Lily was aware of their covert work, though not the precise nature of it, nor the details. “Of course he did, but pray, do not act as if you had no hand in this, for we both know you did.”
Yes, he had, but that did not mean he wanted his praises sung. Praises, hugs, and treacly sentiments made his gut ache. “Nonsense.” He extracted himself from her arms. “It was Clay and nothing more. Where is my brother this morning? I ought to impart the news.”
“Still abed.” Lily’s dark eyes shone with tears. “I love you, my darling son.”
Christ.
Crying appalled him.
He fidgeted, needing to escape. “Well. I ought to restore myself to a civilized state before greeting the groom and bride.” He bowed. “Mother.”
With that, he took his throbbing head and his body that smelled as if he had spent the evening on the floor of a dockside tavern, and all his regrets, and fled.
Chapter Three
The day ofthe wedding had come, and Bridget was a bundle of knots and worry, for she knew what it meant. She would have to steal away her charge, the young duke, as she had been ordered to do. The commotion of the celebrations, combined with the new addition of guests, and the couple’s wedding night would facilitate her actions.
She sat at the wedding breakfast, surrounded by merriment, guilt rendering her stomach an acidic churn of bile. The bride, the Duchess of Burghly, was radiant. The groom, Mr. Ludlow, looked upon her with such naked love, Bridget could not help but feel as if she were intruding whenever she glanced in their direction. Their love was obvious, and it glowed like a lighthouse beacon from the shores at night, guiding ships safely into harbor.
Envy mixed with her shame.
What would it be like to be loved with such undisguised devotion? And how could she bear to torment these two people who had only shown her kindness and compassion by taking the young duke from them? Moreover, how could she bear to lead the lad she’d grown rather fond of to an uncertain fate with John?
You must do it, she told herself.For Cullen’s sake. John vowed he would not harm the boy.
But did she dare trust John? Did she dare do as she had promised she would before leaving London on this devil’s mission?
She gripped her wine goblet, raised it to her lips, drank. The sweet yet bitter liquid slid over her tongue like an elixir. Perhaps it would numb her. Relieve some of the tension threatening to choke her alive. Two more hasty gulps were all she would allow herself before she decided any more would draw curious stares. Strange enough that a governess would be present at the wedding breakfast alongside her charge. But that she was surrounded by dukes and certain enemies, alone in a chamber filled with people she was deceiving—people she would hurt—only served to heighten her tension.
“Perhaps you need not look so grim-faced, brother.” The Duke of Carlisle raised his glass in a salute then, stealing her attention. “I received word not long ago of arrests having been made in Dublin.”
Arrests. Dublin.
Those two words, along with Carlisle’s relaxed, almost self-congratulatory manner, could mean only one thing: some of the men responsible for the Duke of Burghly’s murder had been captured. They had been men like John. Like Cullen.
Dead men did not talk, but imprisoned men did, which meant everyone in the organization was vulnerable to implication.
Including Bridget.
She went numb, but not numb in the manner she had hoped. Her fingers ceased to function, and instead of placing her goblet calmly upon the table linen, she dropped it. With a dull thud, the goblet upended, and a dark stain spread all over the white cloth. She watched it grow, thinking it oddly reminiscent of a pool of blood from a body.
Was this how it had looked when the Duke of Burghly was slashed to death with surgical knives in Phoenix Park in Dublin?
When would the bloodshed end?
And why,oh why, had she become complicit in this madness?
The cause was right. The actions being taken were wrong. Too extreme. Too dangerous and deadly.
What if the dropped glass, the spilled wine, were an omen meant for her? A sign she too would be claimed as a victim in this war they waged against the English menace?
All sets of eyes were upon her, curious, concerned, startled. The Duke of Carlisle’s were dark and narrowed. Calculating. She looked away, lest he read something in the depths of her eyes, and reached for her napkin. The man was dangerous. Her enemy in every way. She could not allow him to see her, the real her. According to John, observing people and judging their weaknesses was one of the duke’s gifts. One she could not afford for him to use against her.
“I do beg your pardon,” she muttered softly to the table at large, attempting to dab at the offending spill. “I am not ordinarily so clumsy.”
“You must not concern yourself with such trifles, Miss Palliser,” offered the Duchess of Burghly sweetly. “Today is a day of joy, and not even a thousand spilled glasses could spoil it.”
Bridget swallowed, wishing herself anywhere else. Wishing they had not insisted upon her presence here, where she did not belong, amongst all the people she would shortly betray. She knew she was not meant to think of them as people. That they were in fact her enemies. Obstacles standing between Cullen and his life, between herself and her freedom, between Ireland and the right to be governed by her own people.
