Chapter 10
Ten
Dear Sisters,
Love is not for the innocent. It is in fact for the wicked.
A tool to be used and wielded like a sword on the battlefield.
I was correct in my belief that marriage was not for me, yet I was fool enough to be duped; swayed by a pair of sparkling blue eyes, a beautiful smile, and engaging conversation I believed to be heartfelt.
It was a lie, “a ruse for a magnificent fool who stood still and accepted its cutting blow.” Love is not a fairy tale.
It is a tragedy for any woman na?ve enough to believe the gentlemen of the ton could possibly have the capacity to love.
They do not. They love a woman’s connections and her dowry. Nothing more.
A woman is only a vessel to slake their lust. To torment. Beat. Humiliate. Use. Share. Terrorize. Break.
To scar and utterly destroy…
—A letter started by Lady Caillen Blair and never finished when she realized her sisters wouldn’t understand her quote of Shakespeare.
Only one man would understand, and he was a prisoner in France.
The letter was tossed in the trash and ended up in the hands of a certain gentleman at the War Office.
Upon reading the letter, Sir Williamson decided to keep the footman who recovered the letter in his employ with the Baroness until the Earl of Astley was rescued and could protect her once more.
Acrash outside the floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading to the garden hadn’t even finished resonating before Sir Williamson dropped his hat and belongings and pulled a pistol from his waistcoat. A clay pot lay shattered on the patio as he raced out the door with Simon in pursuit.
Caillen grabbed Simon, clamping down on his forearm, she refused to let go. Even when he nearly dragged her off her feet.
“Caillen, release me,” Simon ordered as he began peeling her fingers from his sleeve.
“You cannot fight. You are too weak.”
His nostrils flared.
“Any other time, I would not say that,” she insisted.
“Then don’t say it now.” He pulled away as the sounds of branches cracking in the garden carried through the open doors.
Grunts and cursing followed as a fight broke out on the other side of the hedge.
Caillen moved to place her body in between Simon and the door, desperate to stop him from putting himself in the middle of the fray.
“Caillen,” he warned before he picked her up and set her aside. He displayed more vigor than she thought him capable.
Suddenly, a young boy’s head emerged from the hedge as if he were being shot out of a cannon, branches snapping and pulling at his cap and clothing.
Sir Williamson’s large form followed as he held the youth three feet off the ground by the scruff of his collar. The boy swung and cursed ineffectually.
“Ow! Blasted giant, let go!”
Sir Williamson’s jacket was torn, and his perfectly combed hair held leaves and debris tangled in its midst. His gait sported a visible limp and his face was a mask of irritation as the boy’s fists swung in the air.
Sir Williamson shook the boy as if he were a vermin-infested jacket, but the boy just continued to swing and kick at his captor.
“Oh, no,” Caillen said.
Ailsa gasped at the same time as recognition set in.
“Robbi!” They yelled as one.
Robbi twisted suddenly and bit Sir Williamson’s wrist, her mouth barely able to widen far enough to get more than just skin.
“Sir Williamson—” Simon started.
It was Ailsa who put an end to the scene as she reared back and delivered the solid punch papa had taught them as young girls. The punch landed considerably lower than the spymaster’s stomach.
Sir Williamson dropped Robbi and doubled over, groaning as he wrapped an arm around his groin and went down on one knee. Simon flinched as if Ailsa had struck him.
“What in the hell…have you been teaching these girls?” Sir Williamson choked out.
“I believe their talents are strictly their own,” Simon said.
“Don’t you ever put your hands on my sister like that again.” Ailsa stood protectively in front of their youngest sister.
“I can handle the likes of him,” Robbi insisted.
“He’s a girl?” Sir Williamson said, clearly surprised.
“Of course he’s a girl. Can’t you see anything out of those cold eyes of yours?” Ailsa asked.
“No one knew I was a girl until you ruined my cover,” Robbi complained.
“She’s not wrong,” Simon said.
“Cor! Did ye see ‘er left hook?” The three children stood in the doorway, Lillie, in front.
“How do you know what a left hook is?” Sébastien asked.
“What is a left hook?” Millie looked between Lillie and Sébastien.
Ailsa turned on Robbi. “I didn’t ruin anything. You blew your own cover by breaking the flowerpot.”
“I could have gotten away,” Robbi pouted.
Simon looked at the children in the doorway. “You three had better run off to the nursery before I start throwing a few left hooks.”
“He’s right-handed and punches like a girl,” Sébastien whispered none too softly.
Simon glared at the boy. “My shoulder was dislocated at the time.”
