sovereignty that melted her resolve. “You can’t trust the devil,” he whispered, his eyes focused on her lips. “You should get some sleep.” With that, he stepped away, pacing in front of Lucy’s cage.
Clara nodded, slowly awakening from the spell he cast over her. “Good night,” she whispered.
“Clever girl.”
She gripped his bottle of whiskey in her hand and stood a little straighter as she exited the room.
Clara did not feel clever. It would not do to stay behind when she was growing to like him. She trusted him, however foolish that may be, but she did not entirely trust herself.
*
Last night had been a grave mistake. What had he been thinking nearly kissing Clara? He’d spent far more time dodging bullet fire and sabers in his life that made what almost transpired between them seem trivial.
Forget the dangers he faced as a spy or the threat of those who sought out the thief of precious stately treasures—Clara Dawson would bring round his end with those lips of hers.
Her supposed trust in him was misguided. There had been secrets in her eyes last night, secrets that still troubled in him in the light of a sunny afternoon the next day. His head throbbed from too much whiskey, his body stiff from falling asleep in the conservatory for a few hours before he was up at dawn to help Ned rebuild a garden wall. And his chest felt rather full, as though it might fracture from some unseen weight. He had a sneaking suspicion that was entirely Clara’s doing.
“Come along, James.”
The boy’s footsteps plodded behind in an attempt to catch up, but Bly had no patience to slow his pace. If he could get on a boat today, he would gladly board without so much as a farewell. Bly needed escape, needed to know he wouldn’t be stuck in a future that wasn’t his own making.
A gleeful whoop hollered out behind him. Bly stopped and turned, glaring at the offender. Barnes carried a squirming James upside down, poking him ruthlessly in the stomach until the boy fell apart with laugher.
“He’s just a little guy,” Barnes mocked, pulling a long face. “He’s doing his best to keep up.” Barnes righted James and gave the boy a firm pat on the shoulders. “Don’t mind your uncle, James. He’s just suffering under a painful affliction today.”
Bly had tussled with Barnes before. He was still young and spoiled, as his title entitled him to be, but Bly had never had the urge to send a fist into Barnes’s face until now. Barnes might be a skilled assassin, but he had learned than half his skill from Bly. “Why is it you’re still here? Don’t you have an estate to see to? Family?”
“Don’t be foolish. I’m here for the excellent company.” The bastard wiggled his eyebrows at Bly with the same rakish grin that won over the fashionable set in London. “Rough evening?”
Bly clamped his mouth shut and stiffly spun around. A boxing match would be fruitless in the middle of the estate. There were still more repairs to oversee on the tenant farms, and those would be taxing, as most of the tenants wanted little to do with Bly. That was the truth as to why Barnes was still around. Without his assistance, Bly couldn’t accomplish a quarter of what needed to be done. The village and the tenants had written the Ravensdales off. The whole family was rotten and deserters. Hell, Mrs. Holliford actually threw last year’s rotten apples at Bly when he rode out to her cottage alone to take stock of her collapsing roof.
“Are you unwell, Uncle?”
“No,” Bly said, his tone softening. He did not want the children fearing another death so soon after the loss of their parents. It was hard enough listening to them weep when Molly or Clara put them to bed every evening. To them, the world was an uncertain place right now and he wished to shelter them as long as he could before leaving.
“Oh, don’t worry yourself, James. Your uncle is suffering from a common enough infliction. I deal with it almost
Clara nodded, slowly awakening from the spell he cast over her. “Good night,” she whispered.
“Clever girl.”
She gripped his bottle of whiskey in her hand and stood a little straighter as she exited the room.
Clara did not feel clever. It would not do to stay behind when she was growing to like him. She trusted him, however foolish that may be, but she did not entirely trust herself.
*
Last night had been a grave mistake. What had he been thinking nearly kissing Clara? He’d spent far more time dodging bullet fire and sabers in his life that made what almost transpired between them seem trivial.
Forget the dangers he faced as a spy or the threat of those who sought out the thief of precious stately treasures—Clara Dawson would bring round his end with those lips of hers.
Her supposed trust in him was misguided. There had been secrets in her eyes last night, secrets that still troubled in him in the light of a sunny afternoon the next day. His head throbbed from too much whiskey, his body stiff from falling asleep in the conservatory for a few hours before he was up at dawn to help Ned rebuild a garden wall. And his chest felt rather full, as though it might fracture from some unseen weight. He had a sneaking suspicion that was entirely Clara’s doing.
“Come along, James.”
The boy’s footsteps plodded behind in an attempt to catch up, but Bly had no patience to slow his pace. If he could get on a boat today, he would gladly board without so much as a farewell. Bly needed escape, needed to know he wouldn’t be stuck in a future that wasn’t his own making.
A gleeful whoop hollered out behind him. Bly stopped and turned, glaring at the offender. Barnes carried a squirming James upside down, poking him ruthlessly in the stomach until the boy fell apart with laugher.
“He’s just a little guy,” Barnes mocked, pulling a long face. “He’s doing his best to keep up.” Barnes righted James and gave the boy a firm pat on the shoulders. “Don’t mind your uncle, James. He’s just suffering under a painful affliction today.”
Bly had tussled with Barnes before. He was still young and spoiled, as his title entitled him to be, but Bly had never had the urge to send a fist into Barnes’s face until now. Barnes might be a skilled assassin, but he had learned than half his skill from Bly. “Why is it you’re still here? Don’t you have an estate to see to? Family?”
“Don’t be foolish. I’m here for the excellent company.” The bastard wiggled his eyebrows at Bly with the same rakish grin that won over the fashionable set in London. “Rough evening?”
Bly clamped his mouth shut and stiffly spun around. A boxing match would be fruitless in the middle of the estate. There were still more repairs to oversee on the tenant farms, and those would be taxing, as most of the tenants wanted little to do with Bly. That was the truth as to why Barnes was still around. Without his assistance, Bly couldn’t accomplish a quarter of what needed to be done. The village and the tenants had written the Ravensdales off. The whole family was rotten and deserters. Hell, Mrs. Holliford actually threw last year’s rotten apples at Bly when he rode out to her cottage alone to take stock of her collapsing roof.
“Are you unwell, Uncle?”
“No,” Bly said, his tone softening. He did not want the children fearing another death so soon after the loss of their parents. It was hard enough listening to them weep when Molly or Clara put them to bed every evening. To them, the world was an uncertain place right now and he wished to shelter them as long as he could before leaving.
“Oh, don’t worry yourself, James. Your uncle is suffering from a common enough infliction. I deal with it almost
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