6

A nother day, another batch of correspondence. Stephen opened the newest missive from Reddington with a sigh. Did sons of viscounts truly have nothing else to do all day but scribble increasingly bloodthirsty threats to the earl next door?

Stephen skimmed the letter. Reddington was demanding immediate occupancy of Castle Harbrook grounds, so that he and his soldiers could practice their formations in time for a public spectacle next month on 18 June.

"‘Consider this your official warning,'" Stephen read aloud. "‘We're watching you. If you fail to hand over that deed… Mr. Reddington shall assume control by force, even if it means laying siege on his own castle.'"

Oh, for the love of God. Stephen wouldn't fall for that twaddle. No spoiled lordling was choleric enough to storm his own castle.

"‘We're watching you,'" Stephen repeated in aristocratic accents. "Of all the idle, idiotic threats…"

Reddington's country estate did adjoin the castle property, but a dense strip of woods stretched between them. Reddington could station a man at every window of his resplendent manor, and at best all he would see was three acres of trees.

Nonetheless, the ominous tone was unsettling enough that Stephen peeked through a window to make certain Richard Reddington was not watching him.

No one was there.

"Don't let that man under your skin," he chided himself.

To prove he had no fear of Reddington's empty threats, Stephen donned a nice evening coat and a matching black top hat. After disabling most of the protective modifications he'd made to the castle's entryway, Stephen picked his way carefully to the front door and strode out onto the grass.

Whoosh .

An arrow immediately shot forth from the shadowed thicket of trees, spearing straight through the front of his hat with enough force to part his hair down the middle and send the black felt top hat flying backward.

With a yelp, Stephen dashed back inside the castle and slammed the enormous wooden door, grateful it was as thick as the length of his forearm. Penetrating this entrance would require a battering ram, not a bow and arrow.

Nonetheless, it was several moments before his frantic heartbeat returned to normal. And his arrow-punctured hat would never be waterproof again.

He scooped up the fallen hat and ripped the arrow from the felt, ruining both objects in the process. Curse his misguided attempt to help his cousin! Gritting his teeth, Stephen reentered the main quarters of the castle and stalked down the corridor toward the stairs leading up to his spy turret.

The butler intercepted him before Stephen could ascend the first step. "Did you have a nice breath of fresh air, my lord?"

"Did you see what happened?" Stephen exploded in disbelief. "That madman nearly took off my head!" He held up the two broken halves of the arrow.

McCarthy plucked the wooden pieces from Stephen's hand. "I'll add it to the kindling, my lord."

"We shouldn't have to worry about…" Stephen's chest tightened with anxiety. It was one thing for him to be inconvenienced due to yet another of his cousin's zany schemes. It was quite another for the innocent servants' lives to be in danger, all because their absentee employer promised their home to a madman. "Don't step outside. Tell the others. It isn't safe."

"The entryway hasn't been safe since the moment you arrived. No one can leave until you disarm the cobweb of—"

"No, not my machines. Richard Reddington shot at me. He may do the same to others. Please don't put yourself in harm's way."

"I just returned from out of doors an hour ago," McCarthy pointed out. "I delivered your correspondence."

Stephen stared at him. That was true. It was how Stephen had come into possession of Reddington's threatening letter to begin with. The scullery maids had also performed their early morning shopping at the market.

We're watching you was clearly meant for Stephen, not the servants. Or rather, the threat was against the Earl of Densmore, whom Reddington believed Stephen to be.

"I suppose that's as silver a lining as I'm likely to get," Stephen said. "Until Reddington controls the castle, he's prepared to shoot me on sight—but at least the rest of you are safe."

"Perhaps he hopes to keep us on staff," McCarthy said. "Finding good help can be difficult."

Finding Stephen's cousin was also vexingly difficult. Especially since Stephen couldn't admit he was looking for the earl, being as he was supposed to be pretending to be him.

"Shall I mend your hat?" asked McCarthy.

"More kindling," Stephen said with a sigh, and handed it over. "I shan't be venturing back outside until the real earl returns."

"A wise decision." McCarthy dropped the broken arrow into the ruined hat and strode away.

Stephen trudged up to the turret to reenable the castle's defenses.

Reddington wanted legal possession of the castle. The problem was, Stephen did not have the requested deed. Although the document had reportedly been stored with the late earl's will, Stephen had gone through every page of his cousin's accounts dozens of times without coming across any hint of it.

Even if Stephen were to stumble across the deed, Reddington wasn't the only one asking for it. Miss Oak, an older woman who lived in the main town, held an equally plausible yet legally unenforceable claim on the castle. Her sister had allegedly bequeathed it to her in her will.

