shaking his head.
A real Order agent, right there on his very own lawn!
Suddenly, Phillip set his jaw in stubborn determination that he had inherited from his grandsire the spymaster—though, to be sure, it had not skipped a generation.
No matter what Mother said, he had a right to talk to Lord Forrester, man-to-man. His own father was nothing but an unsmiling portrait and a name bequeathed to him, along with properties and fortune.
Phillip gathered from the things his mother didn’t say that his father had been a bit of a dud.
Of course, few men could have lived up to the standard set by Grandpa Virgil.
Not that their connection came without cost. After all, many of Phillip’s relatives on his father’s side didn’t accept him on account of her being the Scotsman’s by-blow.
Some of his cousins had even taunted him once by calling his mother a half-blood, and that, to be sure, had won his ire.
Nobody insulted his mother.
But although he’d never admit it, their rejection hurt. Indeed, it had convinced him over time that his real family lay with the Order, if only he would be allowed to join them.
And now, at last, here was this visitor, a living, breathing connection to that whole, mysterious world.
Phillip simply had to talk to him.
Lord Forrester was one of the most famous Order agents, handpicked and trained by Virgil himself. This seasoned agent would be able to judge better than anyone the great question that obsessed Phillip’s heart: whether he had what it took to be accepted into the Order’s school. He was pretty sure they would’ve taken him simply because of his bloodlines: He knew he had the blood of heroes in his veins.
But all Mother cared about was keeping him safe, as if he were an egg.
She only did it because she loved him, he supposed, but she was such a mother hen. She just didn’t understand.
Sometimes in this life a man had to do what a man had to do. Like now. His mind made up, he opened the library window, then climbed out in a most spylike fashion, jumping down silently onto the lawn.
From there, he marched off to go and interview their mysterious guest for himself. Like Grandpa Virgil always used to say: Easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
N ick was still practicing when he looked over and saw Lady Burke’s son striding toward him. He stopped what he was doing and turned, furrowing his brow, as the youngster hailed him.
“Hullo there! Lord Forrester, isn’t it? I’m Lord Burke. Thought I’d come and introduce myself. I’m Phillip!”
Instantly wondering if the boy had seen him on the ground with his mother, Nick cleared his throat and bowed, feeling awkward. “Pleased to meet you, Lord Burke.”
The kid joined him, staring eagerly at Nick as if he expected him to perform a circus trick. Juggling, perhaps.
Nick frowned, a little unnerved by his beaming scrutiny. He turned away and made himself busy wiping some mud off one of his blades.
“So, Mother says you knew Grandpa Virgil!” he blurted out at last.
Nick paused, looking askance at him with caution. “Yes.”
“Brilliant. He trained you?”
“Yes. You know about the Order?” he asked warily.
“Oh, I know lots! Let me see if I have this right. You’re . . . the expert sniper on Lord Beauchamp’s team.”
“Was,” he mumbled ruefully, arching a brow. “All the teams have been disbanded since we were exposed. You know Beauchamp?”
Phillip gave a sheepish shrug. “Know of him, that’s all. But I did get to meet Lord Falconridge once! Capital chap!”
“Yes,” Nick agreed.
“He didn’t know who I was. I mean, that my grandfather was Virgil. It’s been a family secret, y’see.”
“So I gather.” Nick hid his amusement. But to call the existence of Virgil’s daughter and her son a “secret” was putting it mildly. More like a damned shock. “Pretty impressive how he kept all his own trained spies from finding out about you and your mother.”
“He didn’t want me
A real Order agent, right there on his very own lawn!
Suddenly, Phillip set his jaw in stubborn determination that he had inherited from his grandsire the spymaster—though, to be sure, it had not skipped a generation.
No matter what Mother said, he had a right to talk to Lord Forrester, man-to-man. His own father was nothing but an unsmiling portrait and a name bequeathed to him, along with properties and fortune.
Phillip gathered from the things his mother didn’t say that his father had been a bit of a dud.
Of course, few men could have lived up to the standard set by Grandpa Virgil.
Not that their connection came without cost. After all, many of Phillip’s relatives on his father’s side didn’t accept him on account of her being the Scotsman’s by-blow.
Some of his cousins had even taunted him once by calling his mother a half-blood, and that, to be sure, had won his ire.
Nobody insulted his mother.
But although he’d never admit it, their rejection hurt. Indeed, it had convinced him over time that his real family lay with the Order, if only he would be allowed to join them.
And now, at last, here was this visitor, a living, breathing connection to that whole, mysterious world.
Phillip simply had to talk to him.
Lord Forrester was one of the most famous Order agents, handpicked and trained by Virgil himself. This seasoned agent would be able to judge better than anyone the great question that obsessed Phillip’s heart: whether he had what it took to be accepted into the Order’s school. He was pretty sure they would’ve taken him simply because of his bloodlines: He knew he had the blood of heroes in his veins.
But all Mother cared about was keeping him safe, as if he were an egg.
She only did it because she loved him, he supposed, but she was such a mother hen. She just didn’t understand.
Sometimes in this life a man had to do what a man had to do. Like now. His mind made up, he opened the library window, then climbed out in a most spylike fashion, jumping down silently onto the lawn.
From there, he marched off to go and interview their mysterious guest for himself. Like Grandpa Virgil always used to say: Easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
N ick was still practicing when he looked over and saw Lady Burke’s son striding toward him. He stopped what he was doing and turned, furrowing his brow, as the youngster hailed him.
“Hullo there! Lord Forrester, isn’t it? I’m Lord Burke. Thought I’d come and introduce myself. I’m Phillip!”
Instantly wondering if the boy had seen him on the ground with his mother, Nick cleared his throat and bowed, feeling awkward. “Pleased to meet you, Lord Burke.”
The kid joined him, staring eagerly at Nick as if he expected him to perform a circus trick. Juggling, perhaps.
Nick frowned, a little unnerved by his beaming scrutiny. He turned away and made himself busy wiping some mud off one of his blades.
“So, Mother says you knew Grandpa Virgil!” he blurted out at last.
Nick paused, looking askance at him with caution. “Yes.”
“Brilliant. He trained you?”
“Yes. You know about the Order?” he asked warily.
“Oh, I know lots! Let me see if I have this right. You’re . . . the expert sniper on Lord Beauchamp’s team.”
“Was,” he mumbled ruefully, arching a brow. “All the teams have been disbanded since we were exposed. You know Beauchamp?”
Phillip gave a sheepish shrug. “Know of him, that’s all. But I did get to meet Lord Falconridge once! Capital chap!”
“Yes,” Nick agreed.
“He didn’t know who I was. I mean, that my grandfather was Virgil. It’s been a family secret, y’see.”
“So I gather.” Nick hid his amusement. But to call the existence of Virgil’s daughter and her son a “secret” was putting it mildly. More like a damned shock. “Pretty impressive how he kept all his own trained spies from finding out about you and your mother.”
“He didn’t want me
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