The Trouble with Love (The Mason Siblings Series Book 2) Page 15

  “That is horrible, Charles.”

  “It is.” Charles raked his fingers through his hair distractedly.

  Bridget watched the motion with rapt interest. She had never seen a man do that while nude. The muscles in Charles’ arm, shoulder, and chest shifted and bunched in the most interesting, and attractive, way.

  Bridget was brought back to the moment as she realized that Charles had continued speaking. “…castle is mine.”

  A frown touched her brow. “I beg your pardon? This castle? Mr. Stevens’ castle?”

  “That is just it, Bridget. The castle is not Mr. Stevens’. It is mine.”

  “When in heaven’s name did you purchase a castle? Why is Mr. Stevens using it as his home? And why aren’t you using it yourself but still live with your parents in Hertfordshire?” Bridget reached her hands to her hair, twisting the loose strands into a simple knot at the base of her neck

  “Those are questions with complicated answers, Bridget.”

  “Well please uncomplicate them. I am thoroughly confused. If you did not wish me to ask questions, you should not have told me about the castle in the first place.”

  Charles sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You are correct. You deserve answers, and I will give them to you.” He sat silent for a tense moment, clearly trying to find the words to explain things to her. “I have an enemy.”

  “An enemy.”

  “Yes. He is a Frenchman referred to as ‘The Boss.’ I have not ever met the man, but he apparently knows me. This past April I received my first letter from him. In the letter, he said that he knew who I was and what I do. He said that he would make me suffer…and he would use my family to gain access to my secrets. It was that day that Annabel and Lane had been taken from Hyde Park.”

  “Good gracious!” Bridget’s hands flew to her mouth, muffling her words. “The kidnappers!”

  “Indeed. The kidnappers worked for The Boss. They would have tortured Anna and Lane had they not escaped. The blame for their torture would have fallen on my shoulders.”

  “No, Charles.” She put a hand on his arm. “The blame is not yours. You do not know this man, and there was no way that you could have stopped Anna from leaving home that day.”

  He shrugged. “Regardless, the kidnappers that took them are all dead now.” His tortured blue eyes met hers. “And you are The Boss’ new target. When I received the letter I went immediately to Lane to discuss a method of protecting you—”

  “Just a moment. Lane knows you are a spy?”

  “Yes. He found out the morning I went to see him. He and I discussed bringing in my men to pose as servants for protection, but he told me that you had just made the decision to become a governess…”

  Bridget flinched as if she had been slapped. His meaning became immediately clear. This position is a fiction.

  She recognized the sting behind her eyelids as tears threatening. “How could you?”

  “Bridget—”

  “No. Do not ‘Bridget’ me.” She slid from the bed, found a new shift in a dresser drawer and gingerly pulled it over her head, doing her best to avoid further injury to her gunshot wound. “You planned this entire scenario. You felt you could simply step in and control my life to fit your plot. You pulled a grieving Mr. Stevens and his poor young son into it—”

  “Stevens works with me.”

  She stopped with a cerulean muslin day dress hanging from one hand. “And Henry?”

  He grimaced. “An orphan.”

  She let out a grunt of disgust. “I cannot believe you would do that to a sweet little boy like Henry! What had you planned to do once this threat to me had passed? Would you have found a home for him? Would you have kept him for your own? Or would you have taunted the poor child with the prospect of a new home, food, family, and education only to return him to the orphanage once you were done with him?”

  He regarded her with a bemused expression on his handsome face, and she scoffed.

  “Of course. You had not thought of it. Well, you had better think about it now.” She tentatively stepped into the dress, pulled it up her body, and slipped her arms in, settling it comfortably on her shoulders before beginning the buttons up the front of her. “What of the servants? Are they actually servants or do they work for you, as well?”

  He remained silent long enough for her to submit to her curiosity and look up at him. He still sat in his restful position among the tousled bedclothes, looking breathtakingly handsome and shrouded in sin. And shockingly morose.

