some water for tea?”
“More tea?” she questioned. “I thought you preferred coffee.”
“I do. But today I want tea.” Blake was fairly certain that Mrs. Mickle knew there was a woman upstairs, but she'd worked for him for several years, and they had a tacit agreement: he paid her well and treated her with the utmost of respect, and she in turn asked no questions and told no tales. It was the same with all his servants.
The housekeeper nodded and smiled. “Then you'll want another large pot?”
Blake smiled wryly back. Of course this silent understanding didn't mean that Mrs. Mickle didn't like to tease him when she could. “A very large pot,” he replied.
While she was tending to the tea, Blake headed off in search of Perriwick, his butler. He found him polishing some silver that absolutely didn't need polishing.
“Perriwick,” Blake called out. “I need a message sent to London. Immediately.”
Perriwick nodded regally. “To the marquis?” he guessed.
Blake nodded. Most of his urgent messages were sent to James Sidwell, the Marquis of Riverdale. Perriwick knew exactly how to get them to London by the speediest route.
“If you'll just give it to me,” Perriwick said, “I'll see that it leaves the district straightaways.”
“I need to write it first,” Blake said absently.
Perriwick frowned. “Might I suggest that you write your messages before asking me to have them delivered, sir? It would be an ever so much more efficient use of your time and mine.”
Blake cracked a half-smile as he said, “You're damned insolent for a servant.”
“I wish only to facilitate the smooth and graceful running of your household, sir.”
Blake shook his head, marveling at Perriwick's ability to keep a straight face. “Just wait one moment, and I'll write it out now.” He leaned over a desk, took out a paper, quill, and ink, and wrote:
J —
I have Miss De Leon and would appreciate your assistance with her immediately .
— B
James had had previous dealings with the half-Spanish spy. He might know how to get her to talk. In the meantime, Blake would just have to ply her with tea and hope she regained her voice. He really had no other option. It hurt his eyes too much to look at her handwriting.
When Blake reached the door to Carlotta's room he could hear her coughing.
“Damn,” he muttered. Crazy woman. She must have begun to get her voice back and decided to cough it away again. He deftly balanced the tea service as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Still coughing, I hear,” he drawled.
She was sitting on the bed, nodding, and her light brown hair looked a touch stringy. She didn't look well.
Blake groaned. “Don't tell me you're really sick now.”
She nodded, looking for all the world as if she were about to cry.
“So you admit you faked your illness yesterday?”
She looked sheepish as she wiggled her hand in a manner that meant, Sort of .
“Either you did or you didn't.”
She nodded ruefully, but pointed to her throat.
“Yes, I know you really couldn't speak yesterday, but we both know that was no accident, now was it?”
She looked down.
“I'll take that as a yes.”
She pointed to the tray and mouthed, Tea ?
“Yes.” He set the service down and placed his hand against her forehead. “I thought to help you regain your voice. Damn, you've a fever.”
She sighed.
“Serves you right.”
I know , she mouthed, looking utterly contrite. In that moment he almost liked her.
“Here,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “you'd better have some tea.”
Thank you .
“Will you pour?”
She nodded.
“Good. I've always been clumsy with that sort of thing. Marabelle always said—” He cut himself off. How could he even think of talking about Marabelle with this spy?
Who is Marabelle ? she mouthed.
“No one,” he said sharply.
Your fiancée ? she mouthed, her lips moving carefully to enunciate her silent words.
He didn't answer her, just
“More tea?” she questioned. “I thought you preferred coffee.”
“I do. But today I want tea.” Blake was fairly certain that Mrs. Mickle knew there was a woman upstairs, but she'd worked for him for several years, and they had a tacit agreement: he paid her well and treated her with the utmost of respect, and she in turn asked no questions and told no tales. It was the same with all his servants.
The housekeeper nodded and smiled. “Then you'll want another large pot?”
Blake smiled wryly back. Of course this silent understanding didn't mean that Mrs. Mickle didn't like to tease him when she could. “A very large pot,” he replied.
While she was tending to the tea, Blake headed off in search of Perriwick, his butler. He found him polishing some silver that absolutely didn't need polishing.
“Perriwick,” Blake called out. “I need a message sent to London. Immediately.”
Perriwick nodded regally. “To the marquis?” he guessed.
Blake nodded. Most of his urgent messages were sent to James Sidwell, the Marquis of Riverdale. Perriwick knew exactly how to get them to London by the speediest route.
“If you'll just give it to me,” Perriwick said, “I'll see that it leaves the district straightaways.”
“I need to write it first,” Blake said absently.
Perriwick frowned. “Might I suggest that you write your messages before asking me to have them delivered, sir? It would be an ever so much more efficient use of your time and mine.”
Blake cracked a half-smile as he said, “You're damned insolent for a servant.”
“I wish only to facilitate the smooth and graceful running of your household, sir.”
Blake shook his head, marveling at Perriwick's ability to keep a straight face. “Just wait one moment, and I'll write it out now.” He leaned over a desk, took out a paper, quill, and ink, and wrote:
J —
I have Miss De Leon and would appreciate your assistance with her immediately .
— B
James had had previous dealings with the half-Spanish spy. He might know how to get her to talk. In the meantime, Blake would just have to ply her with tea and hope she regained her voice. He really had no other option. It hurt his eyes too much to look at her handwriting.
When Blake reached the door to Carlotta's room he could hear her coughing.
“Damn,” he muttered. Crazy woman. She must have begun to get her voice back and decided to cough it away again. He deftly balanced the tea service as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Still coughing, I hear,” he drawled.
She was sitting on the bed, nodding, and her light brown hair looked a touch stringy. She didn't look well.
Blake groaned. “Don't tell me you're really sick now.”
She nodded, looking for all the world as if she were about to cry.
“So you admit you faked your illness yesterday?”
She looked sheepish as she wiggled her hand in a manner that meant, Sort of .
“Either you did or you didn't.”
She nodded ruefully, but pointed to her throat.
“Yes, I know you really couldn't speak yesterday, but we both know that was no accident, now was it?”
She looked down.
“I'll take that as a yes.”
She pointed to the tray and mouthed, Tea ?
“Yes.” He set the service down and placed his hand against her forehead. “I thought to help you regain your voice. Damn, you've a fever.”
She sighed.
“Serves you right.”
I know , she mouthed, looking utterly contrite. In that moment he almost liked her.
“Here,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “you'd better have some tea.”
Thank you .
“Will you pour?”
She nodded.
“Good. I've always been clumsy with that sort of thing. Marabelle always said—” He cut himself off. How could he even think of talking about Marabelle with this spy?
Who is Marabelle ? she mouthed.
“No one,” he said sharply.
Your fiancée ? she mouthed, her lips moving carefully to enunciate her silent words.
He didn't answer her, just
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