17

E lizabeth straightened her spine with determination. Sharing personal details with someone outside the family was only slightly more terrifying than teetering on a wet floor covered in marbles.

"How many Wynchesters? Ten and a half."

Stephen's eyes widened. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Which one did you chop in half?"

"Two halves would still sum up to eleven," she pointed out. "The half-Wynchester is my nephew, who is six months old. He won't count as a whole person until he can hold a sword."

"I assume that's your rule?"

"It should be everyone's rule."

"The others all fight with swords, too?"

"All right, no. You make a solid point. Until Kuni, I was the only blade-wielding Wynchester. She prefers knives."

"As one does," he murmured. "Much more ladylike."

"She would kill you if she heard you say so. She's a warrioress from a long line of Balcovian soldiers. If you want ladylike, that would be Philippa. At any given moment, she's swathed in enough lace to make a tablecloth the size of a cricket pitch."

"That sounds… frightening."

Elizabeth nodded. "There's more than one way to construct a shield."

He seemed to consider this. "Who else in your family uses a shield?"

She answered without hesitation. "Tommy."

"Tommy is…?"

"Everything. Everyone. A boatman, an old woman, a barrister, a lady's maid. Whatever she needs to be to achieve the mission. We despaired of Philippa ever falling in love with the real her, if Tommy insisted on always pretending to be someone else."

"Philippa fell in love with… her," he repeated, blinking twice.

"It was inevitable," Elizabeth said with a romantic sigh. "As soon as Tommy peeled off those side-whiskers, Philippa didn't stand a chance. It was love at three hundred and seventy-fifth sight."

"And now Philippa is a Wynchester?"

"Yes. Well, not legally, marriage laws being as shortsighted as they are. But who cares about legalities? I personally inducted her into the family in our official Wynchester knighting ceremony."

He looked wistful. "There's an official ceremony to become part of your family?"

"I'm still working on it," she hedged. "Philippa was the first to get a ceremony. I've added a little more flair with each new Wynchester, but I still think the proceedings lack a certain je ne sais quoi . Which Jacob thinks means ‘wild badgers.'"

"Your brother thinks ‘ Je ne sais quoi' means… ‘wild badgers'?"

"Oh, he speaks French better than I do. Jacob just thinks any situation could be improved with badgers. Especially if they have been trained to execute maximum destruction."

"Utterly reasonable," Stephen murmured. "I should have thought of it myself."

"I can ask him to send you some," Elizabeth offered. "I'm sure he'd be delighted to put together a gift basket."

"Perhaps when I return home," Stephen said quickly. "It's bad form to set feral badgers free in someone else's home."

"Is it? We do it all the time." She raised her sandwich, then paused. "Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. A messenger crow arrived an hour ago with good news. My brother tracked down your cousin!"

"He did ?" Stephen's tone was filled with wonder, disbelief, and… something else Elizabeth couldn't quite identify. "Where was the scoundrel? Is he on his way back?"

"Not exactly. Densmore took a boat to France."

"Of course he did," Stephen muttered. "I'm here getting the hat shot off my head, and he's off drinking champagne in Paris with Beau Brummell. Probably gambling themselves into entirely new scrapes we cannot even fathom."

"We aren't privy to the earl's precise plans, but his boat departed a fortnight ago, days before I met Miss Oak. Densmore could be gallivanting around Paris with pinks of the ton. With luck, however, he's still in a port town and can return quickly. Most of Graham's spies are in London, and all of them are in England, so as you can imagine, it's been a bit of a challenge."

"Oh, I don't have to imagine," Stephen said dryly. "Densmore has always been a challenge."

"The best of us are." Elizabeth finished the last bite of her sandwich. "Thank you for nuncheon."

He collected the empty plates. "Back to the search, is it?"

She waggled her brows. "Unless you can think of a better way to pass the time?"

"Well…" He looked charmingly bashful. "I did complete the first draft of one of the souvenirs, if you'd like to see how it's coming."