  Why should he appear so glum? He was the one that had orchestrated this detailed scheme to hold her trapped in a governess position that did not truly exist. He was the one that had convinced countless men and an orphaned child to lie to her.

  “Ugh!” She covered her face with her hands as embarrassment swamped her. How could she have been so gullible?

  Poor Henry. Perhaps she could bring him home to Mason Hall. She would write Lane and Mama this afternoon. Then she would write the paper, putting in a new advertisement for a governess position. A real governess position.

  “Yes, they work with me,” Charles finally ground out.

  She nodded. “I will happily bring some of your ‘men’ along with me for protection when I gain a new governess position, but this castle holds far too many ‘protectors.’ I will suffocate if I stay here any longer. Besides which, if your enemy is after me, this castle of spies is a veritable beacon for my whereabouts and your spy activity.”

  An arrested expression crossed his features before he brought a hand to his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bridget, I—”

  “No.” Bridget’s stomach roiled. She should not be so hard on herself; it was Charles that had made her the fool. The low-burning anger inside her slowly grew. “You’ve made me a pawn in your world of chess, manoeuvring me however you see fit. First you pushed me away, then you spied on me, packed me into your world without my knowledge or consent, and then used me as bloody bait!” Her voice rose with her ire. “Does your arrogance know no bounds?”

  Charles deflated, his shoulders slumped and his complexion growing ashen. “I hadn’t…” He cursed. “Hell, Bridget, I—”

  A loud, shrill bell abruptly began to toll and Bridget jumped, clapping her hands over her ears at the piercing noise. Pain lanced through her arm and a grimace pulled at her lips.

  His previous demeanour gone, Charles leapt to his feet and began hurriedly dragging his clothing on.

  Bridget raised her voice over the din of the bell, “What is that?”

  Charles dressed astonishingly quick, leaving his cravat untied and his waistcoat buttons undone. He dropped to the edge of the bed, tugging on his boots.

  “Charles! Charles, what is happening?”

  He stood, grabbed her elbow and steered her toward the far wall of her bedchamber. “Come! We must get to the back gardens.” He bellowed. “Quick!”

  Bridget turned toward the door, but Charles held her firm. “This way!”

  She frowned, still keeping her hands over her ears. Charles was making no sense. “But this is a wall—”

  Bridget’s mouth snapped shut as Charles extended his fingers and felt along the wall. He found what he was searching for. Suddenly a large section of the wall shifted, opening to reveal a darkened passageway. Charles put a hand to the small of her back and pushed her inside, closing the passage door behind them as they entered.

  Bridget was certain she was gaping, but how could she not be stunned? There was a hidden hallway behind her wall!

  Charles grabbed her right hand and pulled her down the narrow passage at a punishing pace. Bridget ran to keep up with him, putting her trust in Charles as she let him lead her through the pitch dark.

  She blinked rapidly, attempting to acclimate her eyes to the darkness. The corridors were as narrow as Charles’ shoulders and smelled. How did he know where they were going? The air was stale and carried the musky scent of dust.

  They hurriedly descended
several flights of stairs and traversed many corridors. Within a mere matter of minutes, they were at the first floor of the castle. Charles found another concealed latch in the wall of the hall and ushered her through the doorway into the kitchens.

  Bridget marvelled at how quickly they had arrived, but before she could so much as spend a moment in thought, Charles pushed her through the back doors leading out into the gardens.

  They were greeted by a crowd of agitated men, all trying to converse over the blare of the bell. Bridget scanned the group for Helen, but couldn’t find her. She hoped that Helen’s mother’s health was recovered.

  A shiver of ill-timed arousal travelled up her spine as Charles wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her attention away from her concern for Helen. As furious as she was with the man, she sensed the urgency of their circumstance and prudently kept her anger banked for a more opportune moment.

  Charles guided her to the edge of the group of men, where they came across Mr. Stevens.

