The Agent's Lady: Bladewood Legacy, #3

By Kelly Lyonns

Psychic danger and romance in petticoats and brass buttons.

The arcane Guild has many secrets. Those born to the secret order are sworn to defend them.

Grace Tremaine, last of her line, has never doubted her decision to claim the role of next Guardian… until now. A dark-eyed stranger has arrived on this wild Scottish coast, with more burdens than the one he unknowingly carries for the Guild.

Anthony Bladewood is an agent of the Crown and knows the rules, but this time his soul is not listening. The dark weariness slowly consuming him is an occupational hazard. Incurable. Until he meets the bright autumn-haired chatelaine.

Neither expects more from life than what they have been dealt, but both find it harder to bid farewell than it should be. Beyond the stone walls, hostile forces gather.

It is time to choose who will stand on the battlements. 

85,500 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kelly Lyonns
• Release date: Dec 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9780645042245

Book preview

Chapter 1

1812, May 27 th, Wednesday

The ridge-backed sea clawed a wave down the length of the short sea wall. Sea spray hissed high and whipped into the cobbled streets of the fishing village. Nothing unusual for this time of year. More unusual was the small boat forging against the restless elements, heading not towards the shelter of the little port but the headlands beyond.

Lady Grace Tremaine lowered her hand from above her eyes and stepped back into the lee of one of the Keep’s tall stone merlons. The light would soon fade; the village and cliffs already hazy. It was only by chance her vigil had noted the little boat through the squalling drizzle. With a bit of squinting she had located the outline of the larger vessel, which sensibly stood off to avoid the rocky coastline. The jolly boat crew would have a job getting back, but such men were used to their labours and whatever business brought them to her coast they were not currently her concern.

She turned her mind to more immediate problems. Like her previous inspections today, the path below the battlements leading to the main road remained empty. Her grandfather had been gone for the better part of two days now, without a word of explanation. The lowering sky did nothing to soothe her faint worry. She pulled her long wool shawl about her shoulders tighter, and considered walking out along the headlands to see if there was any sign of him on the high road. But her command of the countryside from up here could not be matched and besides, what if he came home to find her gone? Better to be waiting here, at home. But the decision did not drive her off the high walk back below into the warmth.

She rested her hand on the ancient lichened stone as something whispered against her senses. The salt-laden wind tugged relentlessly at her loosely coiled red tresses. She turned her face into the wind to be free of the whipping strands and concentrated; trying to make sense of the will-o-wisp traces of energy.

Something was alive and moving in the wind.

She swept her gaze over the wild heath and rocky coast again; her eyes now drawn in the direction of the hidden cove beyond the village, where the jolly boat had gone.

Like the watchers and guardians before her, Grace stood alert in the gathering gloom facing the first faint stirrings of danger.

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The men in the boat rowed strongly against an aggressive wind and tide. Thanks to the rain and wave splash, he was soaked to the skin. But Anthony Bernaldi Bladewood was not a man to leave his fate in the hands of others and was bending his back with the rest. The message pouch he carried had already cost the life of a good man. Now securely strapped to his chest, the rectangle of oiled leather rode warm against his flesh. Actually, it was the only warm spot on his body, despite his thick longcoat and the hard labour.

Finally, they crested through the shoreline’s breaking waves and onto the beach. The harsh grate of shingle was never so welcome. Anthony gladly shipped his oars and jumped into the shallow water with the rest of the boat crew as they beached the little craft.

Another pair of boots ruined.

Despite his nondescript attire, Anthony was appreciative of both fashion and good workmanship. It was an affectation he used well in other more elevated circles. This trip, however, called on his more base skills. The gloom of the beachhead was lit by a momentary flash.

A shuttered lantern no doubt.

The men in his company paid him no heed, as they focussed on swiftly unloading their other cargo. Anthony did not tarry. The coast was isolated and time rested heavy on this land. He’d paid his passage, but kinship and blood ties were all that really mattered here. Alliances could shift and plenty of blood had been spilled over whiskey, sheep and kings. After a brief terse nod to the leader of the crew, he shouldered his pack and strode briskly off into the dark. His pistols, still snug in their oilskin wrapping, and his sword were both a reassuring weight, as was the assassin’s dagger strapped in its sheath up his sleeve. But he didn’t breathe easy until the grumble of the surf was replaced by the windy hissing of the scrubby sand dunes.