Her eyes widened. "Machines come in drafts, like parliamentary speeches?"

"Do you… write many parliamentary speeches?"

"My sister Chloe does. I often practice with her. I can do the voices of all the lords." She affected the Duke of Wellington's accents. "‘Whilst marching from Portugal to a position which commands the approach to Madrid and the French forces, my officers have been diligently complying with—'"

Stephen applauded her impression, laughing as she threw her voice to different corners of the room. "Don't let Reddington know you can emulate his hero. He'll try to recruit you over to his side."

"No, he won't," Elizabeth said darkly. "He had his chance. Now he will pay."

Stephen glanced at her askance. "What chance? Reddington was one of your suitors?"

She pretended to vomit. "A love interest? Hardly. He wouldn't offer me a cup of water if I were on fire. Now that makes both of us."

"Then…"

"Oh, very well." Her cheeks heated. "Years ago, before I realized Reddington's true nature, I was captivated by the idea of participating in a reenactment. The real military would never allow a female soldier on the front lines, but ordinary civilians engaged in communal make-believe? That had the potential to be much more equitable."

"I'm guessing it was not," Stephen said dryly.

"I'd have had better luck applying to be Napoleon Bonaparte's first-in-command," she said bitterly, twirling her throwing knife.

"Reddington wouldn't let you audition?"

"He was laughing too hard to even take the request seriously. I've never been good at backing down, so I persisted. When I finally convinced him I was serious, he called me several choice insults that proved there was nothing I could do to make him view me as a fellow human, much less a military equal."

"His loss," Stephen said firmly. "For what it's worth, even if he had taken you aboard, it would not have worked out well for him. Within the week, his men would have been following you , rather than Reddington. And he would have deserved the defection."

She smiled at the thought. "Then we both got lucky. I haven't the time to be general of an army. Though the extra manpower once in a while might have aided our missions." She brushed away the old memories and held out her hand. "Shall we go and see that souvenir?"

Stephen pulled her to her feet with ease, the bashfulness in his expression back in full force.

"This version of the machine is just a rough draft," he warned her.

"You said so," she agreed. "Yet my expectations are still high."

"Don't say that. It's unnerving."

"Sky high. Constellation high. Pearly gates high."

"Good God."

They bickered all the way to the Great Hall, where he led her to a tall wooden contraption… that looked remarkably like an unusually intricate guillotine.

"And which one of my siblings is this beauty custom designed for?" she inquired.

"It's two for one. Marjorie and Adrian." His cheeks pinked. "I hope it's all right that I've first-named them in absentia . I wasn't certain if Marjorie was still a Wynchester, or if Adrian had become one himself—"

Elizabeth waved this away. "Wynchesters are Wynchesters, regardless of their surnames. Besides, they're not present to be taken aback by your impertinence, and wouldn't be offended even if they were here. Tell me about your invention. What does it do?"

"You said they were artists, yes? Both of them? And that your sister in particular is prone to covering up her paintings until she's ready for others to see them?"

"That's right." Elizabeth squinted at the guillotine. "I don't remember mentioning a penchant for beheadings, but Marjorie can be surprisingly feisty when crossed."

"Behead… Oh, no, it's not a guillotine. Though the pulleys perform a similar function. Watch this." He placed a framed canvas on a thin horizontal shelf and mimed painting a picture.

"You invented… an easel?"

" Oh no ," Stephen said in a loud falsetto. "My sister Elizabeth is here, and I cannot let her see this portrait."

He pressed a lever.

Gears whirred, releasing a series of heavy weights on long ropes, which in turn dropped a thick sheet of metal that absolutely could cut off someone's head… but instead, sliced down into a pre-constructed groove at the front of the easel, blocking the canvas from view. A series of wooden slats tumbled down on all four sides, encasing the entirety of the structure until it appeared a solid wooden crate.

Stephen flung out an arm dramatically. " Voilà !"

Elizabeth lifted one of the slats with her finger. Or tried to. It didn't move. She retrieved a crowbar from a pile of tools, slid the chisel edge between two of the horizontal boards, then raised an eyebrow at Stephen.