  Mr. Stevens saw them and immediately placed both index fingers in his mouth and let out an ear-piercing whistle, causing Bridget to flinch. As his whistling stopped, the bell followed close behind, leaving a loud ringing in her ears in its wake.

  Bridget glanced around at all the faces of the men who had been acting as servants for the past weeks, then turned to gaze up into Charles’ stern visage.

  “What is happening, Charles?” she asked over-loudly, oddly unable to control the volume of her voice.

  “That was an alarm.” His deep voice mingled with the higher pitched sound that still haunted her ears.

  “An alarm for what?” she asked.

  Mr. Stevens appeared at their side. “We have a situation, Hy—Major Bradley.”

  Bridget’s brow drew together in a puzzled frown. “Situation?”

  Both men ignored her. “I gathered that, Stevens,” Charles said briskly. “What is it?”

  “Davis is dead.”

  Bridget covered her gasp. She remembered Davis. The poor young man! He was the endearingly wary footman that had shopped for toys with her and Henry. Oh, goodness! Henry! Where is he?

  “Dead?” Charles growled. “What in God’s name happened?”

  Stevens sent a meaningful glance in Bridget’s direction. “Perhaps we should have this discussion in private.”

  Another man trotted up to them, his lips pursed and his dark eyes troubled. “Hyd—” His gaze found Bridget and he halted.

  Charles’ arm tightened around Bridget’s waist. “Lady Bridget knows of our activities here. I will not have her out of my sight.”

  “Has Stevens informed you?” The new man asked.

  “I was about to tell him, Jones.” Mr. Stevens turned back to Charles, worry lining his brow.

  Bridget watched the exchange with a mixture of trepidation and confusion.

  Stevens’ lips thinned. “Davis, McCully, Gabe, and Jones had been searching the woods for the intruder that shot Lady Bridget yesterday.”

  “All night?” Charles interrupted.

  Jones nodded. “Yes, sir. Just after dawn, we were about to declare our search unsuccessful when Davis said he heard someone, and took off running. We tried to keep up with him, but he wove too quickly between the trees. The shot sounded, and…” He shook his head. “No one saw the shooter. We returned to the castle and sounded the alarm immediately.” He shifted his feet, leaned close, and lowered his voice to a faint whisper. “There is a traitor in our midst, Hydra. You need to leave.”

  Chapter 17

  With a nearly imperceptible nod, Charles leapt into action. “Stratagem F,” he muttered, before he gripped Bridget’s hand in his and strode away with her. He nodded at several of his fellows as he passed them; the men awaited orders to return to their posts.

  Though fear rode him, his actions were calm and collected. This is what he’d trained for. He knew what to do. He would protect Bridget, no matter what it took.

  He steered Bridget around the castle and out of sight of the others, then retraced their steps, guiding her toward the path that would take him to the hunting cabin he had called home over the past weeks. It was time for them to resort to “Stratagem F.”

  It was time for them to disappear.

  Charles, Jones, and Stevens had arranged for this eventuality, though he had hoped that it would never come to pass.

  He had hoped that yesterday’s shooting had been an isolated incident, perhaps a hunter or rogue ruffian’s stray bullet, but it was clear that Stevens was correct. There was indeed a traitor in the castle. There were no other estates around for countless miles. Any neighbouring landowner would first seek his consent before hunting on his land. If there had been a stray bullet, the shooter would have either ensured that no one was harmed, or they would have fled, not stuck around and murdered a young man in cold blood.

  Even should a hunter have happened across his land, the grounds were patrolled day and night. How would the shooter have gained access?

  As this was, in Charles’ mind, very clearly the work of a French spy, he knew that the only way they could have known about this castle’s location was from a traitor in the Home Office.

  The dead informants and his discussions with Gilley and his fellows were still fresh in his mind. Something ominous hovered nearby and he’d be damned if he kept Bridget here to face it with him. As much as he wanted to go to arms and find the bastard immediately, he must first get Bridget to safety.

  Bridget struggled to break free of his grip, but Charles kept her hand effortlessly within his grasp.

