Page 28 of The Bachelor Spy
Could Stephen Blake be some sort of government agent? Or … spy?
The notion seemed utterly absurd and perfectly logical all at once.
She glanced at him from across the table as they sat—his easy smile, his charming manner, his seemingly casual observations that were anything but casual.
The limp?
And what of his connection to Miss Helen Gale? She held the same sort of alertness. Grace’s breath shuddered shallowly as she took a bite of a scone.
Could theybothbe spies?
Grace almost laughed. How ridiculous!
She smiled at Blake as he mentioned his gratitude for sleeping in such comfort after so many nights on cots or the ground.
But was it ridiculous? Truly?
Another thrill soared through her body all the way up to tingle her scalp.
Grace had just added a second mystery to her list.
And this one involved a charming spy, a suspicious maid, and secrets that were practically begging to be uncovered.
Why enjoy only one mystery when she could have two?
How absolutely delightful.
Blake had learned early in his career that the best intelligence was gathered while appearing to do absolutely nothing of importance.
Which was why, after several days of “recuperation” at Havensbrooke, he’d taken to making slow, painful circuits around the main floor, leaning heavily on his cane and wincing at appropriate intervals. The other patients had accepted him readily enough—shared misery being an excellent social lubricant—and the staff had largely stopped paying him particular attention.
Which was perfect.
He continued his walk outside, carefully noting every window, every door, every possible point of entry or escape.
Particularly around Frederick’s study.
The very idea of someone inside stealing items without a pattern only heightened his concern. He shouldn’t be distracted by Grace’s little mystery when there was an actual traitor somewhere in Havensbrooke, but he would not allow the possibility of harm to come to someone his cousin adored so thoroughly.
The afternoon sun slanted through the trees as Blake made his way along the gravel path that curved past the house’s east wing. From here, he could see Frederick’s study windows clearly—ground floor, easily accessible from the gardens, partially concealed by an overgrown lilac bush.
Perfect for a thief who knew the layout.
Or for someone already inside the house who needed a quick escape route.
He paused, pretending to admire a rosebush while his eyes tracked the distance from the window to the garden wall. Thirty feet, perhaps. Then another twenty to the gate that led to the stable yard. An agile person could be over that wall and gone in under a minute.
He filed the information away and continued his circuit, his mind working through possibilities.
As Blake rounded the corner near the conservatory, he stopped short when a familiar voice drifted from over a low-lying hedgerow near the back terrace.
That voice—carefully neutral, controlled tones—belonged to Helen Gale.
Or rather, to Evie Montgomery.
Evie sat on a garden bench beside one of the patients, her face turned toward the man, her maid’s cap slightly askew. Her profile was branded in his mind from hundreds of conversations and dozens of missions where they’d learned not only to rely on each other, but …
Blake’s heart stumbled in his chest.
