Chapter 10
Blake had been attempting to find another opportunity to speak with Evie alone, but her alias as a housemaid in a very busy home-turned-hospital afforded little chance. At every turn, someone else appeared or Evie found a way to slip away from him.
But he needed answers.
From what she’d said so far, he wagered she knew more about the entire Midnight Angel business than he did, and he needed her intelligence to help catch the traitor.
And make Havensbrooke safe for Grace again.
Or as safe as any place near Grace Percy could be with her proclivity for collecting real-life mysteries and near-death encounters.
And as much as he hoped his instincts led him true, he believed Evie was not working against him so much as for her own purposes—which could ultimately benefit his mission if they could combine forces.
But the question remained: What led her to emerge from her self-imposed exile now? Here?
He’d love to flatter himself and think she came for him, but that made the least sense of all. A fool’s hope. And when it came to her, he felt very much the fool at present.
As far as the mystery-spy business?
Pennington and Smith were both suspect, but Smith certainly seemed more aligned with Blake’s work.
And as far as the Crawford connection with Pennington?
Blake vaguely recalled his grandfather speaking of some footman who’d gotten away with some costly thievery or some such notion, but he had no memory of anything specific.
But Smith? And Nurse Wilson? Or Rivers?
His jaw tightened. Wilson’s position made a perfect placement for a spy: her access to patients, her control of information flowing in and out of the hospital, her ability to manage which patients went where and who cared for them.
It was an impeccable cover.
And if Wilson or Rivers was paying particular attention to a man clearly living a subterfuge, then Blake needed to investigate him at once.
Or the area in which the man seemed most interested in exploring.
The west wing.
Likely, Wilson had a partner, and Smith was it. So after everyone was thought to be in bed, it was exactly where he went. If he could confront and stop one of the traitors, it would cripple the other.
Perhaps make her desperate enough to show her hand.
He’d barely entered the long gallery on the second floor when the slightest sound of a door opening reached his ears. He knew the rooms well enough to recognize the darkened alcove, so without making a sound, he slid back into the shadows of a large wardrobe and waited.
Evie emerged through the doorway into the long, unused room, her maid’s uniform failing to hide the curves and lines of her silhouette. A lovely portrait, actually. His breath contracted, chest squeezing.
He cared for her.
More than he ought for someone who could very well kill him as much as kiss him. Regrettably, she’d attempted the former much more than the latter.
They’d played the part of lovers before. Several times, in fact. He knew the touch of her body against his, the intoxicating allure of having her arms and perfume surrounding him.
And somewhere between the playacting and banter and long nights completing a mission together, she’d become … more.
Dash it all! He sent another gaze heavenward. It was a curious thing how God took Blake’s plans and reconfigured them into shocking alternatives. Blake’s gaze moved back to Evie. Though she was a shockingly beautiful and clever alternative, he must admit.
Even if lethal.
He released a soundless sigh. How ironic. He’d spent days attempting to get her alone, and she’d come to him.
His lips curved. Another providential turn?
She took stealthy steps across the carpeted floor, moonlight streaming through tall windows illuminating and then shadowing her as she crossed the space.
Why was she here? Tonight?
Had she heard about Smith too? Spied him with Grace in the garden, perhaps?
Or—his face went cold—was she here to meet Smith?
No, no, no! Please, Lord, don’t let her be a traitor too.
He surveyed the long gallery again, noting a closet at each end, several ancient pieces of furniture, two massive dormant fireplaces, and a rug stretching from one end to the other, the entire space framed by some of Blake’s more dour-faced ancestors.
And of course an impressive set of wood doors that led to the exit.
The room gave no further hint of anyone else thus far.
Just her.
A clock chimed in the distance. The bracket clock in the green sitting room, if he remembered correctly. Thus far, Evie gave no signal that she suspected his presence, her attention far too focused on the set of double doors.
Intentionally, he allowed his hand to brush the nearest curtain as he stepped forward, the sound a whisper of cloth against carpet in the stillness.
Evie stopped, the glint of a knife appearing at her side. And for some reason, his grin spread wider. He truly hoped she wasn’t a traitor, because he really did like her.
Rather more than was sensible.
