Page 30 of The Bachelor Spy
Curious.
“Pardon me?” He arranged his face into his most charming smile, leaning heavily on his cane. “You must be the enigmatic Nurse Wilson. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Is it?” Her dark eyes swept over him with clinical assessment—the look of someone cataloguing information rather than simply evaluating a patient’s condition. “Because you seem to be heading in the wrong direction. The patients’ quarters are behind you.”
“Are they?” Blake glanced back down the corridor with what he hoped was convincing confusion. “Terribly sorry. I’m afraid I got turned around. This house is quite the maze at times.”
“It’s a straight corridor, Mr. Blake.”
Blast. She wasn’t going to make this easy.
Blake tried a different approach, letting some genuine discomfort show through. “I confess, I was feeling a bit restless. Thought a longer walk might help, but I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going, having just entered from outside and all.” He tapped his cane against the floor. “The pain has a way of clouding one’s judgment.”
Something in Nurse Wilson’s expression shifted fractionally. Not quite sympathy, but perhaps a recognition of genuine discomfort.
“The pain will lessen with time,” she said, her voice losing some of its sharp edge. “But wandering into the servants’ quarters won’t speed your recovery. I will have no … fraternizing with Lady Astley’s staff on my watch.”
“I do apologize.” He shrugged like a schoolboy being caught. “I can’t say I’m entirely innocent of that assertion.” His gaze trailed back down the hall, a lazy smile growing in place. “A pretty face is quite distracting, if not even medicinal, for a hurting man, Nurse Wilson. It’s a tale as old as time.”
Her lips quirked the slightest bit. Good. Keep her off his scent.
“But you are absolutely right, of course. No fraternizing, even if it is a tremendously helpful distraction, in my assessment.” He offered his most self-deprecating smile. “I suppose I’m not adjusting well to life as an invalid. I’m accustomed to being rather more … mobile.”
“Most men are.” Nurse Wilson stepped into the corridor, effectively blocking his path forward. “But healing requires patience, Mr. Blake. And some medicines are not for my patients, even if they are friends of the house, so I expect you to follow the rules.”
“I’ve never been particularly good at following rules,” Blake admitted, letting just enough charm slip into his voice. “Though I’m told that’s part of my dubious appeal.”
For just a moment, the briefest flicker—something that might have been amusement—crossed Nurse Wilson’s face. Then it was gone, replaced by professional composure.
“Your dubious appeal won’t serve you well if you insist on wandering where patients aren’t permitted.” She gestured back down the corridor. “The drawing room has several comfortable chairs. I suggest you rest there.”
“And if I insist on being difficult?”
Now there was definitely amusement in her eyes. “Then I shall be forced to inform Lady Astley that her cousin requires closer supervision. I’m certain she would be … enthusiastic about monitoring your recoverypersonally.“
Blake laughed despite himself. The thought of Grace hovering over him with her mystery novels and endless questions was genuinely alarming. “You fight dirty, Nurse Wilson.”
“I fight effectively, Mr. Blake.” She moved aside slightly, creating a clear path back the way he’d come. “Now, shall I escort you back, or can you find your way without further incident?”
“I think I can manage.” Blake paused. “Thank you for redirecting my wayward wandering. I shall endeavor to stay in appropriate areas from now on.”
She inclined her head slightly. “See that you do, Mr. Blake.”
As Blake made his way back down the corridor, he felt Nurse Wilson’s eyes on him until he turned the corner.
Blake released a long breath, the knot in his stomach twisting tighter with each passing moment. He turned toward the library, then paused. Voices drifted from one of the patients’ rooms down the corridor—low, urgent, the kind that immediately pricked the part of his brain that never stopped indexing people and potential threats.
His training took over instantly. He moved soundlessly toward the sounds, his manufactured limp vanishing as soon as he was out of sight of the main areas. The voices grew clearer as he approached.
“It’s still there, I tell you,” came a voice Blake recognized but couldn’t quite place among all the patients. “It has to be. Granddad’s the only one who knew where it was hidden.”
Blake stilled, pressing himself against the wall just outside the doorway. He leaned just enough around the frame to catch sight of the speakers.
Ah, yes. Private Pennington—the wiry man who’d arrived several weeks before with a wounded shoulder. He sat on the edge of his bed, leaning close to Private Edwards, a broad fellow whose left arm was wrapped in bandages. The men were hunched together in a conspiratorial way, though not prudent enough to lower their voices properly.
“There’s a map, I tell you,” Pennington continued, his accent thickening with excitement. Yorkshire, Blake noted automatically. Working class. “Granddad said it showed the tunnels—one leads to an old cellar. That’ll show the way to what’s hidden.”
Edwards let out a low whistle. “You think it’s still there? After all this time?”
