Chapter 4 #3
Had she seen him? He’d been careful to ensure he was undetected, but they knew each other’s strategies too well to assume.
She moved quickly toward the house, her eyes downcast in a properly deferential manner.
But he’d heard her questions. The way she’d gently extracted information about previous troop positions, timing, casualties. Proved how easily it was to gather information from a wounded soldier. Especially information that could be useful for the enemy.
And exactly the kind of intelligence the Midnight Angel would be gathering.
His chest tightened to the hurting spot.
No. Think, Blake. Don’t jump to conclusions.
But the evidence was too damaging. Evie had disappeared after the Lusitania. No contact with British Intelligence. No word to Director Lark. And now she was in one of the places to which Intelligence had traced the Midnight Angel, dressed as a maid, asking strategic questions of wounded soldiers.
He had to know the truth.
After another glance about the garden, Blake followed her, staying behind the hedges until she entered the house’s back door. He knew this house. Grew up spending summers with his grandparents here. He could easily disappear if needed.
The corridor grew narrower, simpler. Servants’ territory.
Evie disappeared through a doorway at the end of the hall. Blake quickened his pace.
“Mr. Blake.”
He jerked to a halt—his heart hammering—and turned to find Nurse Wilson standing in a doorway he’d just passed, her arms crossed and her expression decidedly unimpressed.
How had he missed her? Blake was usually more observant than this. And Nurse Wilson, for all her efficiency, wasn’t typically in the servants’ corridors at this hour. In fact, Blake couldn’t recall seeing her in this part of the house at all during his previous observations.
Curious.
“Pardon me?” He arranged his face into his most charming smile, leaning heavily on his cane. “You must be the enigmatic Nurse Wilson. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Is it?” Her dark eyes swept over him with clinical assessment—the look of someone cataloguing information rather than simply evaluating a patient’s condition. “Because you seem to be heading in the wrong direction. The patients’ quarters are behind you.”
“Are they?” Blake glanced back down the corridor with what he hoped was convincing confusion. “Terribly sorry. I’m afraid I got turned around. This house is quite the maze at times.”
“It’s a straight corridor, Mr. Blake.”
Blast. She wasn’t going to make this easy.
Blake tried a different approach, letting some genuine discomfort show through.
“I confess, I was feeling a bit restless. Thought a longer walk might help, but I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going, having just entered from outside and all.
” He tapped his cane against the floor. “The pain has a way of clouding one’s judgment. ”
Something in Nurse Wilson’s expression shifted fractionally. Not quite sympathy, but perhaps a recognition of genuine discomfort.
“The pain will lessen with time,” she said, her voice losing some of its sharp edge. “But wandering into the servants’ quarters won’t speed your recovery. I will have no … fraternizing with Lady Astley’s staff on my watch.”
“I do apologize.” He shrugged like a schoolboy being caught.
“I can’t say I’m entirely innocent of that assertion.
” His gaze trailed back down the hall, a lazy smile growing in place.
“A pretty face is quite distracting, if not even medicinal, for a hurting man, Nurse Wilson. It’s a tale as old as time. ”
Her lips quirked the slightest bit. Good. Keep her off his scent.
“But you are absolutely right, of course. No fraternizing, even if it is a tremendously helpful distraction, in my assessment.” He offered his most self-deprecating smile. “I suppose I’m not adjusting well to life as an invalid. I’m accustomed to being rather more … mobile.”
“Most men are.” Nurse Wilson stepped into the corridor, effectively blocking his path forward. “But healing requires patience, Mr. Blake. And some medicines are not for my patients, even if they are friends of the house, so I expect you to follow the rules.”
“I’ve never been particularly good at following rules,” Blake admitted, letting just enough charm slip into his voice. “Though I’m told that’s part of my dubious appeal.”
For just a moment, the briefest flicker—something that might have been amusement—crossed Nurse Wilson’s face. Then it was gone, replaced by professional composure.
“Your dubious appeal won’t serve you well if you insist on wandering where patients aren’t permitted.” She gestured back down the corridor. “The drawing room has several comfortable chairs. I suggest you rest there.”
“And if I insist on being difficult?”
Now there was definitely amusement in her eyes. “Then I shall be forced to inform Lady Astley that her cousin requires closer supervision. I’m certain she would be … enthusiastic about monitoring your recovery personally.“
Blake laughed despite himself. The thought of Grace hovering over him with her mystery novels and endless questions was genuinely alarming. “You fight dirty, Nurse Wilson.”
