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“I require you to go up to the nursery and guard my son. Do not let him out of your sight and do not, under any circumstances, let him eat anything at all that has not been taste-tested.”
The guard seemed surprised at these instructions but like the good soldier he was, only murmured “Yes, Your Grace,” before hurrying off to do as he was told.
Bertram heaved a sigh before turning towards his own chambers, knowing that there was little else he could do tonight. He dismissed his valet, wanting to be alone. Once he had divested himself of his clothing, he stared up at the ceiling, his thoughts in turmoil.
Someone is trying to kill me and perhaps my son.
The baker is actually a French spy.
I may have developed a tendresse for a French spy!
The words spun round and round in his head, not really making much sense to him. He had no idea where to go with this knowledge or even where to start. His life had been threatened before—theywerein the middle of a war after all—but not in this manner. Not in the way that he was put in the position of questioning the loyalty of his staff. How was he to know who would betray him? Many of his servants were second generation. They had grown up in the grounds of Rose Manor. Now he was to believe that one of them would turn around and kill him?
It is unfathomable.
He sighed, plumping up his pillow and turning to his side as he stared into the darkness. His window was still open and a cold breeze blew through the room.
Did she find shelter or is she out in the elements?
A hot coil of worry spread through his belly as he wondered if Letty was safe.
She’s a spy. She can take care of herself.
No matter what he told himself, the worry would not leave him. With a sigh, he got out of bed and crossed over to his dresser. Taking a sheet of paper, he sat down at the desk and plucked his quill from its holder. The letter had to be written.
It was his duty.
At least when he told Wellington what had transpired, he could truthfully say he had no idea where Letty was now.
* * *
It was hard to get comfortable on the straw mattress that covered the abandoned bed, and the cloak, while warm, was hardly adequate to keep the cold out. She huddled shivering within its folds, unable to relax enough to get to sleep. Staring up at the ceiling, she listened to the wind blow, and wondered if she was imagining the voices she thought she heard in the wind. She blinked, surprised to feel a coldness on her cheeks. She lifted a hand, and felt the moisture on her face.
“Am I crying?” she asked the empty room in surprise.
She touched her face again, feeling the rivulets pouring from her eyes, an unfamiliar sensation to her. She was sure that she must have cried as a small child but could not recall the last time she’d ever done it.
“What is happening to me?” she whispered, sitting up in bed and pulling her legs up to her chest. She placed her chin on her knees, cloak covering her everywhere as her breath hitched and she hiccupped. It was terrifying to have her emotions overwhelm her in such a manner and it was all she could do to just sit there and let them.
As her sobs died down, she shook her head, laying down in a tightly curled position. “God, I never want to go through that again,” she whispered. “I will not.”
She sniffed, turning her face into the hood of her cloak and scrunched her eyes closed. “I just want to sleep.”
With a sigh, she relaxed completely, determined to escape into the arms of Morpheus.
Rays of sunlight brightening the room through the slats on the window woke her up with a start. She looked around, momentarily unsure where she was before memory returned. She shuffled off the bed and stretched luxuriantly before opening the door and walking out to the well. There was a metal pail sitting next to it that she used to fetch some water.
A rustling in the bushes had her turning around, tense and on full alert. A rabbit leapt out of the brush and she started, almost dropping her pail as it hopped away quickly. Her shoulders came down and she huffed in relief and amusement. “You are too tense. You need to calm down.” She murmured to herself as color filled her cheeks in embarrassment. “You cannot be jumping at every sound.”
“Who are you talking to?”
This time she dropped her bucket as she jerked in surprise, whirling around to face the voice. It was a young boy, not much older than George, with a stick in his hand, his face dirty and unkempt.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
He cocked his head to the side as if she was a curious little thing he’d found in the woods. “I’m Joseph. Who are you?”
“I’m no one. What are you doing here?” She didn’t like how shaky her voice was.
