Beguiled by a Baron (The Heart of a Duke Book 14)(9)

Both women spoke in unison. “Slow.”

Cheeks flushed red with excitement and his eyes glowing, Virgil wore his joy tangibly like a mark upon his face.

“We are not going anywhere,” Bridget said, walking over. She ruffled the top of his chocolate brown tresses. When his face fell, she added, “You and Nettie, however, will be exploring London.” As much as they could afford. All their resources had gone to rent these rooms for the next two months. She’d not proffered coin for any additional ones. That was the time she’d set for herself to see this through.

“Why can’t you stay?” And with the faint pleading there, Virgil was very much the tiny babe she’d cradled in her arms, and not this little person who wavered between babe and boy.

“I will be busy shut away evaluating old books.”

“And you’ll love it all the while,” he groused, though his lips pulled slightly at the corners. For all his protestations to the contrary, Virgil had an equal love and skill with antiquated texts.

But how well he knew her. And yes, normally she would have traded the slim material possessions to their name to examine some of the most prized first edition books and tomes of Lord Chilton’s collection. From this point forward, she’d never look upon another without seeing Archibald’s evil and her own complicity. Ravaged with guilt at taking part in this scheme and leaving her son behind, she dropped to a knee so she could look him squarely in the eyes. “I’ll return every Sunday,” she vowed. As housekeeper there were many benefits that came with the post. Not only would she acquire thirty pounds each month she served in the baron’s household but she also had the freedom of movement one day each week.

“And we’ll do something wonderful on those days?” he pressed.

Bridget caught him to her, knocking him off-kilter. “Are you daring to suggest it’s not just wonderful being with me?” She tickled him in his sides until peals of laughter rang from his lips.

“S-stop. S-stop,” he pleaded, fighting against her hold.

Tickling him once more for good measure, she leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Something wonderful,” she hedged. For the truth remained, she could not be caught out in the fashionable ends of London and risk being spied by her employer in Virgil’s company.

At her back, Nettie cleared her throat and pain lanced through her. “’Tis time, Lady Bridget.”

It had been inevitable, that pronouncement. And yet, hearing it somehow cemented the finality of her decision and her departure. Biting the inside of her cheek, she forced herself to stand slowly. She’d not have Virgil see her pain and trepidation in leaving. Her son’s lower lip quivered and the sight of his quiet suffering ravaged her. From behind her, Nettie’s crying filled the small parlor. I’m going to splinter apart right in front of them. “Until Sunday,” she said hoarsely. And before she dissolved into a puddle of tears at his feet, Bridget grabbed her valise and rushed from the room.

Virgil’s soft weeping followed behind her and she quickened her footsteps, fighting the urge to return. If she did so, she’d be useless to him. He’d see her break down and would only find greater misery. With every step, Nettie’s hushed reassurances grew fainter and fainter until they dissolved altogether. Her muslin cloak whipped noisily about her ankles and, shifting her cumbersome valise to her other hand, she rushed down the hall to the foyer.

Lords and ladies had housekeepers and butlers. But even as Bridget’s own family had been in possession of a once plentiful staff, she herself had forever been without that luxury. In time, after she’d been scuttled off to the country with Archibald’s son, she’d opened her own doors and brewed her own teas. She let herself out the front door.

An overcast London morn greeted her; the dreary day a perfect match to her mood. Shoving aside such maudlin sentiments, she scanned the streets of Piccadilly. No good had ever come in wallowing in regrets. She located a hack. Shifting the burden of her valise to her other hand, she started over. “To Lord Chilton’s Mayfair residence. Number Fifteen.”

The young man eyed her a moment and then, jumping down, he drew the door open. He collected her bag. First, he helped Bridget up and then tossed her valise inside after her. It landed with an unceremonious thump at her feet. “Thank—” The silent driver slammed the door shut. “—you,” she muttered under her breath. The carriage lurched forward and she gasped. Grabbing the edge of the seat to keep from flying forward, she held tight.

The torn, faded, velvet curtains whipped wildly. The passing streets of London danced in and out of focus like the kaleidoscope she’d gifted Virgil years earlier. Bridget stared absently out at the foreign streets and used the remaining time to prepare for her introduction to the baron’s household. As the senior member of Lord Chilton’s staff, she’d be permitted freedom of movement within the household which should make her task of finding the Chaucer and—

She pressed her eyes closed. “I’ve become a common thief,” she whispered into the carriage. For the first time, Bridget forced herself to utter those words aloud and own them. She was sacrificing her honor to save Virgil. If she were being truthful with herself at last in this instant, she was saving herself, too. Because she’d witnessed over the years the evil Archibald was capable of. She knew what he did to those who’d thwarted him. And she did not doubt he’d have her committed as he’d vowed if she didn’t do this.