He gestured his permission. "By all means."

She leaned heavily on the iron bar to force the slats apart.

They didn't budge.

"Marjorie will love it," she said, impressed.

"The un-display case fits pottery as well as paintings," he said quickly. "I wasn't certain if Adrian was as private as Marjorie, but I didn't want him to feel left out. Three of the sides serve as work stations, so they can be working on sensitive projects simultaneously."

"They'll both love it," she promised.

He bent and twisted a series of marked knobs at the rear of the unit. The wooden slats rose with a series of clacks, nestling themselves back into place at the top like a decorative mechanical clock whose figurines were hiding themselves until the next time to chime the hour.

He pointed at two small openings inside the framework. "See that?"

She peered closer. "Is there something inside?"

"Automatic brush cleaners," he said with satisfaction. "Left side for water-based paints, right side for oil-based. This button activates the cleaning process. The brushes then deposit over here." He pointed at a series of pockets.

"It's magnificent." She reached for a bright red lever. "What does this do?"

"Don't touch it!" He grabbed her wrist before she could make contact. "That launches the emergency detonation sequence."

She paused. "Really?"

"Really," he confirmed with satisfaction.

"You thought of everything," she breathed. "This will make the best gift ever."

"I hope so. It folds down to fit inside a standard traveling trunk," he added. "For maximum mobility."

"Tell me I can kiss you," she begged.

He gave her a slow smile. "I earned a kiss?"

He'd already chipped away enough at her armor. It was becoming harder and harder to pretend she didn't care if he kissed her or not.

"You earned two kisses," she informed him, and made good on her promise.

She wrapped her arms about his neck, careful to keep her hip clear of the cherry-red emergency detonation lever.

This was nothing more than a lark, she reminded herself. A holiday to enjoy while it lasted. When she went home, she would take her fully intact heart with her… as well as the flashiest, deadliest easel in all of England. This would be just a memory.

" Densmooore ," came a distant male voice.

Stephen lifted his lips from hers, their eyes locking.

"I shall not be ignored!" the voice insisted.

They ran to the nearest window. A man stood on the edge of the green grass, ten yards out from the tree line, wearing a blatant copy of the Duke of Wellington's red regimental uniform. Black boots, white pantaloons, crimson-and-gold coat, black bicorn hat—even the exact insignia on the shoulders, earned by the duke and not by the impostor below.

"His Grace, Richard Reddington, grows impatient," Reddington yelled up.

"Is he talking about himself in the third person?" Stephen whispered.

"And using an honorific as though he were a duke," Elizabeth confirmed. "This is a new development. I expect he thinks it'll help sell his reenactment, starring himself as England's hero."

Stephen inclined his head. "Maybe he's hoping to position himself in his peers' minds as a god on par with Wellington, or at least in the same category."

"His wiles won't work on me." She glared at the red-uniformed lord on the lawn.

Reddington held up a square of parchment. Presumably, the IOU Stephen's cousin had signed when he'd lost the castle in a wager. "Densmore! This castle belongs to His Grace and you know it."

"You can't have it," Elizabeth shouted down.

"With all due respect, miss, His Grace is hardly afraid of a woman ." Reddington chuckled in obvious amusement. Just as he'd done the day she'd tried to join his squadron.

She reared back from the window with a huff. "All due respect? I hold absolutely none for him whatsoever. Can I please borrow the guillotine?"

"I've been advised to ignore bullies," Stephen advised.

"And let him think he's managed to cow us? Over my dead body."

"Send down that deed," Reddington shouted, "or His Grace will come in there and take it from you."

Elizabeth leaned out of the window. "You, and whose army?"

Reddington grinned and snapped his fingers.

One hundred infantrymen emerged from the forest. Each in matching uniforms… and carrying long black muskets, all equipped with bayonets.

Stephen looked aghast. "Er… that army."