“But she put ‘im on ‘is knees.” Lillie grinned with feminine pride.
Sir Williamson said, “I’m not on my knees, I’m simply catching my breath.” Then he pointed at Robbi. “And I caught you red-handed.”
“I wasn’t done with you yet,” Ailsa remarked.
Sir Williamson reached over and picked up his hat and other belongings and then slowly got to his feet, standing at his full height once again. The man really was a giant. He combed his unruly hair back from his face and leaves scattered to the floor in its wake. He narrowed his eyes at Ailsa.
“Can we move to the actual drawing room, please?” Simon’s tone brimmed with irritation.
Caillen clapped her hands. “Girls, go to the nursery, now. Sébastien, I expect you to lead the way.” She turned to Simon. “Don’t you think you should make some introductions?”
“If you mean, should I introduce you to the head of the War Office, yes, I suppose I should, but not until we are in the drawing room.”
“Cor!” The girls exclaimed and then ran after Sébastien when Simon gave them a stern look that said there would be more consequences if they did not listen.
“You do that look very well,” Caillen said, a smile twitching at her lips.
“I’ve had years of practice with my siblings.”
“Any suggestions on how to clean up the girl’s language?”
“No. My mother’s method was to make me dance with my sisters. It didn’t work.”
“How wonderful for your sisters.”
“Perhaps…until I stepped on their feet.”
“On purpose?”
“What else was I supposed to do in order to be excused from the task?”
“That’s terrible.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“I was a boy.”
“A terrible boy,” she corrected.
“All boys are terrible,” Robbi piped up as she scooted out from behind Ailsa and edged past Sir Williamson, who was holding out his hand toward the hallway for Ailsa to precede him.
“So, if I make the girls dance with Sébastien, what will you tell him to ensure he doesn’t step on their feet?” Caillen asked.
“Why is Sébastien going to be punished?”
“He’s not being punished.” She insisted.
“Being forced to dance is not a punishment?”
“Are you saying you still view dancing as a punishment?”
“It depends on the lady. My sisters, yes.” Simon winked. “You, absolutely not.”
Caillen bit back a smile and handed him his crutch.
They suddenly became aware of Ailsa standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “Are we interrupting? I thought we were moving to the drawing room?”
“I cannot because you are blocking my ability to cross through the doorway with my crutch.”
Sir Williamson frowned. “You’re using a crutch?”
Caillen addressed Sir Williamson with a defensive tone. “Yes, he’s using a crutch until he gets his strength back.”
“Are you milking this injury for the lady’s attention, Astley?”
He drew back in affront. “Don’t be absurd. I didn’t even know she was still here until this morning.”
“Everyone knows she’s here.”
Simon sighed. “They didn’t know she was here until that blasted paper published that…that…”
“Scandalous etching?” Caillen suggested.
“Wonderful artwork?” Ailsa offered.
Robbi poked her head back in the door. “The rendering that looked nothing like you?”
Simon frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
Caillen thought it was actually a very good likeness of him. Muscular, strong, and singularly commanding.
“Anyone who’s seen you without a shirt knows your chest doesn’t look like that.”
“Robbi!” Caillen exclaimed.
“Why ever not?” Simon asked with more than a little bit of affront.
“Unlike the image in the paper that depicts your body in a smooth, almost polished manner, you have hair all over, and…” she leaned forward and put her hand up to Ailsa’s ear as if to whisper, but Robbi’s voice echoed throughout the chamber. “…he has nipples.”
Simon turned scarlet and pulled the edges of his coat closed, as if to shield himself from her sister’s perusal.
Sir Williamson choked, or gasped, she couldn’t be quite certain but from the scowl on his face, it was clear he did not approve of her sisters studying Simon, or for that matter, any man.
“Ailsa, if you would please go upstairs and see to the children for me.”
Her sister ignored her suggestion and asked Robbi. “Do all men have nipples and hair upon their chest?”
“I believe so,” Robbi said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“As much as I adore being the center of attention, I am not a creature for your anatomy lessons. I suggest you go to the museum and study the nudes on display. That will allow you to see the male form in all its glory.”
“They have nudes at the museum?” Both Ailsa and Robbi asked at the same time.
Sir Williamson made a displeased sound somewhere between a snort and a scoff. “Astley, there are ladies present. Surely, even you know this conversation is entirely inappropriate.”
“You mean because of our delicate natures?” Ailsa allowed her gaze to travel down to his waist, but thankfully, not any lower.
“Married ladies may view the more mature themes at the museum. Debutantes must wait until they are married and accompanied by their husbands.”