Chapter 7
Blake had been waiting in the shadows of the servants’ hall for nearly an hour, which was approximately half an hour longer than his patience typically allowed. But then, stalking one’s would-be murderer in a darkened corridor did require a certain dedication to the craft.
Of course, Evie hadn’t wanted him to die. At least not by her own hand. She could have killed him if she’d wished. But she hadn’t.
Which left several possibilities, most of them hopeful, that she was not the Midnight Angel.
Unless her brother had convinced her to turn as he had.
At which time, she became a traitor and was likely there to stop him from stopping her—which would lead him to possibly having to kill her …
or her returning the favor with better aim this time.
He frowned. He did not like that train of thought in the slightest.
It was bad enough to be shot by the woman he admired and survive a sinking ship, only to find himself stuck undercover wearing a tacky blue patient suit while waiting to see if the same woman—who still owed him a kiss—might actually finish the job this time.
He shrugged a shoulder.
The life of a spy.
Of course, bringing Havensbrooke and Grace into the mix made everything worse.
This place and these people had a connection to him.
It made him vulnerable, which had already gotten him into trouble on several occasions.
And that was the main reason spies were usually not placed in situations where they would encounter civilians who were highly familiar with them.
Director Lark had sent Blake for three reasons: He was the only man Lark had trusted with intel about the agency mole, one of the few who knew about the Midnight Angel, and someone who could investigate Havensbrooke for the treacherous nurse without raising suspicion.
Blake had wondered once if Grace suspected something.
Which would not be good for the mission.
But with any luck, her pregnancy news would distract her from asking questions about him. If nothing else, it might keep her safe.
And he’d not noticed Nurse Rivers doing anything else suspicious since yesterday, other than flirting with half of the young soldiers, but easing their guard through flirting was a perfect way to get information. Women were terribly efficient at befuddling good-hearted men.
He’d positioned himself in the alcove near the linen closet of the servants’ hall, conveniently out of sight but with a clear view of the corridor. Finally, his patience was rewarded when the unmistakable sound of light footsteps approached from the direction of the servants’ quarters.
Even in the dim moonlight from the wall of windows, he recognized her gait. Confident, controlled. The walk of someone who knew how to move silently, stealthily.
Evie Montgomery.
Or should he say, Helen Gale.
What a thoroughly uninspired alias. He’d expected better from her.
She passed his hiding spot, her head down as she adjusted the pocket of her dress.
Blake stepped out behind her as silent as a shadow.
But she felt him. The slight tension in her shoulders gave her away.
“Good evening, Miss Gale.” He spoke the name softly but with enough sarcasm to let her know what he thought of her alias.
To her credit, she didn’t startle. Didn’t gasp or spin around in surprise like a proper housemaid might have done. Instead, she went perfectly still for just a heartbeat before turning to face him with that carefully neutral expression of hers.
“I wondered how long it would take you to confront me,” she said, her voice pitched low to match his. “An entire week? Are you losing your knack or just getting old?”
He took a step closer, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. “Perhaps it’s from being shot in the shoulder by a friend. It does leave one a bit jaded. And then to have her rise from the dead and materialize in my very own haunt-turned-hospital. Curious thing. Required a bit of delicacy too.”
Something sparked in those violet-blue eyes. “I saved your life on that ship,” she hissed. “I feel certain my brother’s aim would have been a bit more to the left. That should tell you something.”
“Oh, it tells me quite a lot.” Blake smiled without humor. “It tells me you’re either working against your brother or playing a very deep game. The question is—which is it?”
“I do not have to tell you anything.”
“True, but you see, all the nasty little goings-on here are very much my concern. Especially since the Midnight Angel is supposedly operating in England now. In a convalescent hospital, if I recall correctly.” He let that hang in the air between them. “Rather like this one.”
Her eyes widened fractionally. “You think I’m—”
“Are you, Evie?”
Something in her gaze softened at his use of her name. The air heated between them, sparkled like electric lights, nearly magnetic in its potency.
Just as it had been all those months ago.
As if they’d never been parted.
Undimmed.
In fact, the jolt of her nearness, their connection, may have gotten even stronger.
