Greta released him and hastened to repair an awkward moment. “You are tired, after traveling to London and back, and now the silly governess waylaying you with this nonsense. Don’t be tempted by Miss Harrismith or there will be a babe for you to deal with.”
He caught his breath. Not only was it a cold calculating thing to suggest, it appeared she thought him capable of it. Disgust and disappointment rendered him silent.
She withdrew her hand from his and rose. “We’ll talk again at breakfast.”
“I’ll see you to your bedchamber, Greta.”
She shook her head. “No need. I know my way.”
Greta’s exotic perfume lingered after she left the room, but now he realized it had a cloying sweetness. She’d been toying with him. When they played whist she chose Raymond for her partner and lavished attention on him. How different it had been in Vienna; that elaborate, elegant world had suited her. They’d laughed, drunk champagne, and waltzed, and enjoyed the witty repartee of good company. Whilst here, she seemed out of place.
His mind returned to William. If it were Andrew they targeted, he would meet them square on and deal with it, but his vulnerable and brave little son? His stomach roiled. He’d get to the bottom of this, but right now he needed help, not an army as Greta had suggested, but someone adept at handling such situations.
Andrew’s valet awaited him in his dressing room. Burton knew better than to make idle conversation while he attended to Andrew’s clothes. He wished him good night and took himself off after Andrew distractedly dismissed him.
Andrew washed, cleaned his teeth, and climbed into bed. Rigid with an odd kind of leaden exhaustion, he lay down and forced his thoughts into some kind of order. Where to begin?
Check that passage in the nursery wing and make sure it was secure. He’d see to it himself this time. Employ a Bow Street Runner? No. That could prove awkward. If this had something to do with the Vienna Convention, however unlikely Castlereagh considered it, it must remain secret. Forrester must be made aware of the situation. He would know if any new staff had been employed in the last month. Beyond that… he ran a hand over his tired eyes; he had never felt so exposed, so helpless.
A thought came to him bringing him upright. “Strathairn!” His friend, the marquess, was the best man in all England to deal with this. He would write to him tomorrow.
Having found a possible solution, his tight muscles eased a little, and he allowed his thoughts to dwell on Miss Harrismith, whom he’d come to admire. She seemed mature beyond her years. It was in her manner, he decided, the way she held herself when many young women would be reduced to hysterics facing a situation such as this. So brave and resourceful, but her determined little chin had wobbled when she described the terrifying scene on the roof. If she came between an assassin and William—and there was always a chance that she might—she too would be in very real danger. A sudden chill ran through him.
He considered again the possibility of sending the children away to his aunt, however his austere aunt was unlikely to accept such a young woman into her household. Another excellent position would have to be found for Miss Harrismith. Not only did the idea seem flawed, because he would lose control of the situation, the depth of his dismay surprised him. Not only would the children lose their beloved governess, his brief moments with Miss Harrismith, when he was more like himself than at any other time, would be lost. He couldn’t deny that the thought of not having her here at Castlebridge left him feeling decidedly empty.
He rearranged the pillow and turned over, finding sleep eluded him. Greta’s accusation, however outrageous, held a modicum of truth, which didn’t reflect well on him. From his experience, a woman’s instincts were often proved right. They went to the core of the matter while a man sought to apply reason. What the devil was he to do? Nothing, he decided. Right now, William must remain uppermost in his thoughts.
