгу The Notorious Bridegroom - Kit Donner - Страница 11

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 the 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.