Page 6 of The Secret of Flirting
Was the man mad? “If shewasinterested in me, it was merely as a razor strop for her sharp tongue. Nothing more.”
“Didn’t seem that way to me.”
Gregory was in no mood to argue with him.
“I suppose this means I’ve failed the test,” Hart added.
What test?Gregory nearly asked before he remembered what Hart meant. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He wasn’t about to reveal how she’d rattled him. “Some actress’s poor attempts at insult have naught to do with whether I can use you as an informant. So if you come across anything you think I might use, let me know.”
It was an idle promise, after all. What could the man possibly learn out on James Island?
“Oh! Well. Thank you, then,” Hart said jovially. “Good of you to offer.”
They walked out of the theater together.
Hart cleared his throat. “The night is still young. Would you want to—”
“Sorry, old chap, but as I said before, I have reports to write. Have a good trip.”
He left Hart gaping after him. Gregory didn’t care. Much as he liked the fellow, he’d had enough of company for one night. He had work to do.
So why was he still seething about the actress’s responses as he entered the inn? She was no less impudent than any other Frenchwoman to an Englishman. He ought not be annoyed, but he was.
Because she was sharp. Observant. Quick-witted. All things he admired in a woman. He wasn’t used to having such a woman not admire those things inhim.
Except that there had been the one moment when she’d blushed and he’d thought perhaps she...
God, he didn’t care! Absurd that he should even think he might.
He stalked up the stairs, so lost in replaying their conversation that he didn’t at first hear the innkeeper hail him, and when he did, he rounded on the fellow, snapping, “What is it?” in French.
The man paled. With a shaky hand, he held out a small envelope. “Th-this message just came for you, my lord. I was told to put it right in your hand.”
Gregory spotted the seal belonging to one of his informants from Gibraltar and muttered, “It’s about damned time.” At last, word from someone concerning John’s mission. He would rather it had come from John, of course, but...
That gave him pause. Whyhadn’tit come from John? As he hastily opened the letter and scanned its contents, his stomach began to roil.
My lord, our mission was compromised. You were right to advise caution, but I’m afraid it did no good. I regret to inform you that your brother is dead. He decided to...
A description of what had gone wrong followed, but the words swam before his eyes. His knees buckled beneath him and he sat down hard on the stairs.
His brother was dead? It couldn’t be. How could it be? Impossible.
But clearly it was true. There was no reason for the man to lie.
Gregory stared sightlessly past the innkeeper to the taproom below, crowded with men drinking and carousing. And to think that only a few hours ago, he too had been...
Grief clogged his throat with tears he couldn’t shed. How was he to go on without John? How was Mother?
Oh, God,Mother. This would destroy her.
“John, you reckless fool,” Gregory hissed.
Despite his cautions, the lad had gone and gotten himself killed. And it was all Gregory’s fault—for using him in the first place, for not reining him in. For not being more of a father to him once their own father was gone.
Gregory stiffened. Notgone.Murdered. Best never to forget that, or he would truly lose his soul. Or at least the part of it that still had a conscience.
What had that actress said?I generally find that such opinions come from those who have never lived with tragedy, whose moated castles protect them from poverty and violence.