“I know you’re there,” she said, slowly turning around. “Your tradecraft is slipping, Blake.”
“My tradecraft is perfectly adequate.” Blake stepped into the open room, the distance between them and the night shadows obscuring her expression. “I didn’t want to surprise you too much. It usually doesn’t end well, if I recall.”
She moved forward in front of one of the windows, the moonlight half illuminating her face enough for him to notice the curve of her lips. “Are you still nursing a grudge about that little scar on your arm? I did apologize.”
“True. And it always made me think of you when we were apart.” He took a step nearer, his attention alert to any other movement in the room. Any other sound. “Curved like a smile and a little rough around the edges.”
Her grin wavered, her stance relaxing a fraction. “It’s a wonder I haven’t succumbed to your wooing before now with such arresting compliments.”
“It’s a pity I’ve had to waste my powers of seduction on much less exalted quarry.” He took another step. “But since we’ve always been on the same side …”
“Disappointing, really. Should have liked to see how well I fared beneath such adoration.” She closed the distance between them, watching him with the same alertness he showed her. “And … are we still on the same side?”
“That depends.” His next step brought him within ten feet of her. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here on assignment.”
“Really?” Blake’s hand moved casually toward his own concealed weapon. “And what assignment would that be? Last I checked, and I did check thoroughly, you’ve gone rogue. Simply … vanished.”
Something flickered across her face—pain perhaps, or anger—before the mask slipped back into place. “I had my reasons.”
“I’m sure you did.” Blake’s voice dropped lower. “The question is whether those reasons involve betraying your country.”
Her eyes flashed. “I am not the traitor.”
“Your actions would suggest otherwise.” He moved forward.
“If I were your traitor, you would be dead by now.” She raised an arrogant little brow that nearly inspired his grin again.
Which was likely true. So what was she hiding? “Then why are you here?” His body grew rigid in preparation for the confrontation. “Why take up a disguise in a manor house where you know a traitor works?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I’ve chosen to give up spying and take up domestic service?” Something flared in her eyes. “It’s almost the same, isn’t it? Treated as indispensable. Taking orders without recourse.”
He narrowed his eyes in answer. What was that about? “As I recall, you had very little interest in domestic life.”
“People change.” She shifted her weight, readying her body for an attack, he guessed. “Some are forced into change.”
Her words sliced through him. “And exactly how much have you changed?” He held her gaze. “Enough to threaten the lives of thousands of soldiers to the highest bidder?” He needed to force her hand, loosen her emotions. “Like brother, like sister?”
“I am not my brother.”
“Last I saw, you left right alongside him, abandoning me to a bloody shoulder and a sinking ship.”
“You know nothing.” Her jaw twitched. Her eyes held almost a wildness to them.
Ah yes. He readied himself. There was something wounded behind her defenses. Something he needed to poke at to get to the truth because—blast it all—she was devilishly good at keeping her composure.
Or always had been.
“I know you’re a coward … or so it seems.” He took a deliberate step closer. “I know you ran when things became—what should we call it—complicated?”
Her hands clenched at her sides.
“And I know,” he continued, infusing enough sarcasm into his voice to inspire her ire all the more, “that whatever excuse you’ve concocted for yourself these past months—whatever pretty lie you’ve been telling yourself to sleep at night—it doesn’t change the fact that you chose your traitor brother over your country. ”
“Stop—”
“Does the truth sting? Or is it easier to play house and pretend you were never Agent Montgomery at all? That you didn’t nearly kill me?”
Her breath hitched. “I saved your life.”
“By leaving me to die?” He scoffed. “I do wonder—did you ever think of me? Did you wonder if I’d bled out while clinging to debris?
If I even made it off the ship?” His voice turned cold, each phrase a calculated cut.
“Or was it just some amusing story you and your brother laughed about afterward? ‘Remember that fool Blake? Wonder if the sharks got him.’”
Her face went white.
“I never thought you were so much like your brother until then.”
She came at him like a bolt of lightning.
Fast—faster than their first encounter in the servants’ corridor—and this time there was no restraint. No testing. Something powerful fueled her. Was it guilt? Fury due to her brother’s betrayal?
Grief?
Whatever the source, it was all aimed at him now.