Elizabeth bounced on her toes. Reddington really had shown up with every scrap of ammunition he could find… to even the odds in a fight against Elizabeth and one other person. "This is the best thing that's ever happened to me!"

"Do not go charging out there," Stephen warned.

"I can't behead them all from in here," she pointed out reasonably.

He tugged on her elbow. "Stay back from the window. He has arrows. I don't think his animosity extends to anyone other than my cousin, but it's better to be safe."

"Reddington's men aren't armed with arrows now," she assured him. "His soldiers are carrying muskets."

"Which means bullets," Stephen enunciated. "Objectively as inconvenient to find in one's chest as arrows."

She unsheathed her sword. "I'll deal with this."

"You can't take a sword to a gunfight!"

"Reddington is as much a war hero as my left shoe," she reminded him. "They're just ordinary men playing at soldiers."

He arched his brows. "That arrow didn't play its way into my hat."

"A lucky shot. I wager their muskets aren't even loaded."

"Their bayonets sure look pointy."

"That's what chain mail is for."

He snorted. "Do you know how heavy chain mail is?"

"I know exactly how heavy chain mail is. Tommy made me a chain mail petticoat. I go on long walks with it beneath my dress at least once per week."

He blinked. "You take your chain mail… for walks?"

"It gets the heart pumping," she explained. "Now then, if you'll allow me to negotiate?"

"Wait." He stared at her. "Are you wearing chain mail right now?"

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"I want to know why I'm aroused by this," he muttered.

Elizabeth poked her head out the window and shouted, "Don't be a bully, Reddington! Leave us alone!"

"If you wish to be left alone, then vacate His Grace's castle," Reddington yelled back. "I won this land fair and square, in front of witnesses, and have the vowels to prove it. Send Densmore down with the deed at once, and I shall grant you twenty-four hours to collect your things and be gone."

Stephen snorted. "Twenty-four hours to pack up a medieval castle and sort through the belongings of two recently departed parents? So generous."

Elizabeth called down, "At the time of your wager, the castle was no longer Densmore's to give. He regrets the error and any inconvenience it may have caused. Good day!"

"Liar," Reddington roared. "Either show me proof, or bring me the deed to this castle!"

"As I said, it's not yours or his," Elizabeth shouted back. "Densmore mistakenly—"

"Lost his castle to me . Listen closely, both of you. His Grace is done being patient."

Stephen's eyes widened. "Arrows and bottles of poison was him being patient?"

"Can we buy him out?" Elizabeth whispered. "How much is this land worth?"

Stephen named an eye-watering sum. It wasn't how Elizabeth had intended to spend her inheritance, but…

"We'll pay you the difference," she shouted down. "You'll have a bank draft by morning."

"No substitutions," Reddington yelled back. "This is my castle. I will take possession."

"Double the value," Elizabeth tried again. "Huge bank draft. Enormous."

"Tell Densmore it's too late to change the deal. My men and I will hold our scheduled Waterloo reenactment right here one month hence as advertised to the entire country. And I shall install my men in this castle now , in order to prepare the grounds for my glory."

"It is not and never will be your castle," Elizabeth called down. "We can show you legal proof, but we need more time."

Stephen whispered, "How much time do we need?"

"Enough to find the missing will," Elizabeth whispered back. "Or for Graham to bring home the real earl, so he can face his own consequences."

"Two weeks," yelled Reddington. "I shall grant you no later than the first of June. If this land isn't in my possession by that morning, my army shall storm the castle and take it from you by force!"

"We would really rather—"

"I have spoken," Reddington roared. "Mark my words, if you value your hide. You have until dawn on the first of June to surrender."

Elizabeth unsheathed her sword stick. "We shall never bow to the likes of you."

Reddington sent his men a smug expression, as if her retort was proof that he held the upper hand. "Then prepare to meet your fate. Your only choices are to surrender or be sieged. I will not rest until this castle is mine or my blade has tasted your blood."

"You can try your best." She shook her sword and smiled her cobra smile. "I'll be waiting."