When he was sure he had not been followed, he lowered his pack before stretching his shoulders. He listened carefully for a moment longer before unwrapping his pistols, carefully checking them before placed each in its holster. Comparatively speaking, he had personally experienced very little trouble thus far. But he was too experienced to become complacent. Even this close to a mission’s end. He lifted up the pack and paused. Something scratched at his senses.

He hefted the weight easily to his back; now fully alert again, his hand resting on the grip of one of the pistols. For fully a minute he stood, just listening, trying to pinpoint what had set off his alarms. Eventually, with a frustrated grunt he relaxed and readjusted his hat. The sooner he was done with this business, the better. But right now, the day was far from over and he had a long walk ahead.

Chapter 2

For the tall severe man at the window, the trail had gone cold, in more ways than one. A thick sheet of sleeting hail from the North Sea sluiced across the mullion glass as the wind kept up an angry keen. The ancient stones of the Yorkshire manor braced against a familiar foe. However, Mr Black, in his current nom de guerre of Professor Corvid, did not notice the cold seeping through the narrow cracks around the weathered frame.

His sharp mind was focused miles away. He had criss-crossed a continent, seduced kings and emperors, survived thugs and outwitted scoundrels to almost achieve his plans; only to be thwarted by a Guild chit and that ignoble Bladewood spawn.

The thought roused a familiar anger which quivered the air in the sumptuously furnished room. He quickly damped the emotion; indulging such outbursts was a luxury he could ill afford. In the many months since his initial plan had been thwarted, he had come close to recapturing his prize several times. Each time the Guild had whisked away the book. Each time it was by a narrower margin.

He smiled coldly.

They were getting desperate. He could feel it. The months of keeping a low profile and using his powers sparingly in case the Guild sensitives caught his scent were coming to an end. But he had to remain vigilant. Despite causing the Guild some loss of resources he was still the object of their very ardent hunt. A miscalculation now could result in capture. That was an outcome he would not tolerate.

Their last courier lay dead in the frozen marshes, weeks since, but once again the Guild had managed to whisk away the book. Interrogation had given him nothing, but his agents were even now scouring the countryside trying to pick up the new trail. This new courier would be found, of that he was certain. The book itself was as much a liability as it was a treasure to whoever held it. Objects of power always were.

The Guild had kept the artefact safe enough in its London citadel. But even if he had not been in active pursuit, it was only a matter of time before they realised a more permanent solution would have to be found.

He turned away from the window and sat in the burgundy velvet chair by the fireplace. It was no easy feat to corrupt a scion of the Guild, but everyone always forgot the lower ranks. It was much easier to influence a humble footman.

The servant wasn’t even aware of his own treachery until it was too late. Not that any of that mattered now. The unlucky fellow was at the bottom of the Thames, weighed down by a blacksmith’s anvil, and his own guilt no doubt. Black paused to consider the last moments of the chap. The man had cried. Tears. Not of fear, but shame. He examined the memory like a glass prism, holding it up to the light of logic to see its facets more clearly.

Black understood fear. It was a useful and easily wielded tool, but it was always more difficult to work with the more complex energies, like honour and loyalty. Difficult and often prone to failure. They were subtle energies; ones he had difficulty studying successfully. Perhaps when he had the book back in his possession he would pursue his studies with one of the Bladewood tribe. It would be an interesting experiment.

He smiled again, leaned back in the chair and reached for the cut crystal glass of brandy on the small side table. His mood lifted. There was nothing as pleasant as good spirits on a cold night.

Chapter 3

Anthony arrived in the small village with the morning sun. He wandered to the sea wall, watching the fishing boats already plying their way out to their fishing grounds. After a cold damp night on the dunes he was keen to find somewhere comfortable to wait for his contact on this mission. The village was not large enough for him to hope his arrival would go unnoticed, but it did boast a tavern. As he casually observed the folk, the place had the feel of a Laird who kept an eye on his people.

His hopes rose a little more when the tavern fare offered him the option of a bowl of hot stew. Even better, the serving was hearty; never mind the meat was sparse and tough, and the heel of bread rough. He attacked it like a banquet.

