Beguiled by a Baron (The Heart of a Duke Book 14)(4)

In the lead windowpane, she spied the guilt ravaging her features. “Just this once,” her voice was a barely-there whisper. “I’ll never steal for you again.”

At his silence, she spun back. “I want a promise.” Do you truly believe your brother’s word means anything? She held a hand up when he opened his mouth and opted for a language he understood. “I want ten thousand pounds,” she said bluntly, her skin crawling at the stolen monies she’d accept. “I’ll not turn over that book until you give me those funds.”

He eyed her with an appreciation that turned her stomach. “I never thought I’d see the day I was proud of you, Bridget. Until now.”

I’m going to be ill.

“Five thousand,” he said flatly.

“Eight.”

“Seven and not a pence more,” he said with a finality that marked the end of his bargaining.

She gave a tight nod.

“You begin in a week’s time.”

As he rambled through the perfunctory details of her assignment, a loud humming filled her ears. I am complicit in this crime. I am sacrificing my honor… for my son’s life. That reminder brought her back from the precipice of despair.

“While you’re gone, I’ll remain here with the boy.”

A denial burst from her lips and she sprang forward on the balls of her feet. “You’ll not.” She’d rather dance with the Devil on Sunday than leave Virgil alone in her brother’s company.

He frowned. “Come, you hurt my feelings, Bridget.” Archibald made a tsking sound. “Surely you don’t think I’d hurt my own—” Her breath caught. “—nephew.”

She’d conceded enough this day. She’d not allow him this. “No. I’ve agreed to help you and you have my word I’ll do so. But I’ll not have you staying with my son.”

He pursed his lips and glanced around the room. He sighed. “Very well. It would be rather hideous living here.” He eyed the paintings pinned to the wall; those precious gifts made by Virgil three years earlier. Her brother sneered.

“We are done here, Archibald,” she said tightly and marched to the door.

Her brother lifted his head. “I say, you’ve hurt my feelings again, Bridget.”

“You don’t have any feelings to be hurt,” she shot back.

“No.” He grinned. “You are correct there. But you share my blood. And for all your failings and flaws, you have parts of the Hamilton determination inside you.”

“Evil.” Archibald cocked his head. “The Hamilton evil.” Her parents had been a coldhearted pair who’d spawned even colder children. Was it a wonder she could so easily agree to help Archibald in this?

“Call it what you wish, but it will see me—and now you—survive.”

Seething, Bridget yanked open the door. Her heart dropped to her stomach as Virgil stumbled into the room. Cheeks flushed and eyes downcast, he demonstrated the same lack of skill with subterfuge as she herself.

With the same crescent-shaped birthmark on his wrist and the same shade of brown hair as Bridget and her brother, he was very much a Hamilton—in appearance. Not in any other way, however. “Mum,” he mumbled, scuffing the tip of his shoe along the floor.

“Virgil.” She damned her reduced hearing that allowed him to sneak up on her. And then her stomach lurched. How much had he heard? She searched him for any indications. “His Lordship was just leaving,” she said tightly.

“U-uncle Archibald,” her son greeted.

With barely a glance for this boy he’d sired, Archibald stalked out of the room.

She instantly closed the door behind him. “I told you not to lurk at doorways, ever,” she said sharply.

Virgil wrinkled his nose. “Why is he always so miserable?”

“Because he was born miserable,” she said without thinking. And merciless and cutting. She winced. Regardless of the truths about that vile reprobate that was her brother, she’d no place interjecting her feelings about Archibald or anything. She gathered Virgil close, needing the soft, reassuring weight of his small frame. “Some people are just happy and some are—”

“Miserable,” he finished and struggled away.

Her heart pulled. How often he drew back from those expressions of warmth. As a babe, he’d always been ready with a hug. As a young boy, he desperately craved and required a gentleman’s influence. She steeled her jaw. Never one like Archibald. Which brought her back to Virgil’s presence here before her now. “What were you doing listening at the door?” she asked in even tones. What did you hear? How long were you there?

“I went out to feed the sheep and saw his carriage.”

So, he’d sneaked free of Miss Nettie. Nearing fifty, the older woman was growing more lax. And she’d be all Virgil had when Bridget went off to London. Suddenly, the wisdom in that course gave her pause.

“What did he want?” Virgil asked, with a surprising amount of world wariness in his eyes.

To destroy our future: yours and mine.

Opting to give him as much truth as she was able, she explained: “There are books in London. I’ve been asked to evaluate them.”

Her son’s eyes lit. For his earlier standoffishness, he threw himself at her, tugging at her sleeve the way he had as a young babe. “We’re going to London? When do we leave?”