He raised his eyes to his own in the mirror and hated the angry hard look in them compared to when he’d woken.
As Aideen had quoted some of his guidance, it had sounded a dash extreme, but surely one had to begin strict in order to then loosen. He didn’t want to quench Aideen’s fire, but she must see his point of view.
Yes, avoiding windows might seem marginally outlandish, but when he’d written the list, he’d thought of all the ways that fellow spies had met their untimely end over the years.
Harris had been shot whilst standing at a brothel casement window.
Middleton had been drowned in his bath tub.
Gilmore had been stabbed at the tailors with a pair of cutting scissors.
So, it wasn’t as if he’d invented them.
Chapter Twenty-two
Decisions, decisions?
The crumpled List of Gloom, as Aideen now called it, was smothered with scribbles, crosses and the very occasional tick.
She felt for Alex, she really did, understanding his rationale and concern, but he may as well lock her out of harm’s way in the bedchamber forever. And even then, she may injure herself, thumping her head on the dressing table at her husband’s need for control.
So should she do away with the list now? Burn it? Take a stance at being dictated to?
But that seemed so cruel when Alex had suffered such loss. Despite his frigid exterior, he was a man who cared profoundly, for her and others.
Still waters did indeed run deep, and she had a suspicion he was deeper than the River Suir at full flood in February.
Should she try and compromise? Maybe with time he would mellow as he recognised her capabilities?
Worrying her lip, she stared at the lively square from the drawing room window – in flagrant breach of rule number fifteen.
Did Alex see every man, woman and child as a potential threat? The lad crying out the news? The two girls from the east side of the square bustling along? Their footman scowling as he juggled four packages?
Of course her kidnap by that Frenchman last year hadn’t helped the situation. Alex doubtless viewed her as weak and defenceless, but she was wiser now. More vigilant.
Aideen sipped her tea and grimaced; it was cold.
Perhaps it might be worth visiting Meghan for marital advice with – she consulted the list – two footmen, the ducal carriage and appropriate footwear.
The appropriate footwear rule had a large tick. Intriguing. Would it involve boots with hidden blades?
“Your Grace?”
Turning, she found Rawlins staring down his haughty nose. He was a fixture of the house she quite liked, and she suspected, deep down, that he might like her too, but you’d have to dig deep…very deep.
“Yes, Rawlins?”
“A…lady has called. She seeks His Grace, but in lieu, she has requested your audience.”
What a lovely way to put it. Was there a butler school where they learned such terms? Her father’s man had always been a rather jovial fellow with no polish except on his shoes.
“Show her in, Rawlins.”
Belatedly, she recollected rule number one. But surely the list hadn’t been fully approved, agreed upon or signed in blood yet. It was at…consultation stage.
And besides, she had her green beribboned reticule strategically placed on the table.
A pretty, blond woman crossed the drawing room. Dressed simply but with quality cloth, she had no maid, which explained Rawlins’ hesitation.
