Stalwood rose behind her and she faced him. He looked different now. Like he was past the gentleness required to get her agreement. Now she was one of his soldiers and he was in charge.
“London would be better,” he said. “We’re still investigating, and I can place guards to ensure your safety with more ease there.”
She pressed her lips together in irritation. She didn’t want to be in London. Not this time of year. But there seemed to be no choice.
“Fine,” she said. “But at my father’s home there. My herb garden is a necessity I cannot deny myself.”
He seemed to consider the request and then nodded. “Very well. No one will suspect he is there, for certain. That could work out very well. How long will it take you to get there?”
She looked around, already making mental lists of what she would need to do and gather. “A week at most,” she said. “I could be there Thursday next.”
“Excellent. I will be certain you have what you need there. Will you have servants to contend with? We’ll need an explanation for Willowby’s arrival.”
She shook her head. “I do not keep a servant. I can manage myself well enough.”
Stalwood’s brow wrinkled as if he did not understand. Of course he would not. Men like him had a dozen servants. This duke would probably expect white-gloved treatment too.
She sighed at the thought.
“I will make sure you have a driver. Safe and vetted by my department. He will take you to London and be at your disposal there. If you want no one else, I will not interfere. The fewer people involved in this situation, the better.”
She nodded. “I agree.”
“Then I shall leave you to your readying. With my thanks,” he said, moving toward the door where he had entered less than half an hour before.
“Stalwood,” she said before he could leave her.
He turned. “Yes?”
“You will find whoever is responsible for my father’s death.”
His expression softened a bit. “I will do everything in my power, my dear.Everythingin my power.”
“Good day,” she whispered past a suddenly thick throat. He tipped his hat to her and then he was gone, leaving her alone to think of what she had agreed to.
And ponder what a terrible mistake it would likely turn out to be.
Lucas shifted as the carriage turned and he was rocked against the wall. Every muscle in his body protested with screaming pain and he gripped his fists against the leather carriage seat to keep from crying out.
How he hated being injured. Being weak. How he hated that it all felt so commonplace to him now. Pain was just part of life.
The carriage came to a stop and he looked out the window as the servants began to move to help him. It was a small cottage that they’d come to. One that looked like every other cottage in The Hale, a part of London he’d never been to before. He knew all the worst parts through his job, and the best thanks to his upbringing.
He hated them both equally. But this place was suspended somewhere in between. Not too high and mighty, but neat and tidy, well maintained. Anonymous.
The door opened and the men Stalwood had tasked with helping him appeared. Their faces were grim as one said, “Ready, Your Grace?”
Lucas winced at both the recognition of the pain about to come and the title that was used to address him. “Yes,” he ground out, his voice rough as he reached out to steady himself on waiting arms. He staggered forward, trying in vain to keep his grunts of agony in as he was helped down.
The men looked away as they guided him up the stairs to the cottage door. They were spies, like he was, sent to do this menial task because they were the only ones to be trusted with the secret of his location. He knew what they saw when they looked at him: their future. And it wasn’t one they wanted, so they distanced themselves.
The door to the cottage was already open and the men helped him in. They didn’t hesitate as they all but carried him up another short flight of stairs and down a hall to an open door. Lucas had to believe this had all been prearranged. He did not yet even know who it was who would be taking care of him during his time here. Stalwood had said a healer, but nothing more.
A healer. Internally, he scoffed. He’d been poked and prodded and tortured by many a man who called himself that. The amount of healing that had followed was laughable. He was broken, perhaps irretrievably, and that sent a wash of rage and pain through him more powerful than any caused by the physical.
“Let me go,” he snapped, staggering from the arms of those helping him and all but collapsing against the edge of the bed.
The men seemed unmoved by his ill humor. All but one left him there. The last was named Simmons. Lucas glared at him. He’d trained this particular pup years ago, and now the boy stared at him like he was a dotard, lost to his youth and usefulness.
