Chapter 6 #2
Michael quit the Foreign Office in order to find his brother’s murderer, as if that would somehow make him feel he was not an interloper in Richard’s house, usurping his place.
Even now, he avoided his brother’s study, which was barren and lifeless, as if Richard had been the only thing that made the room warm and inviting.
He missed him especially at moments like this, when he felt the weight of his failure as a son.
Richard had been so strong—in his sense of responsibility, his uprightness of character, and even in his faith.
Michael had been the reckless and irresponsible one, but only now did he realize that he could only do his work for the government because his brother had been providing a place for him to return to.
Michael looked at his mother now, wondering if she would allow him to return home. He was heartened by the fact that she still wanted him to give up his rooms at The Albany, and yet she was still displeased at his request for her to leave town before the Season had ended.
He had not told her the truth—if she realized she might be in danger, she would fall into hysterics, and, what was more, the entire household would know about it within an hour. It would trickle out to their neighbors and the rest of society within a day.
Mr. Drydale had considered allowing that to occur, for if Mrs. Coulton-Jones feared for her life and then something happened to her, it would bring too much attention to the Ramparts and to the Citadel, both of whom guarded their secrecy.
But eventually, they had decided that they could not take such a risk, for the Citadel would do anything to accomplish its goals.
Any nefarious undertaking against Mrs. Coulton-Jones would not be traced back to Maxham or Jack, and so the gossip would not protect his mother.
Indeed, the Ramparts could merely pretend to be Bow Street runners, which would cause a different kind of scandal.
Mrs. Coulton-Jones finished the second slice of tart and took a sip of tea. “Very well, you may return home.”
“Thank you, Mother.” He inserted just enough graciousness into his tone. It would not do to remind her that he could have simply moved back in without her permission and no one would have objected. Neither would she have moved out of the house in protest.
“But you shall not dare to suggest we leave town at the moment. Why, the Regent’s fete occurred only two days ago, and yet so many of my friends wish to invite me to tea to discuss it.”
He admitted that the timing of all of this was most unfortunate. The Regent’s fete was the talk of the town at the moment.
“And I wish no more talk of that manor house in the country,” she said severely. Then, ignoring her own words, she added, “As if I would wish to journey to a far-off estate when I could simply return to Blakewood Hearth and be quite comfortable there.”
“Yes, Mother.” Michael waited a brief moment before tilting his head down and looking up at her with innocent eyes. “Perhaps when you return to Blakewood Hearth after the Season, I will instead go to Tylecote Manor and enjoy the delightful vistas on my own.”
It was an exaggeration—the area around Tylecote Manor was not bleak, by any means, but it was certainly not as picturesque as the Lake District.
The property had been bought anonymously by Mr. Drydale several years ago as a place of safety should he ever need it.
The manor was luxurious and remote enough a place for his mother to stay for a few months, guarded by some of the Senhora’s people.
The sole reason Mr. Drydale had offered this residence was that Michael had never roused himself to buy his own secret residence after inheriting his family’s lands.
The most he had done was arrange for a small, squalid apartment on the South Bank, appropriate only for a desperate young agent to hide for a few weeks whilst making other arrangements for escape.
His mother should have been aware of all his little tricks by now, but somehow, the head tilt and looking up at her with mournful eyes while mentioning the manor house caused her to glance at him with interest. However, she quickly turned her head away from him as if to deny that she had ever been intrigued by his words.
Michael also pretended not to have seen her flash of curiosity. “After the tedium of delivering false compliments to every young miss and her mother this Season, I think it would be quite pleasant to enjoy lunch overlooking the garden and the downs.”
During their argument yesterday, he had mentioned the country manor house, but he’d had no more than mentioned its location—Northamptonshire—when his mother had dug in her heels and refused to even consider leaving town.
To be honest, Michael had no idea if the house had gardens or downs, much less a view of them, but he resolved to simply listen to his mother’s recriminations and complaints after they had arrived there and she was safe.
“The gardens at Blakewood Hearth are just as fine, I am sure,” his mother said snappishly.
“Yes, yes,” he said lazily.
Then he had a brilliant idea. So brilliant that he hesitated a full three seconds before deciding to drag Miss Sauber into trouble along with him. “I hear the downs are quite romantic,” he drawled. “A young lady of my acquaintance has mentioned she would like to see them.”
Mrs. Coulton-Jones’s eyes grew as large as saucers and bulged out of their sockets. “Young lady?” Then her gaze narrowed at him. “One of your trollops, I assume?”
