Following Bridgewater, Michael ascended the stairs, vibrating with a mixture of eagerness to see Undine and anxiety over his earlier behavior toward her. Then he saw the footmen standing guard on either side of the door and stopped. He wanted to grab Bridgewater by the neck and shake him, but he wanted to get Undine out of this house even more. He swallowed his fury, but if he opened that door and found Undine had been harmed in any way, Bridgewater would regret it.
Michael said, “The footmen must leave.”
Bridgewater, who was unused to rural clerics issuing commands, stiffened. But Michael had faced the wrath of noble personages before. After Lady Velopar, he felt like he could stand in the fire of a dragon and remain unscathed.
Bridgewater waved the men away. “Remember,” he said to Michael, “I can only help her if I know exactly what she’s done.”
“I understand your requirements. Please open the door.”
Bridgewater produced a key from his pocket, and Michael realized she’d been locked in as well.
Bridgewater turned the key and grabbed the knob. Michael caught the door before it opened.
“Go,” he said. “I’ll find you when we finish.”
Bridgewater stalked away.
Michael slipped inside.
Undine had been at the window. She turned when the door opened, and the look on her face when she saw him reminded Michael that he’d rather jump from the top of Westminster Abbey than ever hurt her again.
She made a small noise, not quite the noise that would have sent him running to her arms, but it gave him hope, and with hope, he could speak.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” she said.
“I wonder if you might have preferred that. I didn’t do much to make you hope for my return.”
Without the glow of candles, her features were lit only by the night sky, bathing her in ethereal light. But even without candles Michael could see the room was Bridgewater’s bedchamber. His boots stood beside the wardrobe; his hat sat on a high chest of drawers.
Nothing matters but her.
“What can I do to help you?” he said.
Before she could answer, a tiny spot of light appeared on the wall to Michael’s left and disappeared. He wasn’t even entirely certain he’d seen it. Then all at once he knew what it was, and he was furious.
“Your husband says you are in need of advice,” he said, strolling casually between Undine and the vanished dot of light.
Keeping his back facing the wall, he held a finger to his lips and met Undine’s eyes. “Bridgewater is watching,” he mouthed. Then he poked his thumb slowly against the center of his chest to indicate the hole in the wall behind him.
“I am,” she said, nodding. “I am very glad you’re here.”
He wished he could see her eyes. He wished he could see if the words she spoke were aligned with her emotion.
“You disappeared, Father,” she said, and he felt the shame of his betrayal.
“I was a fool. I ran because I was afraid. I’m quite ashamed of it. I didn’t tell your husband that. I told him I had to respond to the bishop’s note from Coldstream—and he did send a note, but I had already left you by the time I received it.”
“You were afraid?”
“Of being hurt,” he said.
“I see.” Her fingers fluttered at her sides. She hadn’t made up her mind about his return. “I can imagine the news was unsettling.”
“It was,” he said sadly, “but that’s no excuse.”
She let out a long exhale. “One doesn’t often hear of bishops being attacked, does one?”
“No, but I should have had more courage.”
“Perhaps you should’ve. Perhaps I should’ve made it clearer how much Bridgewater and I were depending on you.”
“I came back to apologize and to help you in any way I can. I apologized to your husband, and now I must apologize to you.”
“What did my husband say?”
Michael winced. It was one thing for him to refer to Bridgewater as her husband. It was like being strung out on a rack to hear her say it, though.
“Your h-husband said—” His voice cracked and he felt his cheeks warm. “How ill bred of me. I’ve completely forgotten to give you joy of your marriage. I wish you great happiness.” He made a low, courtly bow.
“You are kind, Father.” She didn’t wish to receive good wishes on the occasion of her marriage any more than Michael wished to give them.
“Your husband said you’re involved in some questionable activities.”
“Did he?” she said tartly.
“I do not judge, your ladyship. But I know he wishes to help you. And I know he’ll want to hear that you’ve confessed everything.”
“Do you intend to tell him what I say?”
“That’s a hard question, your ladyship. Both he and I wish to help you any way we can. He is well placed to do so. I wish you would give me leave to do what I think is best.”
She made no response. He directed her to one of the room’s chairs, where she took a seat. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see the fire in hers. Poor Bridgewater. He was not going to like what he heard.
“What concerns have you?” he asked. “Only in unburdening yourself will you find peace.”
Michael could see the look of amusement in her eyes as she considered the form her confession would take.
“The act of fornication is one to which I am fundamentally drawn.”
