Alistair sat in the largest of the castle towers. Four tall windows spaced evenly around the curved outside walls let in a wonderful amount of light, making the tower perfect for his study. Three wide tables took up most of the room. Their surfaces were covered with open books, maps, animal and insect specimens, magnifying glasses, paintbrushes, presses for preserving leaves and flowers, various interesting rocks, bark, bird nests, and his pencil sketches. Against the outer walls, between the windows, were glass cases and shelves holding more books, maps, and various journals and scientific papers.
Beside the door was a small fireplace, lit even though the day was warm. Lady Grey was getting on in years, and she enjoyed warming herself on the little rug in front of the fire. She sprawled there, taking her morning nap as Alistair worked behind the largest table, which also served as his desk. Earlier they’d gone on their morning ramble. They no longer walked as far as they used to, and Alistair had been forced to slow his stride in the last couple of weeks to let Lady Grey keep pace. Soon he’d have to leave the old girl behind.
But he’d worry about that another day. Alistair unfolded the letter and perused it as the fire gently crackled. It was early in the morning, and he had no doubt that his unexpected guests of the night before were still sleeping. Despite her claim to be a housekeeper, Mrs. Halifax struck him as more of a society lady. Perhaps she was here on a wager, some other aristocratic lady daring her to beard the revoltingly scarred Sir Alistair in his castle den. The thought was a terrible one, making him ashamed and angry at the same time. But then he remembered that she’d been genuinely shocked by his appearance. That at least wasn’t part of some game. And in any case, Lady Vale was not the type of frivolous woman to play such tricks.
Alistair sighed and tossed the letter on the table before him. No mention of Vale’s wife’s scheme to send him a supposed housekeeper. Instead, the letter was full of Vale’s news about the Spinner’s Falls traitor and the death of Matthew Horn—a false trail abruptly cut short.
He lightly traced the border of his eye patch as he gazed out the tower window. Six years ago in the American Colonies, Spinner’s Falls was the place where the 28th Regiment of Foot had fallen in an ambush. Nearly the entire regiment had been massacred by Wyandot Indians, allies of the French. The few survivors—including Alistair—had been captured and marched through the woods of New England. And when they’d made the Indian camp . . .
He dropped his hand to touch a corner of the letter. He’d not even been a member of the 28th. His was a civilian position. Charged with discovering and describing the flora and fauna of New England, Alistair had been three months from returning to England when he’d had the misfortune of walking into Spinner’s Falls. Three months. Had he stayed behind with the rest of the British army in Quebec as originally planned, he wouldn’t even have been at Spinner’s Falls.
Alistair carefully refolded the letter. Now Vale and another survivor, a Colonial named Samuel Hartley, had evidence that the 28th had been betrayed at Spinner’s Falls. That a traitor had given the French and their Wyandot Indian allies the day when they’d pass by Spinner’s Falls. Vale and Hartley were convinced that they could find this traitor and eventually expose and punish him. Alistair tapped the letter gently against his desk. Ever since Vale’s visit, the thought of a traitor had begun to fester in his mind. That such a man was still free—still alive—while so many good men were dead was unbearable.
Three weeks ago, he’d finally taken action. If there was a traitor, he’d almost certainly dealt with the French. Who better to ask about the traitor than a Frenchman? He had a colleague in France, a man named Etienne LeFabvre, who he’d written and asked if he had heard any rumors about Spinner’s Falls. Since then, he’d been waiting impatiently for a reply from Etienne. He frowned. Relations with France were terrible, as usual, but surely—
His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the tower door. Mrs. Halifax entered carrying a tray.
“What the hell’re you doing?” he rasped, surprise making his words harsher than he’d intended.
She stopped, her wide, pretty mouth turning down with displeasure. “I’ve brought you your breakfast, Sir Alistair.”
He refrained with effort from asking what she could’ve possibly brought him for breakfast. Unless she’d caught the castle mice and fried them up, there wasn’t much of anything to eat. He’d dined on the last of the sausages the night before.
She glided forward and made to set the tray on a rather valuable Italian tome on insects.
“Not there.”
At his command, she froze, half-bent.
“Ah, just a moment.” He hastily cleared a space, stacking papers on the floor beside his chair. “Here will do.”
She set the tray down and uncovered a dish. On it reposed two ragged slices of bacon, crisped within an inch of their lives, and three small, hard biscuits. Beside the plate was a large bowl of porridge and a cup of inky black tea.
“I would’ve brought up a pot of tea,” Mrs. Halifax was saying as she busied herself arranging the dishes on his desk, “but you don’t seem to have one. A teapot, that is. As it was, I was forced to boil the tea in a cooking pot.”
“Broke last month,” Alistair muttered. What scheme was this? And was he expected to consume this dreck in front of her?
She looked up, all rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, damn her. “What did?”
“The teapot.” Thank God he’d put on his eye patch this morning. “This is most, ah, kind of you, Mrs. Halifax, but you needn’t have bothered.”
“No bother at all,” she blatantly lied. He knew full well the state of his kitchen.
He narrowed his eye. “I expect that you’ll want to leave this morning—”
“I shall just have to get another, shan’t I? A teapot, I mean,” she said as if she’d suddenly gone deaf. “The tea just doesn’t taste the same boiled in a cooking pot. I think ceramic teapots are the best.”
“I shall order a carriage—”
“There are people who prefer metal—”
“From the village—”
“Silver’s quite dear, of course, but a nice little tin teapot—”
“So you can leave me in peace!”
His last words emerged as a bellow. Lady Grey raised her head from the hearth. For a moment, Mrs. Halifax stared at him with large, harebell-blue eyes.