Page 7 of Betrayal from Beyond
“Strange?”
“She acknowledged him. Walked right up, winked at him, then set off.”
“He followed, I presume?”
“He did, and he said it was damned hard to keep her in his sights, despite her skirts. She knows a trick or two. He managed to keep up with her—until she disappeared into one of the rookeries.”
Niall stilled.
“Yes.” Stayme looked grim. “He lost her near Seven Dials.”
Niall closed his eyes. “Surely it is not her, Stayme. We heard she was last spotted in Austria, right before we set out on our bridal trip.”
Petra Scot had been the woman who made public Niall’s family secrets—that his mother had been the illegitimate daughter of King George IV and his illegal wife, Maria Fitzherbert. She had meant to use his story to stir up religious unrest and anger against a corrupt government and a ruthless royal family. She’d wanted his story to be the tinder to start a fire of rebellion and rioting. She’d said she’d wanted leverage to influence change in England’s foreign policy—and had even convinced several unsavory factions of a few foreign governments to back her plans.
Niall knew the truth, however. Petra had merely wanted money, and a bit of revenge against the royal family and all of those who had mistreated her own mother—the disgraced Queen Caroline. When Niall and Kara foiled her plans, she’d added them both to the long list of those she meant to seek vengeance upon.
“I never saw the Scot woman, myself,” Stayme said bitterly. “Only her lackeys.” He’d been abducted and held captive in an attempt to force Niall’s cooperation. “But I’ve heard her described. Dark hair and eyes. Slope of a nose. She was the right age, too.”
Niall sighed. “I think it’s far more likely that this woman was sent by one of your enemies, rather than mine. Petra is far too crafty to allow herself to be seen.” He didn’t want to believe Stayme was right. They had all had quite enough danger and intrigue. He just wanted to settle in with Kara and make his art—and perhaps a child or two. Or ten.
“You might be right. But we should both keep our eyes and ears open. And there is something else you should know.”
Niall waited.
“She sent a new watcher after she was found out. Disguised him as one of the gardening apprentices. It might have worked, too, if I was not familiar with all of their staff.” Stayme stood. “But the boy left, faster than a shot, the moment you and Harold climbed out of that hack.”
Niall cursed under his breath.
“Niall? Lord Stayme!” The echo of Harold’s pounding footsteps reached them before the boy himself. He skidded to a stop in the doorway. “Good morning, sir! Are you coming to Bluefield Park today?”
“Of course I am,” the viscount said gruffly. “I would have been there yesterday, had I known just when they meant to arrive.” He shot a dark look at Niall before ruffling the boy’s hair. “Watts likely already has my luggage strapped to the coach.”
“He said so,” Harold confirmed. “Cook made us a basket, too, but she says I’m to just eat the roast chicken. Three scones are enough, she says.”
“Aye, lad. Some meat will put some flesh back on your bones.” Stayme had been nearly as upset as Kara and Niall when the boy had been poisoned.
They trooped downstairs, and Stayme stopped to give his secretary a few last instructions.
Watts sidled up to Niall. “He wasn’t exaggerating?” he asked quietly.
“I’m afraid not.”
Watts absorbed the news. “I’d hoped he was just bored.”
“It might be nothing, but you should alert the staff. Be careful, even when he’s with us.”
“We know what is expected of us, sir.”
“I know you do.”
Stayme’s traveling carriage rolled up outside, and they were soon all bundled inside and on their way. Harold leaned toward the window, looking back for a long moment. He turned to lookover his shoulder at Stayme. “Sir? Why do you have a naughty door knocker?”
Niall had never once seen such a look of surprise on the old man’s face. The viscount cleared his throat. “I’ll tell you why, boy. It’s because I was once a young man myself.” He barked out a laugh at Harold’s dubious expression. “It’s true! And I tell you, in my day we were not so prim and prissy as the gentlemen today like to think themselves. We ranwild. We lived hard. I could raise your hair, if I told you some of the tales of our exploits.”
“Tell them!” Harold urged.
“When you are older, I shall,” the viscount vowed. “But for now, I will tell you that when I was a gentleman about Town, getting up to every escapade, I promised myself I would never turn into a cold fish, a pompous prig with no taste for adventure, laughter, or fun. I vowed never to forget to relish the joy to be found in wine, women or a game well played.” He looked Harold directly in the eye. “And by God, I kept that vow. I keep that knocker to remind me of it.” He pointed a finger. “If you learn nothing else from me, boy, let it be this—keep the promises you make yourself. For if you cannot be true to yourself, how can you ever honor the others in your life?”