He shook off the bewitching pull and embraced cold reason.
Was she attempting to draw him in? Weaken his defenses with that look he’d seen only a few times before?
Because, blast it all, it nearly worked.
“You disappeared. Why?” Blake pressed, edging nearer.
She only raised her chin, refusing to answer.
“I’ve done some checking, Evie.” Another step.
His throat squeezed at the memories flooding his mind.
“Oh yes, every possible place to find out if you survived. But nothing. You left the service. No explanation, no word to Director Lark, just … gone. That’s not the behavior of an agent in good standing. ”
“It’s the behavior of someone who’s done.” The confession came out sharp, and they both froze, listening for any sign they’d been heard. When no sound came, she continued in a fierce whisper. “With all of it.”
“Done with what? The war? The service? Or done pretending you’re not working for the other side?”
Her eyes flashed, a humorless laugh puffing from her lips. “You think I’ve turned.”
“I think you disappeared with your traitor brother five months ago after shooting me on a ship that was conveniently torpedoed by Germans.” Blake’s voice was deadly quiet. “And I think military intelligence is leaking from this house. So yes, Evie. I think you might have turned.”
The slightest divot pierced her brow. “You’re wrong.”
“Then prove it.” Blake took another step forward. “Tell me why you’re here. Tell me what you’re looking for.” Each demand was a probe, testing her reaction. “Tell me something that makes me believe you’ve not turned against your country.” His voice dropped to a breath. “Against me.”
Her hesitation was merely a second, but it was there. His words had gotten to her in some way.
“You understand nothing,” she murmured in clear warning.
“Then make me understand!” Blake’s control finally cracked. “Because right now, all I know is that you’re here under a false name, skulking about in the dark, and I have wounded soldiers in this house who are vulnerable. And a country at war. So either tell me the truth or—”
“Or what?” Evie’s voice turned steely. “You’ll turn me in? Kill me?”
“If I have to.” The words raked from his soul.
“Well then.” Evie’s smile was bitter. “I suppose we know where we stand.”
She moved first with the sudden speed of someone who’d been trained by the same instructors he had—a feint toward his injured shoulder that he barely blocked, followed immediately by a real strike aimed at his solar plexus.
Blake twisted, catching her wrist and using her momentum to pull her off-balance.
But she recovered quickly, pivoting low and sweeping his legs. Or trying to. Blake jumped back, releasing his grip on her arm, but she was already following through with a strike aimed at his neck.
He blocked with his forearm, the impact sending a jolt of pain through his wounded shoulder that he ruthlessly ignored. No time to coddle injuries during a fight.
They moved through the shadowed hallway like dancers performing the new Tango, yet this was a more violent version—each strike and counter perfectly controlled, precisely placed, and utterly silent.
Years of training screamed at them both to stay quiet.
Something in the uncertainty of their assignments led them toward restraint.
A proper fight would wake the household.
This was something else. A conversation conducted in blocks and diversions.
Blake caught her next strike and used her own force to spin her toward the wall. She planted her foot and reversed the motion, nearly getting him into an arm lock that may have ended the encounter, especially with his weaker shoulder. He twisted free at the last second, breathing hard.
“Still graceful as ever,” he murmured, blocking her follow-up attack. “Though I seem to recall you being faster in Paris.”
“And I recall you being smarter than this,” she shot back, ducking under his counter and driving an elbow toward his ribs. He deflected it, barely. “Confronting me alone, in a dark hallway of a servants’ wing? What if I were here to kill you?”
“Are you?” He caught her wrist again, but this time she was ready. She used his grip as leverage, stepping in close and attempting to hook his ankle. Very much like a dance move they’d completed before. In Paris, in fact.
“If I were, you’d already be dead.”
“Charming.” Blake shifted his weight, managing to keep his feet while pulling her off-balance. “You always did have such a way with flattery.”
They grappled in the narrow space, each trying to gain advantage without making enough noise to alert the household.
Evie was smaller, but she was quick, and she knew every trick he did—because they’d learned them together.
She went for pressure points; he countered with joint locks.
He attempted throws; she turned them into reversals.
It was frustrating and exhilarating in equal measure.