Chapter 12
Blake walked down the corridor toward the morning room, steeling himself for the inevitable confrontation with Lady Astley about last night’s events. God help him, whatever she’d overheard or concluded would undoubtedly lead to questions he wasn’t entirely prepared to answer.
Though his newest discovery about Wilson only secured her place as prime suspect.
All roads led to Wilson.
And that angel necklace? Simply icing on an already condemning cake. Almost flaunting her role.
As Blake passed the smaller ward—formerly the music room—Nurse Rivers’ bright voice drifted through the doorway. He slowed his pace.
“And you see, that’s exactly what worries me about Gerald,” she was saying, her tone thick with concern. “My brother. He writes so little about what’s actually happening. Just ‘we’re moving positions’ or ‘the weather is dreadful.’ Mother is beside herself with worry.”
“Can’t say much in letters, miss,” came Corporal Davies’ gravelly Welsh accent. “Censors cut out anything useful. Half my letters home look like Swiss cheese, they do.”
“I know the censors are only doing their job.” Rivers sighed heavily.
“But Gerald mentioned he was being moved to a new sector—somewhere near Loos, I think—and I haven’t heard from him in over a week.
The newspapers say there’s going to be a major offensive there soon.
” Her voice quivered. “I just keep imagining … Well, I see so much here. It’s difficult not to worry. ”
“Now, now, miss,” Davies said gently. “Your brother’s got proper training, ain’t he?”
Blake’s attention sharpened. Loos. The offensive scheduled for late September. How did she know about it with such certainty? Though, to be fair, the newspapers had been speculating about Loos for weeks. It wasn’t exactly a state secret that something was brewing there.
“Yes, Sandhurst. Top marks.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was smaller, more vulnerable. “Gerald wrote about preparations for a major push. Stockpiling ammunition, moving up artillery. Does that mean it’s coming soon? Oh, it sounds dreadful.”
Blake frowned. That was considerably more specific than newspaper speculation. But Rivers could have gleaned such details from her brother’s letters—officers sometimes wrote more than they should, especially to worried family members who wouldn’t understand the sensitivity of such information.
Still.
“Miss Rivers,” Davies said carefully. “You might want to be cautious asking too many questions. Not saying you mean any harm, understand, but there’s folks who’d think it odd.”
“Oh!” Rivers sounded genuinely mortified. “I’m so sorry, Corporal. I just worry so dreadfully about him. We all do.”
“Of course you do, miss. Natural as breathing.”
“But you’re quite right.” Her voice trembled. “I never meant to pry. It’s only that he’s so far away, and the not knowing is simply awful—” Her words broke off into what sounded like a suppressed sob.
“There, there, dear girl.” The affection in Davies’ gruff voice was unmistakable. Blake could easily imagine the old soldier patting her hand in paternal comfort. “You’ve done no harm. Just a sister worried for her brother, that’s all.”
Blake heard Rivers thank the corporal again, her footsteps approaching the doorway. He resumed his walk with studied casualness, nodding pleasantly as she emerged, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
She was asking questions, certainly. But weren’t half the women in Britain doing the same?
The hospital wards were full of anxious visitors trying to understand what their men were enduring, attempting to piece together information about where their loved ones might be stationed.
Listening to every news report to guess at movements and safety.
Wilson, on the other hand, had everything: the German connection, the angel symbolism, the Russian document, the pattern of her duty shifts matching the intelligence leaks perfectly.
Blake needed to discuss his newest findings and concerns with Evie. Get her assessment of Rivers. Because something about the young nurse nagged at him—some instinct he couldn’t quite articulate.
And that uncertainty, that tiny seed of doubt, was the most dangerous thing in intelligence work.
As soon as he reached the morning room, however, his unease shifted entirely.
Through the partially open door came the sound of familiar laughter.
Not a woman’s laugh. Nor a child’s.
Freddie’s.
Relief crashed over Blake with such force that he had to pause, one palm pressed against the wall for support.
He knew the casualty statistics. Read them in cold, clinical reports that never quite conveyed the devastating human cost. The glowing optimism of a quick war had long since withered into brutal reality.
The losses were staggering.
So the fact that his cousin—his dearest friend—was home and laughing …
Well. That meant everything.
Blake drew in a steadying breath and pushed open the door.