Michael nearly choked. “We are grateful, then, you have taken a husband.”
“I’m afraid there were many men before Bridgewater,” she said with a rueful smile.
“Your ladyship, perhaps we should turn our minds to matters of—”
“Is fornication still a sin if I like it when I do it?”
He dabbed at his forehead, which had begun to grow moist. “I’m afraid so, aye.”
“’Tis worse, I suppose, if one has committed the sin with two men at once?”
“I do not believe the sin doubles. A sin retains its essential nature no matter the, er, size of the cast of players.”
“Then three is no worse than two?”
“No.” He mouthed, “Stop it.”
Her brows waggled minutely.
“But none of those men meant anything to you,” he said, attempting to rescue the confession. “There was nothing of the deep and abiding love between a husband and wife in it.”
“No. Not at all.”
“So his lordship—”
“Well, except one.”
Michael hesitated. “Oh?”
“One man made me feel a way I’ve never felt before—I beg your pardon, Father. Are you married or otherwise familiar with the joys of fornication?”
“Er, yes,” he said, choosing not to clarify the question he answered.
“Then you know that many men can bring a woman pleasure. I don’t mean at once, of course, though that is possible as well. I mean in the general course of things. But very few can marry the pleasure to a sense that one is safe, that one’s thoughts and dreams can be spoken aloud without embarrassment or misunderstanding, that one will not be tossed aside at dawn’s light for the next challenge, that one is simply…treasured.”
Michael’s chest filled with something both ancient and familiar. “You felt that?”
“Aye,” she said softly. “Have you ever felt such a thing?”
“Yes. Once. And again, I think.”
“With your wife?”
Undine smiled at him, her features lit with emotion, and he had the distinct impression he had just been proposed to.
“Aye,” he said when he could find his voice.
“How wonderful.”
Michael was having trouble remembering which character he was in or what he was supposed to be accomplishing.
“Were there other sins we should talk about?” she said helpfully, amused at his bafflement. “I should think my political work might provide fertile ground.”
“Right. Yes. Let us concentrate on that for a bit.” If he had any hope of satisfying Bridgewater’s prying inquisitiveness, he needed to get her to confess to everything Bridgewater knew she’d done and plausibly deny the rest. Now if he could just keep her steered clear of fornication. Well, at least until they were alone…
“I have worked tirelessly for peace in the borderlands.”
“I do believe your husband knows that. It was certainly well-known in the circles I traveled. Did you ever work against the interests of England?”
“I believe England is as interested in peace as I am.”
Well done!
“Have you ever worked against the interests of your husband?”
“Aye,” she said. “But not since he became my fiancé.”
“Not now?”
“No, of course not.”
A knock sounded at the door. Undine lifted her finger a fraction of an inch—a signal to wait.
“Father Kent?” Bridgewater called, impatient.
Undine accompanied Michael to the door.
“I stole papers,” she said under her breath. “Nab has them.”
“Not anymore—” Michael began but stopped when the door opened.
Bridgewater looked at them, eyes narrowed. “I just wanted to let you know,” he said, “Morebright has searched everywhere, from the laundry to the great hall, including the reception room.”
Michael could feel Undine stiffen, as if she were preparing for a blow.
“And?” she said.
“Nothing was found.”
“Nothing was found?” Michael said. “Or nothing was found missing?”
“Both, I suppose,” Bridgewater said. “The keys weren’t found, and nothing is missing.”
“Nothing?” Undine said.
“Did you expect something to be missing?”
“No. I’m just relieved for Simon.”
“Aye, I can see that.” He turned to Michael. “May I see you outside, Father?”
Michael bowed to Undine and stepped into the hall.
“How is the confession?”
You know very well how it is, you prick. “Fine, fine. We’re crossing some challenging ground.”
Bridgewater raised a brow. “What?”
Michael could hardly lie since the man had been listening almost since the start. “Past fornications.”
“How many?”
Did this man have a shred of chivalry in him? “She didn’t say.”
“Ask. I want names. Some may be spies.”
Mud-wallowing pig. I wonder how you’d feel if I kneed your balls into your stomach?
“Has she said anything about treasonous activities?”
“Aye,” Michael said. “She believes England to be as eager for peace in the borderlands as she.”
Bridgewater snorted.
If this was a test, Michael had passed. He’d reported exactly what Undine had said, and he could see the growing confidence in the nobleman’s eyes. Bridgewater would be quite surprised when his new wife disappeared with her lowly curate. Michael needed to figure out how to extract the confession well enough for Bridgewater to abandon his Peeping Tomism so that he and Undine could make their escape.
