Chapter Five
Lady Beatrice Hatherleigh stirred her morning tea with deliberate grace, the soft clink of silver on porcelain echoing through the quiet of her study.
Sunlight filtered through lace curtains.
She lifted the cup to her lips, took a sip—then frowned delicately.
Cold. How she despised cold tea. And it was the young footman’s fault before her.
The saying “Don’t shoot the messenger” was one with which she did not agree.
This country was not built on the weak or the stupid.
Britain had not ruled seas and empires by indulging incompetence; it had been forged by resolve—by those willing to do what others would not.
This man, she had noticed during his time under her employ, did not follow her instructions precisely.
He was not supposed to bring notes to her directly.
Especially not during breakfast, and not when she was in her private study.
He was also showing far too much interest in her business affairs.
Before the man in front of her could even blink, Lady Beatrice lifted one elegant, wrinkled hand. A bolt of fire burst forth, striking him squarely in the chest. He slumped to the floor without so much as a gasp. She was merciful, after all.
Unruffled, she lifted her china cup and held it as a commoner might—being made to wait for her morning tea was inexcusable.
Her palms glowed faintly, the porcelain warming beneath her touch, until steam rose once more.
She then held the teacup the way one should once more.
When she took another sip, it was perfect—just the way she liked it.
“Hargreaves,” she called.
Her butler appeared promptly, as she knew he would. “You called, my lady?”
“Please take the body away.”
He bowed his head stoically and, with a practiced motion, summoned moisture, which gathered beneath the body. He froze it in an instant, then used sublimation enhancement so effervescent that it pushed the ice off the ground. The body rose on the icy platform.
Lady Beatrice watched with quiet appreciation. She had always admired Hargreaves’s precision—so clean, so efficient.
Silently, her butler left with the body. It was a shame footmen were hard to come by in the current climate with the war effort. It couldn’t be helped, though, and with her wealth, she would find a replacement soon enough.
On the desk before her lay the latest report. The ink was still fresh, the message brief.
Professor Isla Cole—alive.
Information—unrecovered.
Despite her displeasure, a smile ghosted over Beatrice’s lips. “So the little scholar survives,” she murmured. “From all I’ve read, I like her.”
She set down her cup and moved a single chess piece across the board that sat beside her correspondence—a black queen gliding forward into open territory. “But every move has its counter,” she whispered to herself.
Patience had always been her virtue, and her weapon. Beatrice would wait, watch the board, and when the moment came, she would control the next move. After all, in business as in war, tactical precision was key. Isla Cole might have escaped this time, but every pawn could be cornered eventually.