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The barrels had holes in them, and the damage appeared to have been intentionally made because such holes did not appear by themselves.
“Who was present at the time of delivery?” Harry squatted in front of a barrel and inserted his finger into one of the holes, determining that a sharp and round instrument must have been used.
“It was I, Your Grace,” Mr. Gage, one of the brewery workers, said, stepping forward with his hat in his hand and his head bowed. “They weren’t like this when they arrived, Your Grace. They were intact.”
“Then, what happened?” Harry ensured he asked the question slowly. His blood was beginning to heat, and that choler that he swore Bridget would never become acquainted with started to rise, the taste acrid on his tongue.
“I closed the cellar and went for the morning meal at my cottage. Found them like this on my return.”
“Are you certain you locked the cellar?”
Mr. Gage frowned as though he was trying to recall. “I believe I did, Your Grace.” He straightened his shoulders and repeated, louder, “I am sure I locked the cellar.”
Harry turned to Meyer. “When did you see them first?”
“At mid-morning,” Meyer replied. “I went to Grayfield to find you the moment I discovered the damage.”
Harry turned to Gage. “You are certain they were intact when they arrived?” At the man’s nod, he declared, “Then someone we are familiar with committed this act.” He nodded for Meyer to follow him as he marched out of the cellar. Once outside and certain they were out of earshot, he said, “Arrange for these barrels to be replaced and change the cellar locks. Make only three keys. Give one to Gage, keep one with you, and I will have the other. We shall soon know who is behind this.”
Harry was also devising a plan that only he would be aware of. Meyer was an excellent steward, but if his ventures were being bungled, no one could be trusted.
“Very good, Your Grace.” Meyer bowed, and Harry turned on his heel to return to Grayfield.
The skies were quickly darkening as though to reflect the shift in his mood. Glancing up, he cursed, and a second later, a deluge came to punish him for blaspheming. By the time he reached the castle, his greatcoat was soaked with rain, and there was a small waterfall on the brim of his hat. Lander immediately opened the door, collecting his hat and coat.
Harry made his way to his study, saying over his shoulder, “I have a missive to send immediately.”
Lander followed him, stoically standing near the door until Harry finished writing, dried the ink, and sealed the letter. Then he stepped forward to receive it.
“Have a messenger ride out to deliver this and wait for a response,” Harry said. He could not risk sending such a letter through the post. Besides, the recipient would not appreciate it.
“At once, Your Grace,” Lander said before leaving the room.
Harry sat back in his chair, his hand rising to touch his wounded eye, which now fiercely pulsed along with his heartbeat. His discomfort grew, and his hand moved to the leather strap that held the patch behind his head, tugging until it gave and the patch fell from his face.
Tentatively, his finger skimmed the mangled line of flesh on the right side of his face, tracing it to his jaw and then coming back to rest on his eye. It would be cruel to show Bridget this part of his face. He knew how curious she was but he would never willingly show her.
Footsteps outside his study made him quickly tie the patch back on and sit straight in his chair. After a moment when a knock did not come at his door, he sighed and pulled one of the sheets on his desk toward him, the brewery plans.
Bridget took a slow breath before raising her hand to Harry’s study door, knocking softly.
“Yes?” came his voice from within. She opened the door, then turned to Sarah, who was behind her holding a salver. Bridget tugged at the sash of her brocade robe before taking the tray from Sarah, returning the encouraging smile she gave her.
Harry’s eye widened when he saw her, and he rose from his chair, his gaze on what she had revealed beneath her robe. She kicked the door shut with the heel of her slipper and smiled at him, her heartbeat slowly rising. He had removed the deep blue evening coat he had worn to dinner, and was only in his shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a waistcoat, providing her with a good view of his perfectly formed torso. Her cheeks warmed and her fingers ached to wander the expanse of his broad chest and powerful shoulders.
“Why are you carrying that yourself?” He came to take the tray from her, setting it down on a lacquered table between the two chairs in front of the hearth. “We have servants.”
Bridget smiled. “Yes, but I wish to bring this to you alone.” She leaned to pick up a teacup, making sure he could see the swell of her bosom through her thin nightrail, then poured some of the mint tea she had brewed herself with Sarah’s help. There was nothing she wanted more than to help him, even if it was through giving him tea that might help him sleep better tonight.
She added some whiskey into the cup, and without bothering with a saucer, straightened to face him. He immediately averted his gaze, but not before she glimpsed the hunger within.
“Harry,” she said softly, pleased he had seen what she wished him to see, “there should be no shame between a man and his wife.”
He looked at her, a slow grin brightening his countenance. “Very clever. What is that?” He turned his attention to the cup in her grip.
“It is mint and whiskey.” She proffered the cup.
He was still grinning when he took it. “Thank you.”