Three heads turned toward him. His gaze went immediately to Frederick, surveying the bandages wrapped around his eyes, the weariness etched into his features, the way he held himself with that particular stillness of a man adjusting to darkness in a world he’d once navigated with such certainty.
But he was smiling.
Blake’s throat tightened. “Well.” He forced lightness into his voice despite his growing emotion. “The conquering hero returns, I see.”
“Blake?” Freddie’s head turned sharply toward his voice. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Recovering, supposedly.” Blake moved into the room, his manufactured limp on full display.
His gaze shifted to Grace, who merely raised a brow, but the gleam in those blue eyes was irrepressible.
Oh, dear heavens. The woman might keep her lips closed, but her expression gave almost everything away.
Perhaps it was a mercy Frederick couldn’t see at the moment.
“Though I must say, Havensbrooke proves rather more exciting with your lovely wife at the helm.”
Frederick’s grin spread, and his hand moved to touch Grace’s, a connection so natural and tender it caused Blake’s chest to squeeze.
He’d been privileged to witness their romance from its tumultuous beginning, and seeing them together still—despite war, despite distance, despite everything—was a reminder that some things remained not only worth fighting for but worth living for.
“I can only imagine,” Frederick said dryly. “She never fails to fill every letter with interesting tales.”
Oh, Freddie hadn’t heard the best yet.
“There is so much to tell,” Grace interjected with barely contained enthusiasm, “but not until you’re properly settled and Dr. Ross gives me leave to excite your imagination, my dear Lord Astley.
” She sent Blake a bright grin, joy practically radiating from her.
“I’m certain we could use your ready mind to help with some of the adventures. ”
Oh dear, Blake thought at the same moment Frederick spoke the words aloud, though his cousin wore a grin.
Blake hadn’t worked up to smiling yet, especially at the thought of Grace enlisting Frederick in this whole dangerous mess while the man couldn’t even see.
Perhaps he ought to temper Grace’s excitement a bit on that score.
Zahra smiled up at him from Frederick’s side. “Mr. Blake was wounded at the Front, Papa. But he is much better now. Mama has been taking very good care of him.”
Something in the way she said it—perfectly innocent but somehow loaded with meaning—made Blake’s lips twitch. The girl was far too observant by half.
Rather like her mother.
“Has she indeed?” Frederick tipped his head in Blake’s direction. “She’s very good at that sort of thing, isn’t she?”
“I’m afraid I’m an extremely poor patient, however.” Blake narrowed his eyes at Grace in playful challenge.
“Exactly,” Grace returned without missing a beat. “One would think he’s not wounded at all from the amount of activity he insists upon.” She raised her brows to him, proving she could take his teasing without difficulty. “Very mysterious behavior for a man supposedly recuperating.”
“How shocking,” Frederick murmured. “Blake being uncooperative and mysterious. I’m positively stunned.”
Blake shot him a look that Frederick, naturally, couldn’t see but would certainly feel. “Some of us prefer not to burden others with the tedious details of our suffering.”
Frederick laughed—a sound that struck Blake square in the heart.
Safe. Even if wounded.
And to keep him safe, perhaps Blake should temper his wife’s ready desire to divulge every bit of information she knew and some she surmised, perhaps wrongly.
Brandon appeared at the doorway, his timing impeccable as always. “Pardon my interruption, but Dr. Ross has arrived to see you, my lord.”
“Ah, that is my cue to step out and find a place to rest from my wounds.” Blake offered a slight bow but caught Grace’s gaze as he rose. “Lady Astley, might I have a word regarding your trip into town tomorrow?”
Grace’s eyes widened before she stood. “Oh, of course.” She squeezed Frederick’s hand. “I’ll see Dr. Ross in, Frederick.”
“Thank you, darling,” he said, but there was something in the set of his mouth that Blake couldn’t quite interpret. Frustration, perhaps. And why wouldn’t there be, given the uncertainty of his vision?
Blake offered his arm and led Grace to the door, lowering his voice.
“And we need to find a lengthier time to talk about last night.” They stepped outside in the hallway, Blake closing the door behind him.
“Because I can only imagine what scenarios you’ve constructed in that formidable imagination of yours. ”
“Only what I heard, I assure you,” she shot back with a lift of her chin.
“Though I did miss portions when the fighting became more intense, likely because it was so gloriously distracting. I had no idea people actually fought like that outside of novels. Now I shall read those scenes with much more clarity.”