Stomach fed and in good humour, he found the backstreet two-story lodging he’d been directed to and knocked on the low door lintel. At length, the door opened a fraction. He favoured the round grandmother in her plaid shawls and woollen skirts with a tug of his hat brim.

Goodwife McNeil? I understand you may have a room I could rent.

The door opened wider.

Aye. Her brogue was heavy but he had no trouble understanding the shrewd calculation in the grey eyes. He suffered the quick appraisal placidly. Tuppence a night... Paid in advance.

There was half a beat as he realised he was expected to make the transaction on the street. He reached inside his jacket but paused as she continued.

No supper, but ye can take porridge in the morning.

He glanced up, waiting for the expected addendum.

... an extra ha’penny.

He nodded politely.

That would be most agreeable.

She asked no questions as she swiftly pocketed the agreed sum of coins into her voluminous skirts, even though her eyes were alight with curiosity. He suspected that the sort of passing strangers who came to these wild coasts of Scotland had little to do with the activities of ordinary good folk. But his polite deference earned him a prime room upstairs. She unlatched the door and swept in before him like a general on parade, not needing to stoop under the low roof beams. His interruption of the severe inspection with a request for bathing water met with a raised eyebrow. But again, nothing an immediate offering of coin couldn’t accommodate. He was subjected to a few terse instructions about additional firewood and a warning not to be late for his morning bowl of porridge in the kitchen, and then left to his privacy.

As he coaxed alight the kindling set in the small fireplace, he surveyed the tiny room with a benevolent eye. The burden he had carried for weeks was safely hidden, his belly was full and his feet would soon be dry. He was well content with his bivouac, although the habit of years made him briefly open the one small window, lean out and check what lay below as well as above the opening. Only then did he take off his coats to hang them neatly over the hooks on the wall before shrugging out of his custom-made leather pistol holders. After a moment’s deliberation he unbuckled his sword and hung it alongside his coats. He pulled up the rustic wooden chair to sit near the small fireplace and had only just worked the boots from his feet to prop them near the fire, when a soft tap sounded at the door.

His hand automatically went towards the dagger in his knife sheath, but he checked himself. In efficient movements, he unbuckled the sheath from his forearm and unbuttoned his waistcoat, tugged his shirt free of his trousers and slipped the sheathed weapon into the waistband at the small of his back. Now sock-footed and shirt-sleeved, he opened the door to a lad carrying a bucket of warm water. The boy’s dark eyes scanned him before they arrested in awed admiration on the pistol holster tossed on the bed. He followed the lad’s gaze.

Would you like to see one of the pistols?

The bucket was lowered to the floor with a silent nod.

Anthony slipped one of the heavy weapons from its holster and placed it into two worshipful hands. He moved the bucket closer to the little fire keeping one eye on the boy as his gun was tested in a wobbling hand. The weapon was not primed so there was little danger of an accidental shot. More danger of an accidental drop on an unguarded toe.

Here lad. He smiled indulgently and fished a coin from his waistcoat in exchange for the pistol.

The ginger-haired lad flashed him a shy smile before he scampered from the room. Anthony had no doubt every second of their encounter would be related, embellished on and spread throughout the entire village before nightfall. It was always risky becoming too friendly with the locals. But as a rule, it was better to be pointing people in the direction you wanted them to be looking, than for them to be looking where you didn’t want. The art of misdirection. As a bonus, he’d bought himself an ally.

He wedged the wooden chair against the door and re-holstered the pistol. A quick glance to the window assured him of no prying eyes and his waistcoat hit the floor, followed, after an impatient haul over his head, by his shirt. A couple of clumsy hops had both wet socks off.

The dagger he placed on the floor within reach, while a few quick tugs released the message pouch. The latter, he carefully slipped under the bed, his eyes automatically rechecking the window. He rolled his shoulders and neck, trying to ease some of the tension. Long ago, he’d learned not to underestimate the small comforts and to take advantage of moments of security and sanctuary. He peeled off his trousers and drawers and stood naked in front of the fire for a few moments enjoying the relative warmth, before setting about removing the salt and sand from his body. As he bathed, his thoughts became less sanguine.

