28
The next morning, Kuni sat at the escritoire in her guest chamber. She shoved away the journal she’d been filling with encyclopedic details since arriving at the Wynchesters. Today, she cared not about royalty, but ordinary citizens. Stomach tight, she began to pen two letters she hoped she need never send.
One was to Princess Mechtilda. The other was to her brothers. Both letters explained why she was doing what she was doing…which was not reconnaissance for the Balcovian Crown.
These letters would be entrusted to Randall, the butler, in the event the upcoming adventure with the Wynchesters proved a bittooadventurous, and Kuni ended up incarcerated or otherwise in need of emergency aid. Randall would deliver the letters to Reinald and Floris in person.
If her brothers—or, God forbid, a royal princess—were forced to take action to extricate Kuni, she would not only never hear the end of it…She would also never be a Royal Guardswoman. She swallowed hard.
Her future wasn’t the only one on the line. Hundreds of exploited laborers depended on what unfolded next.
A knock sounded on her door.
“Planning Parlor, in fifteen minutes,” came Elizabeth’s voice.
“I’ll be there,” Kuni called back.
She held the letters above a candle to dry them faster, then folded and secured each using a special seal Princess Mechtilda had given all her companions long ago to mark their notes to one another. The design was decorative, not postage—a lark for little girls—but now it would serve as a mark of authenticity. If a courier delivered a missive from England bearing this seal, the princess would know it was from Kuni—and that things had not gone to plan.
She found Randall polishing silver belowstairs. He took possession of the emergency missives and promised to follow her instructions.
Contingency plan complete, Kuni hurried upstairs to the Planning Parlor. The rest of the Wynchesters were just arriving. She followed Tommy and Philippa across the threshold in awe.
Had Kuni thought the sitting room on the ground floor resembled a command room? She hadn’t even been close.
The floor of the Planning Parlor was made of slate and apparently used as a blackboard. A chart was drawn here, a map sketched there. Tall windows let in bright sunlight. Map cases and bookcases covered every spare inch of the exterior wall. A long walnut table full of drawers stood on one half of the large room, surrounded by sculpted wooden chairs. This was not where the Wynchesters were.
The siblings were arranging themselves amongst the more comfortable-looking armchairs and sofas in a C shape before an unlit fireplace on the other half of the room. Above the mantel hung two paintings. One, a portrait of an older white man with kind eyes and a mischievous smile. The other, a forest scene of imps cavorting about a fire.
“Come sit,” Elizabeth called out.
There was a spot on Chloe’s sofa—the duke was still in the House of Lords—but Kuni did not sit with her.
She headed toward the empty armchair by Graham’s side. As she eased into her seat, the backs of his fingers caressed her upper arm.
At first, she’d had difficulty forgiving him for compiling an intelligence journal after she’d explicitly asked him not to. He was the star of his own show. Why steal hers as well? But she believed his claim that he’d been commissioned for a similar project before he’d even met her. She had never heard Graham lie. Plus, he’d sworn on his beloved mother. That was not a vow he would take lightly.
Graham had not meant to hurt her or to undermine her. He believed in her ability to do the same job wholly on her own and recognized the risk of accepting any outside aid. If Kuni were disqualified from the post of her dreams because she’d delivered someone else’s work instead of providing her own and proving her competence…
But her biggest concern at the moment was not the Royal Guard. It was Mr. and Mrs. Goodnight, who were lying awake at night, worrying about their daughter-in-law, their grandson, and the as-yet-unborn baby, whose survival was in jeopardy under the current conditions.
Unless Kuni and the Wynchesters achieved something extraordinary, even a successful birth would only doom the child to the same dangerous fate as the rest of her family and all the other children at the manufactory.
The siblings filled the Planning Parlor and looked expectantly at Graham.
“Before we begin.” His voice was calm and controlled, as it had been the day the Goodnights arrived. “We shan’t waste time lamenting unfair laws or the incompetence of Parliament. Many MPs were on our side. If they are not the answer,wemust be the solution.”
“I’m ready.” Elizabeth removed her sword stick from its sheath. “Point me in the direction of Silas Throckmorten, and I will dispose of His High-Handedness personally.”
“You may get your chance,” Chloe said.
All heads swiveled in her direction.
“Elizabeth shall not kill him,” she said quickly, “or slice off his hands. Graham and I put our heads together before breakfast this morning. We must return to Tipford-upon-Bealbrook. Not to collect signatures—”
“But to cut offheads,” Elizabeth said with satisfaction. “I like it.”
“—to visit Mr. Throckmorten and his cotton mill in person,” the duchess corrected her firmly. “While we collected signatures, Tommy created and annotated extensive maps that will now prove advantageous, as we plot our assault. Bealbrook is the river that cuts through town. The property is bordered by both water and woods. But that’s not how we’ll enter.”
