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Chapter Twenty-Two
Bridget sat at the breakfast table, having convinced Margaret and Lucy only yesterday she was well enough to get out of bed. Her fever had gone, and her shoulder and arm were healing slowly. She’d stayed in bed because she’d developed an annoying habit of bursting into tears without warning. She claimed it was simply frayed nerves from her encounter with Sean MacDonald and his men, but no one except Baron believed her.
Perhaps even he didn’t.
Callahan had taken his money and left without a goodbye. Oh, she supposed he might have given her one, but she couldn’t recall it. She didn’t recall much after she’d been shot. Although the feel of Callahan’s arms on her and the scent of him as he held her close was pressed indelibly into her memory.
She knew he’d gone to Town to finish the mission. She also knew he had no reason to ever come back. Not even to report to Baron. The leader of the Royal Saboteurs had left three days ago for London, claiming his wife missed him. Bridget suspected it had more to do with a mission, specifically Callahan Kelly’s mission. For if Callahan wouldn’t come to Baron, Baron would go to him.
And when Bridget lifted the paper someone had left on the corner of the breakfast table and read the second page, she’d known she was correct.
The door to the room opened, and Bridget scowled at Margaret and Lucy.
“Toast burnt?” Margaret asked warily.
Lucy lifted her hands defensively. “Whatever it is, we haven’t done it.”
“What do you have to say about this?” Bridget jabbed at the paper.
“Oh!” Lucy reached for it. “Are there any new descriptions of the Queen’s latest fashions?”
Bridget snatched the paper back, and Lucy sank into a chair, her bottom lip jutting out. “This has nothing to do with the Queen. Are you saying you don’t know about Westminster Cathedral?”
Margaret sat and poured tea. “What is there to know about it?”
“Innishfree tried to burn it down.”
“Innishfree?” Lucy paused in stirring her tea. “The Irish group you tried to thwart?” She held out her hand for the paper. “The Times names them?”
“Of course, the paper doesn’t name them!” She handed the crumpled pages to Lucy. “But it’s them. See for yourself.” Lucy read the article rapidly, Margaret standing and reading over her shoulder. When she’d finished, Lucy looked up. “I think you’re right.”
“I’ve read dozens of articles like this in Baron’s service. The Saboteurs never leave any evidence of what we’ve—they’ve—done, but I’d say it’s clear enough we stopped this attempt.”
“The scorched wall and smoke couldn’t be disguised,” Margaret said. “But I agree that it seems highly unlikely it was youthful mischief or that the culprits would have waited after they set the fire for the police force to arrive.”
“Callahan and whoever Baron had working with him turned them in,” Bridget said. “Notice how the writer makes certain to point out the men blamed for the mischief are Irish.”
“That could simply be prejudice. The Irish are blamed for everything these days.” Margaret took her seat again. “There’s one sure way to know the truth.”
“What’s that?” Lucy asked. Then her eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Ask Baron when he returns,” Bridget said. “I will, of course.” And she wouldn’t cry when she said Callahan’s name, either. She’d known he would leave. Tears wouldn’t change anything. And she had her work and her life here. She was perfectly happy without him.
It’s just that she was perfectly blissful with him.
“Will you ever tell us what happened?” Lucy asked. “Where did you and Cal go? What was your mission?”
Bridget shook her head. “You know I can’t talk about that.”
Lucy leaned forward, her eyes bright with interest. “But you can say what happened between the two of you. Did he kiss you? Did he do more than kiss you?”
“Lucy!” Margaret chided her, but it was halfhearted. “You mustn’t press her. She’ll tell us when and if she’s ready.” She turned her hopeful gaze on Bridget.
Bridget rose. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”
“It’s cold and drizzling outside,” Lucy called after her.
“I won’t stay out long.”