  “Charles! Charles what about Henry?”

  “Henry is safe.”

  “How do you know?”

  Charles hastened his stride, expecting Bridget to keep pace. “It was agreed upon between Stevens, Jones, and I, that in the event that the alarm must sound, Henry would be removed from the castle and brought to an undisclosed location. He is with them.”

  Bridget visibly sagged with relief, then willingly sped her steps to meet Charles’ stride.

  “Where are we going?”

  “My cabin. For provisions.”

  “Your cabin?”

  “Yes. It is where I have been staying.”

  “Good gracious, Charles, you are creating more questions than you are answering.”

  He knew she was correct, but he did not have time to satisfy her curiosity at the moment. They were fleeing for their lives. For Bridget’s life. He would not let her inquisitiveness stand in the way of her safety.

  “You will have your answers.” She opened her mouth to speak, but Charles interjected. “Once we reach safety.”

  His men were out of sight around the castle, but Charles kept his gaze darting cautiously around them as they entered the copse of trees in front of the cabin. He did not know if the villain that attempted to take Bridget’s life, and had murdered one of Charles’ men, still lurked in these woods.

  His gut twisted at the thought of the young recruit’s life being over. The man had been new to working with the Home Office. He had trained, and had been eager to learn. Charles shook his head. It was a damned shame.

  He gestured for Bridget to keep quiet as they neared the cabin. He did not know if the intruder awaited them inside. He reached out, pressed the latch, swung the door open, then stood back in wait. No shots were fired, no screaming assassin charged, no knives thrown. Charles took a quick look into the open doorway and decided it was safe to enter.

  Wrapping an arm around Bridget’s waist once more, they entered the small hunting cabin.

  Charles quietly swung the door shut behind them then hurried to retrieve his things.

  “Would you like help, Charles?” she asked, almost absently.

  “No. Stay where you are.”

  He quickly glanced up to where Bridget stood by the cabin door. She had her profile to him as she gazed out the window that looked toward the castle.

  Toward the castle!

  Charles felt his neck grow hot and he qu
ickly placed more items in the saddlebag. Lord, but he hoped Bridget did not realize that this cabin looked directly into her bedchamber window. For if she did, he would have more of her questions to answer…and he would likely not find her reaction pleasing.

  “I should like to pack some things as well, when we are finished here,” she said in a quiet voice.

  Relieved at the interruption of his thoughts, Charles paused with one hand holding a saddlebag and the other a satchel of foodstuffs.

  “We cannot return to the castle. Not with a traitor about.” Just the suggestion sent his heart beating in a wild panic. Should something happen to Bridget… No. He would not think about that.

  “We left so suddenly, Charles. Had I known that we were leaving, I would have packed some necessary clothes, my fencing uniform, rapier, and smallsword. How do you suppose I will manage to defend myself if I do not have my weapons?”

  Charles had not thought to provide Bridget with a weapon. Despite himself, he would like to see her skills at fencing. But she was correct, she required dresses and undergarments.

  Perhaps gathering her things would be a wise decision. Their next destination did not provide the necessary comforts for a woman, and if Bridget was to have any semblance of a wardrobe, she should be able to pack her things. He had prepared disguises for the both of them in the event that they must flee. But while he might have one change of attire for Bridget, he had by no means prepared a full trunk for the woman.

  He put the satchel of foodstuffs in the saddlebag. “Very well. We will return to the castle, but we will not have much time. I suggest you begin to think of what you truly need, as you must pack sparingly. Undergarments, one walking dress, sturdy outerwear, and half boots; pack only items you will require for travel. No corsets, frills, or lace, and plain colours are preferable. And, of course, your weapons.”

  “I have just the things in mind.”

  * * *

  Bridget panted a breath as she removed the narrow trunk of her fencing equipment from beneath her bed and hefted it atop the mattress. She opened the lid, removed several unnecessary items, then ran hither and thither gathering bits of her wardrobe to add to the trunk.