“Her family would be quite insulted were they to hear you call her thus. But if you do not wish to join me at Tylecote Manor, then I shall have to play host to her aunt all by myself. Perhaps I might invite her friend, Miss Gardinier, and that young lady’s older sister, Lady Stoude.”
It did not take long for his mother to realize which young lady he referred to. “In the past few weeks, have you had opportunity to speak to Miss Sauber?”
“Oh, here and there. I happened to run into her quite frequently as of late.” Such as when climbing rooftops and fighting Ramparts agents. And he admitted he had quite enjoyed the four days he spent teaching her and Miss Gardinier how to pick locks, although they were both quite terrible at it.
His mother set her teacup down in its saucer with a rattle.
“Miss Sauber! My word!” Then she gave him a stern look.
“I had resigned myself to the fact that she would be snatched up and married by the time you stopped pretending not to notice her at every society event that you both happened to attend.”
Michael had been sipping his tea, and he choked.
Apparently, he had not been as clever as he thought in hiding his tendency to watch Miss Sauber from afar.
He had thought he had an excellent reason why he could not court her in earnest—first because of his work for the Foreign Office, and then because of the death of his brother.
And when he had finally admitted to himself how greatly he admired her, it had been far too late—he had been given the Root, and he numbered his days in months, not years.
But then Miss Sauber nearly died, and he realized how foolish he had been to try to keep her out of his life.
Back in the Ramparts, when he had been about to burst out of the room and attack all those agents, he had expected to be quickly captured. There had also been a chance that the agents would be too aggressive and he would die.
But if he were captured, he knew that it would only be a matter of time before he perished.
One week, two weeks without the Goldensuit, and he would be hampered by debilitating headaches and muscle pains throughout his body.
Perhaps he would be overcome by wild rage and seek to destroy everything and everyone around him until he died from exhaustion.
All those things had gone through his mind as soon as he was preparing to leave the room, and in that moment, he knew he had wasted far too much time. He had wasted far too much of his life, as well as hers.
And so he had kissed her. And it had been glorious.
She had been surprised, perhaps even shocked. But she had been soft, and she smelled lovely, like wildflowers and sunlight. And he had not wanted to let her go.
Michael did not think he could fall deeper in love with her, but then she had come to his assistance, defeating agents who were better trained and who weighed considerably more than she did.
Yes, she had her superior strength, but he knew from fighting Nick and Silas that even that strength did not give them an advantage over an agent trained by Mr. Armstrong or Mr. Ackerman.
He was aware that she wanted to speak with him, but they had simply not had an opportunity. He regretted that the danger all around them and their enforced seclusion had prevented them from having a private moment together.
But he still felt now as he did then. He no longer wished to waste any more time. He suspected her more tender feelings for him, but he wanted to hear the words from her lips. He wanted to speak from the depths of his heart, to tell her how much he admired and respected and loved her.
Michael had never thought he would fall in love, especially not after Richard died and he had felt so lost. He pictured Miss Sauber’s face, and as he remembered how she had felt in his arms, a calm suddenly descended upon him, a calm that was familiar.
He realized that she was like an anchor for his boat as it was tossed in tempestuous waves.
She was, for him, like Richard. After any mission, she was the place to which he could return.
Or, what was more likely to happen was that she would join him in danger, and the two of them would support each other. The idea of having a partner on his missions no longer disinterested him. He did not want to be alone if he could be with her.
He was brought out of his thoughts as his mother gasped, staring at him with her mouth agape. He looked around, suddenly alert to danger.
“Michael, your expression!” There was joy in her eyes and her voice. “I never thought to see such a look upon your face.”
His alarm faded into acute embarrassment. He would normally have allowed the lies to spill from his lips in order to extricate himself from the situation, but this was his mother, who knew him better than anyone except perhaps Isabella.
He slumped over and buried his face in his hands. “Mother!” he groaned, wallowing in a bog of humiliation.
Which was perhaps why he was surprised when the door to the drawing room suddenly opened. He had not even noticed someone approaching the room. Michael leaped to his feet, his hand reaching beneath his coat for the knife strapped to the small of his back.
But what met his eyes was a mischievous smile and a young face that looked exactly like Richard as a boy.
“And what has caused you to look so mortified?” Isabella asked as she entered, followed by Thorne. They were dressed in traveling clothes and had apparently just arrived in London.
His tension faded once again, and while his discomfiture would normally be multiplied twofold now that his sister and his mother were in the same room, instead, all he felt was profound relief.
Isabella was here. She had arrived in town only a day after Mr. Verling had been sent to Wittenden with the message that she was needed.
And she was most certainly needed. Now, Michael could be at ease—Isabella would surely convince his mother to leave town. His mother would be safe.