Chapter Six
Alasdair strode through the keep toward the baron’s office. He’d deposited a still unconscious Fiona in her room, under Miss Sollier’s kind but suspicion-laden attentions. He could only hope Fiona woke soon, and had the presence of mind to keep to her role as a maid when she did. As he walked, the boots he’d pulled on pounded a sure rhythm on the floor. The servants who saw him gaped. One maid even scurried away.
Alasdair supposed he was rather a sight in his clinging breeches and shirt, his boots the only dry article of clothing he wore, but this was not the time for niceties. Whoever the spy was, they were no longer content to remain in the shadows. Fiona had been attacked. Miss Sollier could be next. It was all he could do to leave her side to speak with her father, but she was surrounded by servants as she tended Fiona, and the doctor would appear at any moment. He doubted the spy would attack in a crowded room.
He reached the thick oak door and stopped. Alasdair hadn’t met with the former Dagger alone yet. An odd reluctance twinged within him.
His eyes traced the ornate carvings adorning the door. Woven into the decorative flower and vine pattern were ancient Gaelic symbols for strength, loyalty and honor. Inside, he could hear the steady cadence of a male voice, not the baron’s, and not loud enough to decipher through the door. Alasdair knocked. The monologue broke off.
“Come.” The baron’s hard voice was barely muted by the thick wood.
Alasdair pushed the door open. The windowless room showed no evidence of a second exit. A footman stood before a massive desk, posture rigid. He held a large volume, hand flattening over the page as he turned.
As Alasdair strode in and bowed, he took in the intricately detailed paneling, two heavy couches and a hard-backed chair for guests. A fire burned in the ornamental hearth. The room was almost stuffy.
Alasdair didn’t locate it at first glance, but he sensed a second doorway in the room. The knowledge of it tingled along his spine. He was sure, as he straightened before the baron’s desk, that doorway was behind him.
“That will be all,” Baron Sollier said to the footman.
The man marked his place, bowed, and hurried from the room. He didn’t leave the book, or offer a glimpse of title or content. Well trained, then, and not simply as a footman. Odd, for a retired spy to keep such professional staff. When the door closed behind the servant, Alasdair came to attention, as he would before the desk of any superior officer.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Lord Alasdair?” the baron asked.
Alasdair wasn’t surprised Baron Sollier knew his name. His subterfuge hadn’t been for the benefit of the former Dagger. Alasdair’s use of the name Winston to gain entrance to the keep had assured the baron would know he was an operative, at the least.
“Your maid, Fiona, was attacked today, my lord.”
“The one who fancies herself a spy someday?” The baron snorted. “The girl lacks competence.”
Not how, or where, or worry for Fiona’s present state. Was the baron’s unconcern evidence of previous knowledge, or simply the reaction of a man who’d long since set aside pointless sympathies? “The spy grows more brazen,” Alasdair said. “I fear for Miss Sollier.” He didn’t bother to explain that there was a spy. He wouldn’t insult the other man’s intelligence that way.
“Do you?” The baron eyed him for a long moment, gaze as unyielding as the rest of him. “Is it your mission to fear for her?”
“It is, my lord.”
“And you’ll do what it takes to succeed in that mission?” The words were spoken with a disdainful edge, as if the baron doubted a satisfactory answer.
“Yes, my lord.” Alasdair didn’t permit his tone to vary.
“Then marry the girl and take her to safety.”
Alasdair blinked once, his features immobile. “Marry your daughter, my lord?” Have her as his own? By his side, forever?
“I’ve seen the way you drool over her, and she you.” Sollier’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “Like as not, you’ve already compromised her. Can’t say I’m surprised at her. You’re the first gentleman she’s socialized with in years.” His gaze narrowed. “Nor am I surprised at you. Dukes generally take what they want.”
“I have not compromised your daughter.” Alasdair met the baron’s gaze squarely. What did the man take him for?
“But you want to.” There was no doubt in Sollier’s tone.
Alasdair had no answer for that. He did want to, but not in the sullied, underhanded way the baron implied. Not simply to have her and cast her aside. Miss Sollier, Bridget, deserved more than some heated, fleeting encounter with a man she’d never meet again.
“I do not need to wed Miss Sollier to take her to safety. Surely a chaperone can be found to—”
“Who?” The baron cut in. He made a sweeping gesture. “I trust no one else. Someone here is a spy. The whole region may be infested with them. It’s obvious this family has been compromised. There’s no way to know how far it goes.” A meaty hand slapped down on the desk. “You will take her to safety. You will take the curricle and no servants.”
“But, marry her, my lord?” Surely that was unfair to Bridget. She’d never been anywhere, seen anything. She should be permitted to socialize, and dance, and choose a man she could love. Not be forced to wed, as the baron put it, the first gentleman she’d met in years. Especially one who’d spent his life executing the Crown’s least savory deeds.
“You wish to drag her off without marrying her? I’ll not see my daughter ruined. Better she be dead than this family dishonored.”
