Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
“The art of war is of vital importance to the state. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or to ruin. Hence it is a subject of inquiry which can on no account be neglected.”
Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)
They dined in the breakfast room, a smaller and more inviting chamber than the formal dining room, which felt better suited to ancestral portraits and awkward silences than pleasant conversation. Brendan had always preferred its cozy dimensions and the warmth offered by the smaller hearth.
To his surprise, he found that he was enjoying Lily’s company. He had never spent much time with a woman, excluding his mother and sister in his youth, when he was not pursuing an agenda of seduction.
The widows he had courted had been lively and alluring, but their charms had eventually paled.
Once desire was spent, all that remained was a weariness he could never quite explain.
Lady Slight, for instance, was undeniably attractive, yet ultimately empty of meaningful discourse.
Her conversations revolved entirely around the peerage, dressmakers, and social scheming.
He could scarcely recall anything she had said that was not rooted in self-importance.
Lily, on the other hand, was wholly unexpected.
She was curious, candid, and animated by genuine interest in the world around her.
At first, her tendency to prattle had overwhelmed him, but now he recognized the intelligence beneath her chatter, her words weaving through ideas and questions with unselfconscious delight.
Across the candlelit table, her face glowed with good humor as she recounted her afternoon adventures through the draughty halls of Ridley House.
He listened as she described faded tapestries, uneven carpets, and portraits that seemed determined to glower at every passerby.
Her eyes sparkled when she described discovering a hidden linen closet, as though she had stumbled upon a secret room in a novel.
The flicker of candlelight caught the golden tones in her hair and the soft curve of her cheek.
She seemed to grow more at ease with him as they talked, and he found himself leaning forward, engaged and wholly attentive. Her conversation carried more weight than one might expect when met with the rapid stream of words. It was thoughtful, sincere, and, increasingly endearing.
He thought fleetingly of their kiss earlier that day.
The shared stillness, the connection. The way she had looked at him afterward.
There was something deeply appealing about her openness, her eagerness to engage with life, and her unexpected courage.
He wondered what it might be like to share a future with someone so spirited.
He realized with a start that she had gone quiet and was watching him expectantly.
“I … am sorry. What did you say?”
Lily’s brows drew together slightly, her expression puzzled. “I asked if you would like dessert?”
He smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing. Reaching across the table, he gently covered her ungloved hand with his own, the gesture warm and deliberate.
“I would, indeed,” he said softly.
Her head tilted, her lips parting slightly as she processed the tone of his voice. “What … oh.” A flush bloomed across her cheeks and crept along her throat. She waved a hand as if to dispel the moment.
He was utterly charmed.
Brendan found himself beginning to understand why Richard had so willingly given up his freedoms to marry Lady Saunton, a woman of intelligence and formidable spirit.
There was something remarkably grounding about forming a partnership with a woman of depth and heart.
He had never thought to look so close to home.
His wife was, after all, Lady Saunton’s cousin.
If he had not dragged his heels for so long over the notion of matrimony, he might have discovered this delightful companion sooner.
She was far more engaging than any of the young ladies who had ever vied for his attention, and he looked forward to their wedding night together despite his earlier reservations.
JULY 30, 1821
Brendan awoke with a start. A sharp crash had pierced the silence of night, and now the sound of racing footsteps echoed beyond his chamber. It had not been a dream.
Lily lay nestled against him, warm and serene in the crook of his arm, her breath teasing against his chest in a slow, contented rhythm. Careful not to wake her, he gently eased her onto her side, drawing the coverlet up over her shoulder as he slipped from the bed.
The air was still and faintly perfumed with honey. Brendan pulled on his trousers, then reached for the nearest object with weight, an ornate brass candlestick resting on a nearby commode. Its polished surface felt cold in his hand.
Crossing the room in bare feet, he eased open the connecting door. Even now, after days in residence, it still felt unnatural to be sleeping here, in the late Viscount Ridley’s rooms. But Brendan had claimed the suite in preparation for Lily’s arrival, determined to move forward.