This mission had set his teeth on edge. The whole time he had been on the road he felt like there was another presence with him. Someone—no—something watching. He could not shake the feeling. He dunked his head into the bucket and shook the excess water from his hair like a wet dog, sprinkling droplets across the room. There were a lot of things about this mission that did not sit well. His instincts were telling him this was one of those occasions when there were deeper strategies at play. But that alone did not explain the foreboding—secrets were, after all, his stock-in-trade.

He rubbed himself dry with the rough cloth, enjoying the invigorating feeling. The chair, reclaimed from its security duties, he now pressed into service as a clothes prop. His only luxury on this trip was a change of clothes. As he pulled on his cleaner shirt he grimaced. When had a change of linen ever occupied his thoughts on a mission? He ran a hand over his head. He was ready for something different in his life. That much was obvious. But what that change would be he did not yet know. The only thing he did know was that this would be his last mission. He had been toying with the idea for some time now, and on the long circuitous journey up from London it had consolidated into clear intent.

But until his local contact made himself known, there was nothing to do but wait. It was too early to drink and he also didn’t want to expose himself unnecessarily. He stretched his arms above his head.

Rain brushed in soft whispers against the window glass, the light outside now a pearly white. The fire drowsed in a soporific crackle, its heat methodically routing the chill from its hiding spots in the room. The previous night had offered little opportunity for sleep, but he was still too restless to close his eyes just yet. He reached for his pack and removed a small leather-bound journal before settling on the bed. As he turned the stained pages crammed with sketches and scribbles, he pictured the grey seal he had glimpsed on the rocks. The dark luminous eyes, the pelt, the grip of the flipper against the rock.

He slipped a hidden pencil stub from the spine and started to sketch the remembered form and shape.

Chapter 4

Maximillian Bladewood strode out of the depths of his house into the grand foyer. He remained outwardly calm but query dancing through his veins as his younger brother and sister-in-law divested themselves of the paraphernalia of travel to his staff.

Art… Susanna, welcome. He clasped Arthur’s hand in a warm grip and gave Susanna an equally warm smile which she returned. We weren’t expecting you for another month.

There did not seem to be anything in their manner that he could immediately identify as amiss.

Thank you, Max. Sorry to arrive unannounced like this. Although his brother’s voice was even, Maximillian caught an underlying tension.

Not at all. Charlotte will be in alt. She is in the nursery with Henry. His butler was already opening the door to the sitting room. But Maximillian did not miss Susanna’s glance up the grand staircase and added, I will let her know you have arrived.

She turned a gentle smile on him, Thank you. We do not wish to turn your household upside down, but I would very much appreciate her counsel.

Ah, so there was something amiss.

The butler caught his look and promptly crooked a finger to a nearby footman. As the servants passed a few inaudible words, Arthur placed a proprietary hand on his wife’s back and the couple followed Maximillian into the cosy room.

Maximillian closed the sitting room door himself, but not before noting the young footman’s swift flight up the stairs.

He decided not to wait. So Arthur… Susanna… what is all this about?

His brother first seated his wife in a comfortable chair near the fireplace before taking up a position, cross-armed, in front of the fire. Maximillian did not like the grimness he detected in his younger sibling.

Arthur looked him dead in the eye. When did you last hear from Anthony?

Anthony? The unexpected question threw Maximillian for a moment.

Yes, our brother Anthony. When did you last communicate with him?

Arthur’s snapped reply and question provoked Maximillian, but before he could open his mouth for a set-down, Susanna’s voice softly interrupted.

Arthur, please.

Arthur glanced at Susanna and blew out a breath.

Maximillian shot a glance between the pair. Something was up and it was serious enough for them to have travelled all the way from their home in Kent along the muddy roads to Hampshire.

He leashed his temper and answered civilly. Not for some weeks. Is he in some sort of trouble?

Arthur dropped his arms and rubbed a hand over his face. Perhaps.

Maximillian frowned, his patience shot. Arthur, what the devil—

Maximillian! Language please. Charlotte Bladewood had entered the room with her customary impeccable timing. Susanna, Arthur, how lovely to see you both.

Charlotte swept into the room and crossed to her sister-in-law. As they briefly embraced and then settled onto the settee, she noted the increasing degree of impatience from the two brothers.

Predictably enough, Maximillian broke first, barely waiting until they were seated. So what is this dire emergency?

