Page 46 of The Bachelor Spy
Her hand went to her stomach. God had been so good to get her through many other unexpected things, even if she hadn’t thought the ending would turn out well. Why not something as beautiful as having a baby?
“Blake?” she said as they entered the breakfast room.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you. For … everything.”
He smiled and patted her hand where it rested on his arm. “That’s what family does, Grace. We muddle through the terrifying bits together and hope for the best.”
He seated her in a chair and headed toward the kitchen to find Mrs. Lennox and the coveted seed cake. Grace watched him go, warmth settling over her like a blanket.
Then her breath caught.
For the second time in only a few days, Blake walked without a limp.
A chill crept over her skin.
His gait was smooth, confident—nothing like the careful, pained steps he’d been taking since his arrival.
Grace sat perfectly still, attempting to work through the possibilities.
Blake wasn’t at Havensbrooke because he was wounded.
He wasn’t here as her substitute protector, filling in during Frederick’s absence.
He was here for some other reason entirely.
Something darker? More dangerous?
Something he was attempting to hide.
Grace’s detective instincts—which had apparently failed her entirely where her own pregnancy was concerned—suddenly sharpened, sorting through all the things she knew about him.
He always seemed to turn up when they needed him without any definite explanation for how he knew. He joked about having friends in high and low places all over the world. He knew how to use weapons surprisingly well and had the movements of a cat—agile and silent.
He was pretending to be wounded when he clearly was not.
And he was pretending not to know Helen Gale when he obviously did.
All of these little clues dug the spy notion even deeper.
Blake was certainly up to something.
And Grace, pregnant or not, was going to find out what it was.
Chapter 7
Blake had been waiting in the shadows of the servants’ hall for nearly an hour, which was approximately half an hour longer than his patience typically allowed. But then, stalking one’s would-be murderer in a darkened corridor did require a certain dedication to the craft.
Of course, Evie hadn’t wanted him to die. At least not by her own hand. She could have killed him if she’d wished. But she hadn’t.
Which left several possibilities, most of them hopeful, that she wasnotthe Midnight Angel. Unless her brother had convinced her to turn as he had. At which time, she became a traitor and was likely there to stop him from stopping her—which would lead him to possibly having to kill her … or her returning the favor with better aim this time.
He frowned. He did not like that train of thought in the slightest.
It was bad enough to be shot by the woman he admired and survive a sinking ship, only to find himself stuck undercover wearing a tacky blue patient suit while waiting to see if the same woman—who still owed him a kiss—might actually finish the job this time.
He shrugged a shoulder.
