Page 119 of Their Master

“If you don’t do something soon, the fetus may suffer permanent damage,” Felson had warned. “Women who are malnourished have difficult deliveries and underweight children.”

Luke had nodded.

And now, after hearing her weeping, he knew he had to act fast.

He returned the linen to the closet and then went to his room and drafted a brief letter to Miss Moira’s sister, Sandrine, asking her if she might visit, as her sister was lonely.

It took him several hours just to write a few stilted sentences.

Afterward, he’d sent the letter by messenger and then had worried all night and most of today.

Had he been too presumptuous? Would Miss Sandrine tell her sister? Would she be angry with him? Would—

“Mister Luke?”

He turned away from the chrome he was polishing to death at the sound of his name, and smiled at the youngest member of the household, eighteen-year-old James Whitburn. This was his first footman position and James glowed with enthusiasm.

“Yes, James?”

“There’s a lady visitor sir. She says she’s Miss Moira’s sister. I put her in the small sitting room.”

Luke sighed with relief and pulled off the cotton gloves he used for polishing. “Go and tell Cook to prepare tea and I’ll find the mistress and bring her down directly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Luke entered Miss Moira’s chambers to find her laying on her favorite chaise, a neglected book resting beside her.

“You’ve a visitor, miss.”

The hope in her eyes was like a punch to the stomach, and Luke realized who she thought it might be. “Who is it?”

“It is your sister, miss.”

Disappointment flickered briefly across her pale face, but a radiant smile replaced it. “Oh, what a lovely surprise.” She leapt up and glanced in the looking glass and pulled a face. “You must help me, Luke! I look a mess. I think I’ll change into the new rose silk that just came.”

“Of course, miss.”

She moved more quickly, and with more purpose, than she’d done in a month, fairly flying toward the dressing room.

Luke followed her into the other room, not realizing until he saw his reflection that he was smiling like a fool.

∞∞∞

Mr. Smith,

Sir Clayton left the Duke of Linton’s palazzo three days ago. I regret to inform you that I lost his trail. I followed his coach, servants, and baggage to Nice, where I discovered he was not inside the carriage. I backtracked to Turin, where I learned that he’d engaged an inn carriage to take him to Dijon.

I will report again once I have reached the city.

K. Fielding

Smith looked up from the message and sighed.

Who would have believed that his sixty-two-year-old quarry could be so energetic and slippery?

In the six weeks since learning the other man’s identity Smith had also discovered plenty about what Sir Clayton Tyler had been doing for the past thirty-five years.

Clayton’s story was one of meteoric rise and almost equally meteoric descent. His rise had begun over three decades earlier, after his superlative work suppressing Greek rebels. And his descent had begun three years prior, when Clayton had chosen the wrong man to blackmail.

---