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Rafe never really expected to fall in love. His parents’ union had been such a rare and precious thing that it seemed impossible he could ever be as devoted to someone as his father had been to his mother. And even their happy marriage had not been free of scandal, sacrifice, and pain. His career choice had also acted as a rather large deterrent for any possible relationship. And he had never minded in the slightest. But now, for the first time in his thirty-one years, Rafe was actually interested in trying. With her.
I wasn’t worth the risk.
His chest grew tight once again at the mere memory of her words. It was the surety in her voice that had most angered him. Rafe thought he hid it from her fairly well, but the truth was as soon as he got back to London, he would track down this Bernard bastard and ruin his life. Though he was glad to learn more of her past, he sensed she was still holding some things back from him, like the length of her friendship with the viscountess, but he could find out more in time if need be, with or without her.
Because you are a bloodyspy.
Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose. If he did intend to have a future with this woman, he would have to tell hersomethingabout the nature of his work. Though he wasn’t sure how much he could reveal, or how she would react. But leaving Crown service simply wasn’t an option. Not when he was on the cusp of something that could transform British intelligence for the better and lead to greater things for them both. Surely even Sylvia would see the value in that. Eventually. Rafe then laughed to himself. He had fallen for a damned radical. Well, she couldn’t be that zealous if she could overlook the fact that he was the son of an earl.
Rafe straightened and renewed his focus. Sylvia was a safe enough distance away now that he could be seen in the area without drawing unnecessary attention. Besides, he had a gardener to interrogate. Rafe quickly located the man Sylvia called “Brodie.” He was inspecting a herbaceous border nearby that had seen better days. He wasn’t solely motivated by the urge to protect Sylvia from all vaguely suspicious persons. This man was likely a local and could potentially provide him with valuable information. But all rationality vanished as soon as the man turned around.
“What were you doing talking to Miss Sparrow?” Rafe demanded.
Brodie appeared unsurprised by both his appearance and his ire. “Good afternoon, sir. Mr. Davies, is it?”
Rafe narrowed his eyes. “Stop stalling and answer the question.”
The corner of Brodie’s mouth lifted. “She was in great danger of walking into a thorn bush. I provided some assistance.”
Athornbush? Rafe bit back the urge to tell Brodie to stay the hell away from her. He didn’t want to act like an overbearing brute, and Sylvia did seem quite able to manage herself. “All right. If that’s all it was,” he muttered. “How long have you worked at the castle?” He forced the slightest hint of congeniality into his voice, which only amused Brodie further.
The man pushed up the brim of his cap. “Since I was a lad. All the Brodie men have worked the gardens here, going back over a hundred years.”
Rafe grunted. “And you enjoy working for Mr. Wardale?”
Brodie continued to watch him with an open gaze. “He’s a good master, aye.”
“It must have been difficult, though. Having worked for the Chisolm family all your life.”
Brodie shrugged his impressive shoulders. “The old baron was a fine man, but toward the end of his life he could not keep up the property the way it was needed. And his heir did not have the funds. Selling the castle was the best option. I can understand that.”
“But not everyone does, I hear.”
Brodie’s gaze turned thoughtful. “There are some who find the changes harder. They see Mr. Wardale with his money, and fast friends, and motorcars, and feel threatened. But that’s the way of the world now. It won’t stop for any of us.”
Rafe didn’t hide his surprise. “Well said.” Were all gardeners so philosophical, or just the Scottish ones? “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything specific, from those unhappy with the changes Mr. Wardale is suggesting?”
Brodie shook his head. “I canna see why anyone would be angry over plans to improve the village. But there are some who have grumbled about an Englishman coming in, ’tis true. And I can’t say for sure whether it’s only talk. But Mr. Wardale isn’t one of those nobs. He’s made his own fortune.” Brodie’s eyes then widened. “Oh, sorry, sir.”
Rafe laughed. “No apology needed. I, too, admire Mr. Wardale’s drive.”
Brodie nodded his approval. “Soon enough the world will be run by men like him, and we’ll be all the better for it.”
Rafe didn’t exactly share Brodie’s optimism, but he certainly agreed that the future seemed to belong to men like Wardale, not his brother. He then stepped closer and lowered his voice. “If you do hear of anyone grumbling about your master more than usual, would you be so kind as to inform me? Anyone at all. Even one of the guests.”
Brodie raised an eyebrow. But it was good that he was suspicious. The most valuable informants tended to be the reluctant ones. “I suppose. If it will help Mr. Wardale…”
Rafe nodded. “It will.”
After a few more minutes of conversation designed to further solidify Brodie’s trust in him, Rafe headed back to the castle. Between the gardener, Henry, and himself, something was bound to be uncovered that would put Wardale’s mind at ease. Then Rafe could count on his support for his proposal and carry on with the rest of his life. And for the first time, he had something other than work in his future. Yes, it looked quite promising indeed.
***
“It isn’t my best effort, but I suppose it will do,” Georgiana said as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, the very image of a commanding Athena down to her ankle-length tunic, golden sandals, and glinting shield fashioned from a repurposed silver platter.
Sylvia smiled to herself. Georgiana had always been a bit of a perfectionist, and fancy dress parties were no exception. “Well, I think you look absolutely splendid. And Bea did a truly wonderful job on your hair.”
Georgiana lightly touched the thick, coiled tresses braided and pinned into an elaborate bun at the back of her head. “She used a curtain cord from my room. Very clever.” Georgiana then met Sylvia’s eyes in the mirror. “I wish you were coming. Athena could use a nymph.”
