It was him.
The Duke of Carlisle.
Here, perhaps, was her second chance at gaining information from him. John would be more than happy for any gem of knowledge she could beg, borrow, or steal. She lingered outside the library, hand on the latch, wondering if she ought to enter or if she should wait.
Wait, said something inside her.
And then another voice, equally forceful said,Press your advantage. Now.
She opened the door and crossed over the threshold. The slow, steady sounds of a man breathing in his sleep reached her as the door closed. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, settling upon the opposite wall where a large, leonine body was draped across an oversize settee. Yet even though the piece of furniture was immense, he still managed to dominate it, his long legs protruding from the end.
It occurred to Bridget here was a glaring, unprecedented opportunity: she could seek out his chamber, search it for any insights she could pass on to John in an effort to help the cause. But instead, something else made her feet move. Across the library she traveled, boots thumping steadily against the carpet. Until she stood before him.
The ghost of a fire in the grate crackled, and the sun sent a trickle of light glinting from the eastern windows as it began to rise. He was a study in contrast: dark, yet golden; fearsome, yet beautiful.
There he was, at her mercy, stretched out like Christ on the cross, just as vulnerable to her attack. Even his arms were splayed, almost as if in a parody. She could do him harm. Pull the knife from her boot. Find his vein and cut.
Bridget swallowed, looking down at him. Even in the semi-darkness, he was beautiful. Compelling. A formidable foe. One she could end so easily. Now. Within seconds.
Yet…she could not. Removing this man as an obstacle would be a boon to the cause. She would be hailed a hero. But while Bridget wore many mantles, murderess was not among them.
Even so, how convenient of Carlisle to drink himself into a stupor and spend the evening drunk as a lord in the library. John had told her League members often secreted correspondence in hidden pockets in their waistcoats. Her quick eyes spotted a bottle of spirits on the table alongside him, half-empty. A fortuitous happenstance.
Poor Duke. He would not know what hit him. Bridget truly ought to thank him for making this so easy.
She took up the bottle and doused him with the contents, taking great care to keep the seams of his waistcoat, where it was easiest to insert documents, dry. The duke continued snoring, sleeping right through her endeavor. She laid the bottle on him gently, tipping it to its side as if he had fallen asleep while drowning himself in drink, causing the spill. With quick, quiet movements, she took a handful of steps in retreat.
And then she started forward.
“Your Grace,” she called, hoping to rouse him with the volume of her voice.
It would look far more natural, more innocent to him, if he woke with her starting toward him rather than hovering over his supine form. She had but one chance to get her hands on his waistcoat, and she was determined not to squander it.
The strident call of her voice had its intended effect. With a broken snore, he suddenly moved, sitting up on the settee, eyes blinking open. For a heartbeat, he appeared defenseless and innocent. He seemed nothing more than a handsome duke who had likely earned himself a stiff neck and a handful of regrets by over-imbibing and falling asleep in the library, rather than one of the most feared spies in all England.
A man who would have no qualms about sending her to prison, she reminded herself with force, lest her unacceptable weakness for him attempted to sway her from her course. She rushed forward with that thought, feigning concern.
“Good morning, Your Grace. Pray forgive me. I did not mean to intrude, but I prefer to take my walks at dawn, and I heard someone within. I knocked, but there was no answer.” Bridget pinned a false smile to her lips.
“Good morning, Miss Palliser,” he growled, his expression turning thunderous. “Why, in the name of all that is holy, am I wet?”
She stopped herself just short of reaching him, relaxing her face with studious effort in an attempt to feign ignorance. “Wet, Your Grace?”
He tested his waistcoat with two fingers, grimacing. “Bloody sodding.”
She would have flinched at the bite in his tone, but Bridget was accustomed to mercurial men. She was prepared for anything. For anyone. She could meet the Duke of Carlisle in a match of wits any day and turn out the victor.
“You appear to have spilled upon yourself,” she observed calmly, and without a trace of guilt underscoring her words. She plucked the tipped bottle from his person and held it aloft for his inspection. “This, I daresay, was the culprit.”
“Christ,” he muttered, sitting up and grimacing down at himself.
“How may I be of service, Your Grace?” she asked, not wishing to appear too eager to make off with his waistcoat.
“You may go away, MissJanePalliser,” he said, his tone blistering.
She did not understand the emphasis he placed upon Jane, but it was noteworthy in its oddness. Bridget tucked the observation away inside her mind and proceeded with her plan. “Allow me to take your waistcoat, sir. It appears to have absorbed most of the damage. I will see it laundered and returned to you.”
His brows snapped together. “You are not my valet, madam. I shall attend to the matter myself.” He paused, seeming to belatedly recall the necessity for niceties. “And thank you.”