“I fight effectively, Mr. Blake.” She moved aside slightly, creating a clear path back the way he’d come. “Now, shall I escort you back, or can you find your way without further incident?”
“I think I can manage.” Blake paused. “Thank you for redirecting my wayward wandering. I shall endeavor to stay in appropriate areas from now on.”
She inclined her head slightly. “See that you do, Mr. Blake.”
As Blake made his way back down the corridor, he felt Nurse Wilson’s eyes on him until he turned the corner.
Blake released a long breath, the knot in his stomach twisting tighter with each passing moment.
He turned toward the library, then paused.
Voices drifted from one of the patients’ rooms down the corridor—low, urgent, the kind that immediately pricked the part of his brain that never stopped indexing people and potential threats.
His training took over instantly. He moved soundlessly toward the sounds, his manufactured limp vanishing as soon as he was out of sight of the main areas. The voices grew clearer as he approached.
“It’s still there, I tell you,” came a voice Blake recognized but couldn’t quite place among all the patients. “It has to be. Granddad’s the only one who knew where it was hidden.”
Blake stilled, pressing himself against the wall just outside the doorway. He leaned just enough around the frame to catch sight of the speakers.
Ah, yes. Private Pennington—the wiry man who’d arrived several weeks before with a wounded shoulder.
He sat on the edge of his bed, leaning close to Private Edwards, a broad fellow whose left arm was wrapped in bandages.
The men were hunched together in a conspiratorial way, though not prudent enough to lower their voices properly.
“There’s a map, I tell you,” Pennington continued, his accent thickening with excitement. Yorkshire, Blake noted automatically. Working class. “Granddad said it showed the tunnels—one leads to an old cellar. That’ll show the way to what’s hidden.”
Edwards let out a low whistle. “You think it’s still there? After all this time?”
“There’s no reason to think otherwise.” Pennington’s fingers drummed against his knee with barely contained energy.
“I’d wager if any of the lot here knew my relation to the Crawfords, they’d send me packing without a second look.
Granddad was sacked without cause, I tell you.
Threatened with prison, even. Promised that not one Crawford would ever work in Derbyshire again. ”
“That’s downright awful.”
Pennington released a bitter huff. “I deserve that treasure. And I’ll give you a share too, if you help me out.”
Crawford. Blake filed the name away. Evidently, a Crawford had been in service at Havensbrooke at some point. A very particular Crawford, and clearly some sort of grudge had passed down through generations.
And then there was this talk of treasure …
It made no sense.
And he might have dismissed it as exaggerated talk by some young, proud men, but there were too many unusual goings-on in this house to spurn the timeliness of such a conversation.
“I’m game, so long as I can help with one arm for now.” This from Edwards.
“It’s all light work. Just locating the map and entrance to the tunnel.”
Tunnel?
“But I can’t do it myself.” Pennington hesitated, vulnerability creeping into his voice.
“And if it’s exactly where Granddad said, we wouldn’t have to rot here after the war, would we?
Wouldn’t have to go back to the mines or the factories.
Could start fresh like. Maybe even get to Canada or Australia. ”
Blake’s mind raced through possibilities. The stolen sketch of the chapel. The missing painting. The candlesticks. Now talk of treasure and tunnels. Were they connected, or simply two separate problems converging in the same location?
And where did the spy fit into all of this? Because there was a spy at Havensbrooke—Director Lark’s intercepted message proved that. Military intelligence was leaking from this house like water through a sieve.
Was someone using Pennington’s treasure hunt to mask their own activities or divert suspicion?
In all his career as a spy, he hadn’t met with such a strange collision of unknowns. His lips tipped slightly. But Grace was involved, so he shouldn’t be surprised at all.
Blake took a careful step back, avoiding the creak in the floorboards he’d already memorized, and exhaled through his nose. It was likely nonsense—every estate in England had its legends of smuggler tunnels and buried riches. Havensbrooke was old enough to have accumulated several.
But the timing felt far too tidy to dismiss.
If Pennington had been systematically stealing items to fund his treasure hunt, that would explain the odd pattern of thefts. Not a spy’s work but an opportunist’s.
But what about the sketch?
Yes, he needed to alert Director Lark of Evie’s whereabouts.
And yes, he had to attempt to keep his alias while protecting Lady Astley in the process.
But to risk contacting the director, he needed more information than presumptions, which meant he had to find a way to confront Evie Montgomery as soon as possible … all while avoiding Nurse Wilson, a houseful of patients, and a very curious countess in the process.