My Lady Rogue (A Nelson's Tea Novella Book 2) by Katherine Bone Page A

meticulously retrieved and disposed of. Scorched fibers on the woven rug were the only proof of what had transpired hours earlier. As he made a circuit of the room, he passed righted framed portraits and the gilded mirror hanging prominently straight above the fireplace where a surrogate ormolu clock perfectly ticked away time. Even Gillian’s blood had been scrubbed clean from the floor.
    Simon scowled, remembering all too clearly the moment Gillian had been shot. Wrestling with his thoughts, he regarded the scene outside the bow window, carriages passing, people taking their daily walks, until he sensed he wasn’t alone.
    “Goodayle,” he said, turning to prove his instincts correct. “I see you’ve been busy.”
    Goodayle dipped his head. “The servants had nothing to do.”
    “Of course.” Simon nodded. “Ingenious.”
    “Thank you, my lord.”
    “And the vicar ?”
    “Below, my lord.”
    Goodayle would never openly challenge him, but his narrowed eyes revealed intense hatred for any mention of Albert Holt, the once stately vicar who had blessed the four walls at Number Eleven. Goodayle’s reaction corroborated Simon’s logic in keeping Holt alive.
    “It’s only a matter of time,” he said, hinting satisfaction would come.
    Goodayle simply stood at attention, continuing the charade he’d perfected.
    Simon took no offense at Goodayle’s silence. Though servants never mingled with their betters, Goodayle, otherwise known as Lord Sidney Wittingham, hadn’t been born into that societal mold. His good friend had walked away from an earldom to serve at Simon’s side after Simon had been wounded aboard the Agamemnon and forced to retire. The eyes and ears of Nelson’s Tea, Goodayle was his chief of security, responsible for turning the townhouse into what it was today, a safe haven. No longer. Failure to predict this outcome was a stake through Goodayle’s heart.
    “Come,” Simon said, moving through the room and out into the hallway. “I do not blame you for what happened. The fault is mine, not yours.”
    Goodayle fell into step behind him. His voice broke uncharacteristically, “But if I had been more diligent—”
    “We can presume many things, you and I, but doubting ourselves will not turn back time.” Simon progressed down the hall until he stopped before the study doors. He spun around to face Goodayle, placing his hand on the loyal man’s shoulder. “Nothing prepared us for this — Nelson or Holt.” He gave the man a pat and stepped back, stowing away his emotions, resuming command. “Did Garrick get Melville and Douglas safely back to their offices?”
    “Aye, my lord,” Goodayle said, suddenly himself again.
    “Exceptional,” Simon said, tenting his hands below his nose. “That leaves us with unfinished business, doesn’t it?” At Goodayle’s harried nod, he continued, “I cannot believe Holt infiltrated Nelson’s Tea with every intention to defeat it. Someone found a way to use him against us. Nelson’s death was the trigger.”
    “Who, my lord?”
    “That, my good man,” he said, pointing his finger aloft, “is what I’m going to find out.” He turned to leave then faced Goodayle again. “Make sure Russell has everything he needs at his disposal. Alert me right away if the baroness’ condition changes before I return.”
    “Yes, my lord.” Given something productive to do, Goodayle bowed his head and retreated down the hall.
    Simon faced the mahogany scrollwork decorating the entrance to the study. Inhaling deeply, he gripped the door handles and stepped into the room, turning to quietly close each door behind him. With little effort, he gave his library a thorough once over, noting the fire blazing in the hearth. He moved to the fireplace, flanked by floor to ceiling bookcases and deftly grabbed the third Grecian medallion frieze from the right, moving the circular dial left, one and a quarter turns. A mechanism inside the wall slipped into gear, popping a