around like a pony with a carrot in front of its nose, when the man she’d wanted all along had been right in front of her.
Except she didn’t know a damn thing about Sauveterre, other than the fact that he could afford expensive paper and his letters were postmarked from a coaching inn in Chatham, Kent. Five months ago, she’d written to the proprietor of that coaching inn for information on Sauveterre—but the proprietor had claimed they never received, or sent out, any letters for such a man.
She reached in the top drawer of her bedside table for a map, spreading it out on the bed. Chatham was approximately eight hours away from Maidstone, or a day’s ride in a carriage. She had enough blunt saved up for at least the trip there. But once she arrived at Chatham, what would she do? She could go to the coaching inn and demand an explanation, but there was little chance their answer would be any different. As someone in service, she simply wasn’t important enough to warrant the truth.
And if by some slight chance they did tell her where Sauveterre was, what was her play? Yes, she was a skilled fencer, but she’d never handled a gun before. The blade of her sword triumphed in close combat, but her ability to defend herself from a distance was minimal at best. Evan’s body had been badly brutalized, and he was a much better fighter than she’d ever been—not to mention he’d had five stone on her. The ludicrousness of her plan was now startlingly clear. If the police hadn’t believed he’d been a targeted murder when the crime scene was still current, why would they believe her now when she had only shadowy evidence? She couldn’t fight Sauveterre on her own.
Any hope she’d cherished in the last six months ripped from her. Her head hung down, her chin in her hands. Tears rolled down her face, slow at first, but then faster, as sobs shook her shoulders. She cried until her throat ached. Until she had no tears left, and all that came forth was silent, dry bawling.
But wait. There was more to the message.
Find me confirmation that James Spencer is in British intelligence. If you disappoint me again, I’ll send you to hell in the same manner I did your brother.
A keening whimper escaped from her throat. She’d refused to think of her own life in the last few months, so focused was she on getting revenge for Evan. Her existence had seemed immaterial if she couldn’t accomplish that goal. But now, faced with the immediate threat, she could only think one thing: she did not want to die.
We have survived when we wish we had not. We are too strong for our own good, but we cannot change.
Abermont’s words resonated in her mind. He’d called her a survivor. He believed in her strength. His confidence in her bolstered her more than it should. More than she wanted to admit. She grasped at his support, letting it shape her mind. If it would take a day for her to get to Chatham, the opposite was true. Sauveterre could be on his way here. Or, Chatham could simply be a forwarding address, and he was already in Maidstone. Watching her.
When she’d seen the duke’s hand bleeding, she had not hesitated. She’d done what she had to so that the bleeding stopped. This could be no different. She had to act with determination and purpose. Remain alert, for at any moment Sauveterre could come for her. In order to stay alive, she must develop a plan.
She set the letter down on the bed and exhaled. If she could get the information Sauveterre wanted, then the threat would disappear, for the moment at least. Tonight, she’d search the duke’s library one last time.
And if she still couldn’t find anything, then she’d have to go to the duke himself. Even gaol was a better alternative than waiting for a madman to kill her.
At least in gaol, she’d be safe from Sauveterre.
Vivian stood in the center of Abermont’s personal library. Behind her, filing cabinets lined one-half of the back wall, while
Except she didn’t know a damn thing about Sauveterre, other than the fact that he could afford expensive paper and his letters were postmarked from a coaching inn in Chatham, Kent. Five months ago, she’d written to the proprietor of that coaching inn for information on Sauveterre—but the proprietor had claimed they never received, or sent out, any letters for such a man.
She reached in the top drawer of her bedside table for a map, spreading it out on the bed. Chatham was approximately eight hours away from Maidstone, or a day’s ride in a carriage. She had enough blunt saved up for at least the trip there. But once she arrived at Chatham, what would she do? She could go to the coaching inn and demand an explanation, but there was little chance their answer would be any different. As someone in service, she simply wasn’t important enough to warrant the truth.
And if by some slight chance they did tell her where Sauveterre was, what was her play? Yes, she was a skilled fencer, but she’d never handled a gun before. The blade of her sword triumphed in close combat, but her ability to defend herself from a distance was minimal at best. Evan’s body had been badly brutalized, and he was a much better fighter than she’d ever been—not to mention he’d had five stone on her. The ludicrousness of her plan was now startlingly clear. If the police hadn’t believed he’d been a targeted murder when the crime scene was still current, why would they believe her now when she had only shadowy evidence? She couldn’t fight Sauveterre on her own.
Any hope she’d cherished in the last six months ripped from her. Her head hung down, her chin in her hands. Tears rolled down her face, slow at first, but then faster, as sobs shook her shoulders. She cried until her throat ached. Until she had no tears left, and all that came forth was silent, dry bawling.
But wait. There was more to the message.
Find me confirmation that James Spencer is in British intelligence. If you disappoint me again, I’ll send you to hell in the same manner I did your brother.
A keening whimper escaped from her throat. She’d refused to think of her own life in the last few months, so focused was she on getting revenge for Evan. Her existence had seemed immaterial if she couldn’t accomplish that goal. But now, faced with the immediate threat, she could only think one thing: she did not want to die.
We have survived when we wish we had not. We are too strong for our own good, but we cannot change.
Abermont’s words resonated in her mind. He’d called her a survivor. He believed in her strength. His confidence in her bolstered her more than it should. More than she wanted to admit. She grasped at his support, letting it shape her mind. If it would take a day for her to get to Chatham, the opposite was true. Sauveterre could be on his way here. Or, Chatham could simply be a forwarding address, and he was already in Maidstone. Watching her.
When she’d seen the duke’s hand bleeding, she had not hesitated. She’d done what she had to so that the bleeding stopped. This could be no different. She had to act with determination and purpose. Remain alert, for at any moment Sauveterre could come for her. In order to stay alive, she must develop a plan.
She set the letter down on the bed and exhaled. If she could get the information Sauveterre wanted, then the threat would disappear, for the moment at least. Tonight, she’d search the duke’s library one last time.
And if she still couldn’t find anything, then she’d have to go to the duke himself. Even gaol was a better alternative than waiting for a madman to kill her.
At least in gaol, she’d be safe from Sauveterre.
Vivian stood in the center of Abermont’s personal library. Behind her, filing cabinets lined one-half of the back wall, while
Similar Books