Which was also inconveniently missing, making her claim impossible to verify.

Although he read every one of Miss Oak's pleading letters, Stephen hadn't allowed the older woman to enter on the many occasions she'd come to call. If she was telling the truth, any perception of a third party having a legitimate claim on the castle would draw Reddington's ire. Now that the man was shooting arrows at anyone claiming ownership of the property, Miss Oak was safest far away.

Therefore, the castle's deed must be in the possession of the absent Earl of Densmore. Who, at this point, everyone wanted to kill.

Perhaps that was why he'd thus far declined to return home.

Stephen dropped to the stone floor for a round of press-up exercises. His thoughts tended to ping and flail and spiral like the machines he put together. Concentrating on the flexing of his muscles and the breaths in his lungs calmed the noise and helped him to relax and to think.

He was angry, was the problem. Angry with his flighty cousin, to be sure, but also irritated with himself for being hoodwinked into this ruse to begin with.

Densmore knew there was nothing Stephen loved more than to be useful, and had taken advantage of that trait in the name of helping out family. Since they were children, the earl had long been the only soul who stood up for Stephen. Of course he would repay that unexpected kindness with the same loyalty.

And as long as Stephen was forced to play earl, he could not bear to leave any system unoptimized. The holdings desperately needed a keeper, and its current title holder was not up to the task.

Stephen was undeniably a better earl than the earl. In addition to settling accounts and making investments and overseeing improvements on the various entailed properties, Stephen had also gone ahead and given every member of staff a rise in wages.

Long before Densmore's father first took ill, Stephen had enacted a contingency plan to learn everything he could about the running of the earldom in case his cousin's careless behavior left the title without any heirs but Stephen.

Now that he'd literally taken his cousin's place, Stephen had also taken it upon himself to manage the rest of his cousin's affairs as well. All of the estates would be profitable this year for the first time since Densmore inherited the title.

Every aspect of the earldom might be running smoothly at the moment, but there was no guarantee that these conditions would remain in effect once Densmore returned. Stephen calculated those odds to be 0.00021, or next to impossible. If he didn't do something clever with his cousin's money while it still existed, the wastrel would simply wager it all away in a drunken haze.

Which was why Stephen had penned letters of recommendation for all his cousin's servants, from the butlers to the scullery maids, at every property. He had done so both as the earl and as himself, providing each employee with double the recommendation, should they find themselves in need of a new post.

The writing of so many letters, and the financial and practical restructuring of the entire earldom, had required an extraordinary amount of work. It had taken Stephen an entire week to accomplish it all.

After which, boredom had threatened. Which was when Stephen turned this castle into his laboratory away from home. He missed his books and his bed and his breakfast nook. Even though there was more staff in Castle Harbrook, the building somehow felt emptier and lonelier. A bold claim from a man so lonely, he spent every waking moment filling the emptiness in his life with machine after machine.

Nonetheless, Stephen would defend this castle to the best of his considerable ability. Richard Reddington would not cross Harbrook's threshold without Stephen's knowledge and authorization.

No one would.

Bells clanged overhead. Stephen jerked his head up to stare at them. Those bells were part of an early warning system he'd installed to ring when the property line had been crossed.

Had the hidden archer been followed by an even bolder attack?

Stephen kept telescopes in all four of the castle's corner turrets. Those bells specifically signaled that a vehicle had arrived on the northern side facing the street.

It wasn't a delivery. The most recent shipment had come in yesterday, and the next wouldn't arrive until tomorrow.

A cross breeze flowed through the large rectangular openings on all sides of the cylindrical turret. He hurried to the stone windows and dropped to his knees. Ducking to ensure he could not be seen, Stephen pressed one eye to the telescope.

A humble pony cart trudged into view.

It was an ordinary country gig. Simple. Mud-splattered. The pony lumbering up the private road was just as unassuming. Brown, short of stature, a general air of boredom with its task.

Inside the gig was a long, thin crate, and a woman whose visage was hidden beneath an enormous wide-brimmed bonnet. He could not guess her age without a glimpse of her face, but one daintily gloved hand clutched the handle of a stout wooden cane.

The beast drew to a stop. The woman climbed out of the gig with obvious gingerliness, as though the ride up the hill had been exactly as arduous an experience as the pony cart's appearance implied.

The wind whipped her dress against her body, revealing plump curves. Stephen changed his mind about being able to guess her age. The morning gown was of fine quality and tailored to flatter the woman's voluptuous shape. This was a young lady, walking like an old woman. Fashionable, but unchaperoned. Moneyed, but riding in an absolute turnip of a pony cart.