Arthur automatically matched his big brother’s tone. I didn’t say it was a dire emergency.

Just spit it out man.

Charlotte calmly took charge of the room.

Maximillian. Please lower your voice.

My voice is lowered.

I am sorry, Susanna. Don’t mind Maximillian, he can be overly emotional in times of stress.’ She ignored the audible grunt from her husband and turned to her sister-in-law, Now dear, what has brought you here?"

But it was Arthur who answered, She had a dream.

The room froze in silence.

Maximillian was the first to react. Bloody hell.

Maximillian, please. The reproof was automatic but Charlotte’s attention was entirely focussed on her sister-in-law. She leaned across and took the other woman’s hands in her own, Susanna, what did you see?

Susanna took a deep breath, glancing once at her husband for reassurance, I fear I must alarm you and say that our nemesis Mr Black is to make an appearance again.

There was a soft growl from the other side of the room where Maximillian stood. Charlotte ignored him and ploughed on. Can you describe the vision exactly, dear?

Susanna sat straighter and Charlotte released her hands feeling the other woman draw herself together. Arthur moved to loom over both of them at the back of the settee but he would be impossible to shift, so Charlotte made herself disregard his presence.

Just take your time. Let it all flow naturally. Don’t force anything. Remember your lessons.

Susanna nodded to her sister-in-law and took a controlled breath.

There is a storm raging against a stone castle built high on a cliff. Inside, there is a room. It has a big fireplace with a warm fire which casts a glow that lights the room. A pair of hounds sit by the fire. She paused as Maximillian shifted to pour himself a brandy.

Charlotte threw him a quelling look and leaned in towards Susanna encouragingly, Go on.

The room has a big oak chest, sealed in bands of iron. Charlotte shivered as a frisson of synchronous energy brushed her skin.

Susanna reached across and took her hand. You felt it too?

Charlotte nodded, What else did you see?

Susanna closed her eyes briefly to focus herself again, I did not exactly see the rest, more felt it. It was like a giant hound or beast out in the storm or as if the storm itself was a hound. She shook her head, frustrated at not having the words to explain. I am sorry not to have something more definite.

Charlotte patted her hand, noticing that across the room Maximillian had become alert.

Not at all. You are only just beginning to understand your powers and it is remarkable that you have so much control already.

Parts are so very clear, I know that the castle and the hounds inside are real and not a metaphor. When I think of the castle I am reminded of heather and the smell of the sea. The storm is real, although it is also not real. She lifted her hands in a little mock surrender. I just wish that I had more. But I am certain it has something to do with that man.

Charlotte understood who her sister-in-law meant without saying the name aloud either. No one in this room needed any reminder of the person who had nearly destroyed their lives.

Susanna looked up as Arthur put his hand on her shoulder. He spoke to Maximillian over the women’s heads, You can see why I brought her directly here.

There was a sharp snick as Maximillian placed his untouched brandy glass down on the marble occasional table. All too well.

With a light reaffirming touch to Susanna’s knee Charlotte stood. It is quite obvious one of us is in imminent danger.

It was Maximillian who focussed on the immediate question. Why did you ask about Anthony?

Arthur gave him a worried frown. Because he cut his visit with us short. Made a point of saying goodbye to both father and Ayah too.

Now Charlotte frowned, not following. Why does that make you think he is involved in this matter?

Maximillian gave her a clipped smile. Because, my dear, Anthony never says goodbye. It’s a little superstition of his.

Arthur grunted agreement, But he also let slip a clue about where he was going.

Maximillian’s eyebrows shot up, That’s not like him.

Arthur nodded slowly. No, but lucky for us. Although it might have been the four bottles of rum we polished off.

Maximillian snorted in brief amusement, unchastised by the brief stern look Charlotte shot him. What clue exactly, Arthur.

Arthur’s small smile faded, Ah yes, he made a joke about a shepherd’s— he cut himself off at Susanna’s polite cough, glancing up at his brother.

Charlotte clasped her hands together, I think I can guess what sort of joke it was Arthur, but what was the clue?

Haggis.

She heard Maximillian softly repeat the word.

Arthur smiled down at his wife, continuing, He was damned if he’d try it; even for the Crown. I know it isn’t much to go on, but Susanna is never wrong.

Susanna trapped her husband’s