Bridget was certain of it.
Days had passed. Precious, dwindling days. Yet, she had not seen him since the day of their ill-fated nuptials. Her last view of him had been his departing back, insufferably broad, the fine white fabric of his shirt stretched indecently taut over his shoulders. He had not even bothered to reclaim his coat and waistcoat.
She had snatched them up, folding them and hiding them neatly amongst her meager possessions. Though she was ashamed to admit it, she had withdrawn them at various interludes, stroking her fingers over the well-constructed garments. Once, she had—to her eternal chagrin—buried her nose in them for a hint of his scent.
Her meals had been delivered to her by her lady’s maid, the click of the lock in the door the only heralding of an arrival. Each time, Bridget held her breath, hoping it would be him. Each time, she was disappointed.
She stared down at the London street below, watching a bevy of carriages pull up to Blayton House. Watching as a parade of lords and ladies in their evening finery flocked up the front stairs, descending upon the home like wealthy, distinguished butterflies. When the click of the lock sounded this time, she spun, prepared to pounce.
Once again, it was not the duke, but his emissary, Wilton, bearing a dinner tray and wearing her customary expression of one part pity, one part guilt. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
“Good evening, Wilton,” she returned the greeting with a sigh. If the woman thought it odd her employer was keeping his new duchess behind a locked door and pretending as if she did not exist, Wilton never revealed it.
She was loyal to a fault. Each occasion upon which Bridget had attempted to glean some information from the domestic, she had held her tongue and excused herself from the chamber. With every turn of the lock in the door, Bridget became increasingly convinced she would have to take action. Her chamber had no means of climbing safely to the street below, and she could not simply leap, for she was on the third floor.
There was no hope for it. She was going to have to cudgel Wilton over the head and steal her keys. She did not want to do it, especially since she had grown rather fond of the woman over the last few days. She dressed Bridget’s hair beautifully, and she always brought her extra hothouse pineapples for breakfast. But it was either leave Wilton untouched on account of the pineapples, or escape, and Bridget knew what her answer must be.
“What has Monsieur Brodeur prepared for dinner this evening?” she asked, her stomach growling at the rich scents wafting to her from the delicacies prepared by Carlisle’s talented French chef. She had never eaten so well in her life, and she had no doubt she never would again.
“Filets de Boeuf Piqué à la Talleyrand. Cocoa tartelettes for dessert withfraises.”
Bridget wandered closer to the delectable food. Her stomach approved, but first, she required some answers. “Tell me, Wilton, what manner of event is happening this evening?”
Wilton averted her gaze, occupying herself by fussing with a serviette. “One of His Grace’s fêtes, I am afraid. We did think they may end, but…”
She trailed off, apparently realizing she had said too much.
Bridget frowned. The Duke of Carlisle did not seem a man given to hosting balls or soirées. And that was the precise moment she noticed Wilton had neglected to replace her key upon the ring at her waist and instead had left it atop the table, calling to Bridget like an abandoned cache of diamonds to a thief.
Perhaps if she was clever enough, she would not need to bludgeon poor Wilton after all. She edged closer to the key and offered the domestic some distraction. “What manner of fête is it? His Grace neglected to mention it to me.”
Wilton’s lips thinned, her countenance going pale. “I am certain it is not in my place to say.”
Bridget was within reach of the key now. “Perhaps you might tell me anyway. There does seem a rather large number of guests arriving.”
“It is not…” Wilton’s words trailed away and she turned her attention back to the idle straightening of Bridget’s plate and utensils.
As she fussed, Bridget slowly covered the key with her hand. “What is it, Wilton? Why do you seem so troubled?”
“No reason at all, Your Grace.” In her agitation, Wilton folded the serviette, then unfolded it.
Bridget palmed the key and slid it down her sleeve. Here was her chance. “I do believe I shall have a bath before sitting down to my dinner, Wilton.”
Wilton turned back to her with a pensive frown, and for a moment Bridget feared she had been caught. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Bridget waited until the elder woman was out of sight in the bathroom. Waited for the familiar creak of the pipes as hot water was called for. Heard the splash of water in the tub. And then she grabbed her skirts in one hand and raced to the door as quickly as she could. By the time she reached the hall and spun around to close the door, Wilton was rounding the corner. When she saw Bridget, her eyes went wide.
“Your Grace, you cannot—”
With nary a hint of guilt, Bridget snapped the portal shut, withdrew the key, and locked it. After all, Wilton had been acting as her jailer, and at least she hadn’t had to suffer an aching head this way.
Smiling, Bridget made use of the décolletage of her gown by tugging at the ribbon trim and dropping the key down her chemise. The cool metal landed between her breasts, trapped by the tightness of her corset and unable to move. Her time was running thin. She had no doubt Wilton would make excessive use of the bell pull until someone came to her aid. Which meant if she wanted her freedom to last, she was going to have to make herself disappear.
Leo stood onthe periphery of the libidinous gathering he held every week without fail, a whisky he had not bothered to taste in hand. He had spent the last three days living on coffee and the briefings he received from his agents and the men he had planted in the Fenian ranks in England and abroad, trying to make sense of the mystery that was Bridget O’Malley.
His wife.
There was the mocking reminder, never far from his thoughts.