Stephen was certain of his conclusions. Yet they did not sum up to anything he could compute. The more he watched the woman, the less he understood. Was she here to sell him something? She'd left her crate in the gig—and the gig untethered.

The pony, for its part, seemed content to gnaw at the tall green grass, of which there was plenty. The grounds were covered in flowers and greenery.

Another gust of wind rose from the west, sending the brim of the woman's bonnet flying up away from her face. Just for a second. It was enough.

Stephen swallowed hard. He had no idea who this woman was, but she was extraordinarily beautiful. A missionary, perhaps. Here to chastise the earl for failing to attend church on Sunday. Again. Perhaps the crate was full of Bibles. He tilted his telescope to keep her in sight.

The woman glanced around the door for the knocker. Stephen had removed it months ago to make the entrance less welcoming.

She leaned on her cane, made a fist with her free gloved hand, and banged on the door.

He would never have heard it, were it not for another system he'd installed to carry sound up through narrow tunnels he'd bored into reinforced stone walls—surely Densmore wouldn't mind—in order to eavesdrop on any enemies who might approach. Stephen called it a whispering wall because it transmitted the slightest sound.

The visitor banged again, louder.

Stephen did not respond to her call. Neither did the servants. Before the earl abandoned his castle and its occupants, Densmore had instructed his staff just as firmly as he'd lectured Stephen: Let no one in.

Undaunted, the woman lifted her cane and used that to rap against the castle's thick oak door. This could be heard with or without the aid of any listening contraptions.

Its racket also went unanswered.

"I know you're in there!" she called up. "I can see smoke from your kitchen!"

Stephen fought the urge to yell back, Your logic is unsound. Smoke from the kitchen means someone is at home, but it doesn't mean that I am.

For one, this rejoinder would give away his position. For two, perhaps she was here to visit one of the scullery maids. He was 0.3523 certain this visitor wasn't here for the Earl of Densmore.

No man with half a brain would leave a woman this beautiful behind.

She rapped again with the heavy cane.

" Please ," she pleaded. "I've come from so far. Take pity on a weary traveler, I beg you."

Stephen could not help but feel sorry for her predicament. She seemed harmless and nice enough. But rules were rules for a reason. If he let her in just because she was pretty and carried a cane, who knew what would be next? An army of missionaries with five carts' worth of Bibles?

She rapped one last time, then heaved a breath.

Silence stretched around the castle. Even the wind stilled and the birds silenced. The tree leaves ceased to rustle. No one was answering her plea. Not even nature itself stirred.

"Have it your way," she muttered. Stephen heard the words as clearly as if the fetching visitor were whispering against the back of his neck. "Beth the Berserker it is."

He blinked. Perhaps he had not heard her clearly. It had sounded as though she'd said—

The woman marched toward the pony cart with her cane held high, like a field commander leading a platoon of marching soldiers into battle.

She handed a bit of carrot to the pony, then tossed her cane inside the gig and ripped off her dainty gloves. With her bare hands, she wrenched open the wooden crate. From its depths, she withdrew… two enormous battle-axes.

Stephen stared in disbelief as the woman raised each into the air. Beneath the feminine poofs at her shoulders, muscles visibly flexed in what had previously seemed to be deceptively soft flesh. Axes held high, she marched back to the front door without slowing her pace or panting for breath. She looked like a Valkyrie descending upon a battlefield.

Who was this woman? The latest intimidation tactic by Richard Reddington? Was the archer not enough?

"Tell Reddington I'm not to be bothered," Stephen called out through the window.

The woman jerked her gaze up to the turret, her previously pretty face a twisted mask of fury. "How dare you imply I hold any affiliation with that scoundrel!"

Interesting.

Before Stephen could apologize for his erroneous assumption, the woman let out a primal scream—earsplitting enough to break glass—then began striking at the ten-inch-thick oak door with enough force to rattle the iron hinges.

There was no chance of anyone cutting through wood that impenetrable with an ordinary blade. Or perhaps, Stephen amended, there was no chance of anyone ordinary doing so.

Beth the Berserker was anything but ordinary.

Five minutes later, neither the screaming nor the thrashing showed any signs of slowing. As the woman struck at the door with her axes, shards of wood flew up at all angles, spraying the air around her as though she were caught inside a dust storm.

He either had to get rid of her, which seemed unlikely, or allow her in—which was forbidden. Then again, at this rate, Stephen wouldn't need to "allow" anything. It might take Miss Berserker three days of frenzied chopping, but one way or another, this woman was slashing and hacking her way in.

"Very well," Stephen murmured. "Have it your way."

He rose to his feet and pressed a lever.