“Make sure you ask her about the boy,” Bridgewater said. “I want to know what’s going on there. I don’t like it.”
“I’ll ask her about everything. Where can I find you when we finish?”
Bridgewater straightened the line of his frock coat. “Don’t worry. I’ll find you.” He dismissed Michael with a nod and turned to leave.
“Have you considered the impact of your distrust?”
Bridgewater paused, as if he couldn’t quite believe the words that had been directed toward him. Michael cursed himself for saying anything.
“I beg your pardon?” Bridgewater said.
“The impact of your distrust. You may learn what you want to know, but her ladyship will never forget what you’ve put her through.”
“I don’t want her to forget. ’Tis part of her rehabilitation.”
“Remember that when—” Michael stopped himself before he said she’s gone.
Bridgewater frowned. “Remember that when what?”
“When you’re called upon to justify your actions.”
“Before God?” Bridgewater said, as if he expected the Almighty to fall far below him in the order of precedence in heaven.
“Who else?”
“Aye,” Bridgewater said, “who else?”
Bridgewater left with a snort, and Michael returned to Undine. The instant the door was closed, she said, “I took the papers.”
“I know,” he said quickly, knowing they had only a second or two. “I saw Nab. Before I came into the house. He had them, but he returned them—after he took them from you.”
“What about the keys?” she said, desperate.
Michael put a finger to his lips, tilted his head to the hole in the wall, and said in a clear voice, “I’d like to talk to you about what’s happened here.”
“What’s happened?”
“This business about a theft.”
She crossed her arms. “The theft that didn’t occur?”
“Lord Morebright’s keys are missing, which, of course, means a theft may happen at some point in the future.”
She laughed. “Are we investigating potential crimes now?”
“Surely you can understand Lord Morebright’s concern.”
“He’s a doddering fool.”
“He’s not fool enough to endure the loss of keys without worry.”
“And you think I may have something to do with their disappearance?” she said.
“Your husband rightly worries. And you owe him, and God, the truth. What’s your relationship with the boy?”
Her eyes flashed. “What boy?”
Michael didn’t get a chance to answer. A howl arose in the courtyard. Undine ran to the window with Michael behind her.
“Let go of me, you stupid arse!”
Nab.
A footman had him by the ear.
“Leave him alone,” Undine said loudly.
If Bridgewater had any doubt about Undine’s relationship to Nab, he wouldn’t anymore.
“This is Lady Bridgewater,” she called hotly. “I demand to know what you’re doing to that boy.”
“He’s a thief, ma’am,” the footman said.
Undine gasped. “The keys,” she said under her breath.
Michael put a hand on her back to steady her.
The footman dragged the boy roughly toward the stables. Nab was losing the battle to maintain his bravery. His cries had turned to those of a terrified child.
“We have to stop this,” she whispered, then called to the footman, “What are you going to do to him?”
Morebright stepped from the shadows of the courtyard, holding a crop. “Lady Bridgewater,” he said, “I beg you to make yourself easy. My men found the keys hidden on his person.”
“Nothing was taken,” she said, furious.
“My keys were taken. I shall teach him to regret the wickedness of his ways.”
She caught hold of Michael’s habit. “What are they going to do to him?”
“They’re going to whip him.”
“What if they kill him?” She was quaking now, and he put his hand on her arm.
“They’re not going to kill him. They’re not.” As if to underline his certainty, the first crack of the crop echoed in the night, followed instantly by Nab’s wail.
“They wouldn’t beat him if they were going to kill him.” He prayed what he’d told her was true.
“Oh God.”
A movement in the courtyard caught his eye, and he turned her to see. Bridgewater strode toward the stables as the footmen and other servants, curious, began to populate the edges of the open space.
“Listen to me,” Michael said, as the second and third crack sounded and Nab’s cries increased. “We have to make his sacrifice count. He tried to help you. Make it count for something.”
Her quivering stopped, and she looked at him clear-eyed. “You search the room here. I’m getting those papers again. We’ll take them to Caddonfoot, where General Silverbridge is. He’s Bridgewater’s commanding officer. I trust him.”
“Caddonfoot?”
“It’s the second town to the south—along the river. I’ll meet you there at dawn.”
“No,” he said. “We’ll meet at the river.” He swept her into his arms. “I left you once, fool that I was. I’ll never let anything part us again.”
Nab’s tortured cry cut through the night like a chain saw.
“Go,” he said.