Truth be told, it wasn’t the prospect of employing her as-yet-untried skills of diplomacy that worried her. Although Elizabeth had never attempted a calm, rational negotiation, she had read countless tomes on the art of warfare, all of which explained the ways in which logic and persuasion were as important as maintaining a sharp blade. Though she liked to pretend there was nothing rattling in her head besides swordplay, on the days she couldn’t rise from bed, she often rehearsed the logistics of imaginary confrontations and peace treaties in her mind.
It was the not-always-able-to-rise-from-bed part that made her hesitant to undertake a mission without sufficient reinforcements.
If something went wrong—like, for example, herbody, whose signature move was to rebel against her at the worst possible moments—Elizabeth would not have the luxury of nine other Wynchesters at her side to support her and pick up the charge.
She would be totally on her own.
“You can say no,” Philippa said gently. “We’ll find another way.”
Elizabeth scoffed, far too determined to mask any lack of confidence and avoid showing weakness rather than actually voicing her fears. She would never let down her family. They believed in her. So did Miss Oak. Wherever a client needed Elizabeth, she would go. No matter how much panic boiled up inside.
“Maybe the mission will be a two-for-one,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “I can poke holes in the Earl of Densmoreandthat strutting peacock Richard Reddington.”
“We’ve been over this,” Jacob reminded her. “No murdering. Youcan’t run a fake general through with a real sword without ironclad justification.”
Graham glanced up from his case notes. “Didn’t you say Reddington’s money comes from the slave trade? Ironclad justification.”
“There we have it.” Jacob plucked the baby from Elizabeth’s lap and gestured toward her sword. “Run Reddington through as many times as you please. I’ll loan you a few raptors to pick the bones clean.”
“Recover the will and testament first,” Tommy said quickly. “Andthenyou can unleash Beth the Berserker.”
“Done.” Elizabeth smiled happily. Perhaps this trip would be fun after all.
5
The grueling two-day journey was absolute misery.
Elizabeth’s body hated being cooped up in a carriage. She could manage a few jaunts across town, and could easily make the trip from central London to nearby Islington, where she lived with her siblings. Much farther than that, however…
The boat to Balcovia last winter had been glorious. One could stand up on a boat. One could stretch, one could walk, one could swing one’s sword on the empty deck in the early dawn. One could even find oneself immediately surrounded by a dozen tall, strapping Balcovian warriors.
A tiny enclosed carriage was rubbish compared to that. She did not blame her body for rebelling. The Wynchester family’s finest coach-and-four was still a rickety coffin, rattling along on iron wheels over rutted roads laced with jarring holes. She couldn’t even read her newest book on war strategies.
By the time her carriage arrived in Dorset, Elizabeth wanted nothing more than to find an inn and bury herself in cushions and cheap gin until her body recovered.
Unfortunately, their benevolent client would not hear of her rescuer spending unnecessary coin on accommodations. Miss Oak possessed a perfectly fine cottage in town, with a perfectly fine guest room inwhich it would be perfectly fine for Elizabeth to stay as long as it took to gain entrance to the castle and find the hidden will.
“Perfectly dreadful,” Elizabeth muttered, flat on her back in the unfamiliar bed.
“What’s that, dear?” came the immediate response from the other side of the closed guest-chamber door.
Elizabeth covered her face with a cushion.
Nothing could be more embarrassing than convalescing in a client’s guest quarters instead of charging out to right wrongs. Nothing, that was, except the client in question hovering right outside the guest-chamber door, querying about Elizabeth’s well-being every five bloody minutes.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” came Miss Oak’s muffled voice.
Elizabeth added another pillow to the pile atop her face. Smothering herself to death was preferable to answering this query for the hundredth time this morning.
During a flare-up, her siblings knew better than to pepper her with such absurd questions, which called attention to the very thing Elizabeth was doing her damnedest to block out. The more she thought about her pain, the more it hurt.
The more she could distract herself, the faster time went. The faster time went, the more she relaxed. The more she relaxed, the quicker she healed.
“Miss Wynchester?” came her client’s concerned voice again. “Do you need anything?”
“I’m fine!” Elizabeth shouted through her pillows.
She was angry at herself, and at her body. Frustrated that here she was, a stone’s throw from the castle, unable to do a bloody thing about it. Elizabeth hated feeling helpless. She was only of value when she was out swashbuckling, and worthless when lying about motionless.
