The Scandalous Widow by Bree Verity

Author:Bree Verity [Verity, Bree]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Briony Vreedenburgh Books
Published: 2018-03-18T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Alistair’s strength returned over the next few days as his wound healed, and shortly Juliet was so sick of him under her feet, she sent him off to the markets, where he met with his fishmonger contact to give him the letters.

“Where have you been?” the fishmonger hissed as he wrapped up the cod Alistair had selected. “We all thought you must be dead.”

“Close,” replied Alistair. “I had a bullet to the shoulder.”

“Mon dieu! Is your cover blown?”

“No. Nobody followed me home, and Juliet patched me up.” He chuckled. “Had you told me earlier that the Duchess could ever make a tolerable nursemaid, I should have laughed in your face, but there it is.”

“Shh,” admonished the fishmonger. “Everyone has ears. Now, do you have something for me?”

Alistair reached out to take the wrapped fish, swapping it for the letters.

“That will be ten sous,” the fishmonger said.

“Ten sous! Highway robbery!” They haggled over the price for a minute or two, before coming to an agreement of eight sous. As Alistair handed the fishmonger the money, he said, “Do we have any orders?”

“No, but with the change in situation, I shall endeavor to have new orders for you within two days,” said the fishmonger quietly. “Until then, keep your heads down.”

“We will,” replied Alistair, stepping away from the fishmongers table. The man returned to shouting out, “Fresh fish! Caught today!” And before Alistair had taken more than a dozen steps, the fishmonger’s voice had disappeared into the cacophony of the market.

Walking back through the door of his own home, he called, “Juliet! I’ve brought dinner!”

From her place seated at the table, she clicked her tongue in displeasure. “Why could your contact not be a grocer? Or a butcher? Or someone who worked in a patisserie?” She stood up and took the fish from Alistair with a curled lip, depositing it on the bench. Belle, picking up the scent of the fish, set up a loud meowing until Alistair reached down to scoop her up, wincing as his healing shoulder complained at the movement.

Juliet didn’t notice. Her head was down, and she was poring over several pieces of paper in front of her.

“What is that you are looking at?” asked Alistair, patting the kitten absently.

“Oh this?” She looked up at him, her face flushing. “I took a copy of the letters,” she said. “I thought I would take a crack at deciphering them.”

“Juliet!” Alistair was aghast. “It’s dangerous for us to have these!”

“My intuition nagged at me, Alistair. I needed to see what they were.”

“But if our house was searched, how would we explain that we had ciphers and coded letters on our hands?”

“Why would anyone search our house? If it was going to happen, it would have happened shortly after your injury. But now? No, Alistair, I can’t believe there is any danger.” She pulled one page out from the middle of the pile. “Read this,” she instructed.

Alistair scanned the page - it was a letter from Lucien Bonaparte, one of

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