“That is because the poor cannot take another tax increase to fund the war,” Caleb stated. “They are barely surviving as it is.”
“Regardless, General Merrell won’t be left unprotected at the ball,” Roswell said.
“True, but his guards won’t be as diligent since they are back on English soil, attending a lord’s ball,” Fredrick pointed out.
“We will just inform General Merrell of the potential threat on his life, and bring the French spies to Newgate,” Caleb said. “Then it will all be over.”
Roswell bobbed his head. “Yes, and once you complete your assignment, there is no reason for you to work with Miss Delacourt anymore.”
“Precisely,” Caleb said. “You and I can go back to being partners.” That thought did not sit well with him.
“Is that what you want?” Roswell asked, eyeing him closely.
Caleb was tired of defending himself about his partnership with Simone. His business was his own, and he didn’t appreciate their meddling.
Shoving back his chair, he rose and said, “If you will excuse me, I need to go speak to Simone about this.”
Caleb didn’t wait for a response before he headed towards the main door. He knew his friends meant well, but they didn’t understand. He may work well together with Simone, but that is where it ended. There could be no future between him and Simone. It was even laughable to think such a thing.
Chapter Eight
Simone stood to the side as Anette brought her hand back and released the dagger, causing it to embed itself at the edge of the target.
“Well done,” Simone praised.
Anette gave her a look of disbelief. “You are kind, but we both know that I am awful at throwing daggers.”
“You hit the target this time,” Simone pointed out.
“This time,” Anette said. “But what about the thirty attempts before? No. I think I will stick to shooting a pistol.”
Simone walked over to the target and retrieved the dagger. “You just need more practice,” she encouraged.
“I don’t think that is it,” Anette said.
“My mother and I used to practice throwing daggers until the sun went down,” Simone shared. “It was so dark that we could hardly see the target, but we kept practicing. It was one of the many things that we did together.”
Anette grinned. “Whereas my mother was relentless that I practice my needlework.”
“We did that, too, but it wasn’t nearly as much fun as throwing daggers,” Simone said. “My father was adamant that I grow up civilized.”
“What an odd thing to say,” Anette remarked.
Simone slipped the dagger into the folds of her gown. “My mother was Scottish and sometimes I wonder if my father was embarrassed by her heritage.”
“There is nothing wrong with being Scottish.”
“I agree, but my father was furious when my mother gave me a dagger for my eighth birthday,” Simone shared. “He didn’t think it was an appropriate gift for a genteel young woman.”
Anette gave her a knowing look. “He wasn’t wrong. It is not commonplace for a lady to know how to throw daggers.”
“Perhaps, but it is a skill that has come in rather handy,” Simone admitted. “Besides, I like knowing that I can protect myself.”
Anette nodded in agreement. “That is precisely why I carry a muff pistol in my reticule.”
Simone felt the warmth of the sun’s rays as it hung high in the sky, prompting her to adjust the bonnet on her head. “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room for a cup of tea?” she asked.
“That sounds delightful, but I do not wish to overstay my welcome,” Anette replied.