The corridor beyond was cloaked in darkness, but a faint draft stirred the hairs on his forearms. Standing in the adjoining chamber, he noted that the door to the hall stood ajar. His pulse quickened.
Then, a sudden flare of light caught his eye. His valet, Peterson, had entered and lit the oil lamp on the escritoire. The light flickered unevenly, casting elongated shadows across the chamber’s paneled walls.
Both men blinked against the sudden glare before turning to take in the damage, a broken ceramic jug lay in jagged fragments near the washstand, glistening with spilled water.
Beside it, a chest of drawers hung open, its contents half-spilled in disarray—undershirts, cravats, and one of Brendan’s cravat pins glinting in the lamplight.
Brendan stepped back and quietly pulled Lily’s door closed behind him. “Someone took advantage of my wedding night to search my room,” he said, his voice pitched low with fury.
Peterson, a meticulous man in his fifties, rubbed the back of his neck, eyes scanning the wreckage. “It would appear so, milord.”
Brendan exhaled heavily, massaging his temples as a dull throb flared once more behind his eyes. “I must have forgotten to lock the door when I came up.”
“I apologize, sir. I ought to have checked after you …” Peterson’s eyes flicked toward the closed door to Lily’s room.
“We shall need to take more care, Peterson.”
His valet nodded grimly, his mouth a thin, tight line.
Briggs’s suspicions that either a murderer or a traitor had entered Brendan’s household now rang with grim truth. Someone had been here. Someone with purpose. And the threat was no longer abstract.
Lily had brought light and laughter into Ridley House, scattering the old gloom like morning sun upon shuttered rooms. She had become everything he had not known he was missing, an embodiment of hope.
If she were harmed because of his failure to protect her, Brendan would never forgive himself.
It was time to act.
Deliberately. Without delay. Before the shadows crept any closer to the one person who now mattered more than his own life.
Lily gradually awakened, a soft smile playing on her lips as she stretched her limbs beneath the fine linen sheets.
Her entire body hummed with contentment.
Her plans to distract Brendan from Lady Slight had gone rather better than expected.
In fact, if she were any judge, they were well on their way to falling in love and making their union a genuine match.
She rolled to her side, reaching for him, only to meet cool, empty bedding. The spot beside her was long vacated.
He had left?
A spark of unease flickered to life in her belly as she sat up.
Pale morning light filtered through the drawn curtains, casting softened gold across the room’s muted furnishings.
Judging by the angle of the sun and the hush in the corridor beyond, it was still quite early.
Perhaps he had simply gone to his chamber to prepare for the day?
Slipping from the bed, her bare feet met the plush pile of the Aubusson carpet with a muffled thud.
She found her night rail discarded over the back of a chair, the silk now cool to the touch.
Pulling it on, she padded quickly across the room and knocked once at the connecting door before pushing it open.
Brendan’s room was dim, the curtains only partially drawn. It was tidy and undisturbed, bed made, clothing hung—no indication of recent use. Lily bit her lip. It was the first morning of their marriage. After such a night, she had envisioned a long, languorous morning with her husband by her side.
Perhaps he is eating breakfast?
Sighing, she returned to her room and rang for the maid.
The soft tinkle of the bell was followed by quick footsteps in the corridor.
Her ablutions were brief, and soon, her hair had been arranged in a loose knot, her morning gown of soft muslin fitted over her stays.
Within a quarter-hour, she was ready to seek out her errant husband.
She flung open the door and promptly stumbled back with a yelp. A hulking figure stood in the hallway, half shrouded in gloom.
“Do not be concerned, milady. I am here to protect you.”
Her heart pounded, but she steadied herself and squinted into the shadowed corridor.
The man was large and broad-shouldered, clad in a battered overcoat with frayed cuffs.
He bore the air of someone more accustomed to alleyways than drawing rooms, and his expression, though lacking menace, resembled a grotesque leering from a gothic arch, intended to ward off mischief.
“Who are you?”
The man cleared his throat, as though unused to conversation. “You may call me John.”
Lily raised a brow. “John?”
“That is correct, milady.”