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I will burn the people who hurt you the worst and I will not learn;
'Cause I am too young and too dumb to consider the terms;
I'm breaking the law and I'll curse the day that they return.
-Raleigh Ritchie, Bloodsport
Unknown (2:46 a.m.): I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.
One text message, and his entire world spiraled. Again.
Then of course, who else to send his world off its axis other than the woman who had haunted his mind like so?
Since the moment they encountered each other, Anthony Bridgerton had not a moment of peace. He still wasn't certain whether he wanted to strangle her or kiss her for it. He wasn't certain about anything whenever it came to her – not his job, not his moral allegiances, not his damnedest feelings.
Once upon a time, he would have stood firm with the direction he was going. As Star Wars fans loved to put it, he was set on the light side, not that he was much of one for pop culture. But now, his heart found itself teetering towards the edge whenever it came to her.
He spun his cellphone in his fingers, the text still sitting there, unentertained even two weeks after it had popped up in the middle of the night. He had been in the middle of a crisis, and didn't give much care to a text from an unknown number. Until the next morning, when he found himself losing his breath and on the verge of a panic attack.
He didn't bother saving the number, because she made it a habit to switch her number every two weeks. At this point in time, it was likely that even a reply wouldn't reach its intended recipient. Clenching his jaw, he stood up and pocketed the phone.
Enough.
Enough of letting this woman wander through his mind like the mirage that she was, according to the papers. Dead or alive, he refused to allow her more leverage on him than she already did. He had a job to do. A queen to command. A whole country to run.
Unknown (1:12 a.m.): Security at Louvre is abysmal. Have a look at dear old Mona [attachment]
It wouldn't be an overstatement to say that Anthony was the British government, as much as everyone else and himself loved to deny it. They still had to keep up the façade that the prime minister led the country and the queen was the ultimate monarch.
There was no official title to what he did – he dabbled in a bit of everything to keep things running and the country operational – but he basically had his hand in every pie, and with a single text, he could easily wreak havoc in a small nation. That meant that he could have easily found Kate Sharma, if he ever wanted to.
And he wanted to. Just not with methods that could send the entire MI6 after her, even though that would have been prudent of him.
"I heard The Woman is dead," Benedict remarked as soon as Anthony entered the parlor.
The older brother sat in the armchair opposite Benedict and sighed. "Good afternoon, brother. How is business going? Are you charging for your consultancy work? I'm fine, thank you for asking," Anthony said blithely, looking anywhere but his brother.
"I don't charge for fun," Benedict replied easily, fiddling with a paintbrush while a blank canvas sat by the sofa. "Why are you here, brother?"
"Mother wants me to remind you of Christmas dinner. If you're late, you're doing the dishes."
"You could have phoned."
"You dislike picking up your phone."
"Accurate. Could have texted."
"If I pick up your phone right now, would it be charged or rotting with disuse?"
Benedict clicked his tongue. "You think you're so smart."
"I am smart," Anthony replied with no difficulty, knowing full well that he dominated the family in terms of intelligence.
Though that wasn't saying much, given that the entire Bridgerton brood likely dwarfed the entire world with the way their brains worked. It was a wonder that Violet Bridgerton managed to raise them into functional human beings at all, who got jobs and made enough and didn't make trouble for her. Too much.
If they ever did make trouble, she wouldn't ever learn about it. Anthony would rush over to wherever his siblings were to try to resolve things himself, lest he wanted an earful from his doting and overly concerned mother.
Anthony stood up and walked over to the canvas, taking in the blankness of it all. But if looked closely, the canvas wasn't all that blank. He noticed traces of erased pencil marks and brush strokes that carried no paint. His brother was struggling.
"I need your help," he requested, observing the canvas. When Benedict raised his brows in doubt, Anthony scoffed. "Oh please, I'm not as proud as you think I am."
"Our siblings would beg to differ." There was a moment of silence as Anthony managed to deduce that his brother was trying to paint the cityscape from on top of the London Eye, though he suspected that Benedict didn't quite know that yet. "Is she?"
"Is who what?"
"Is The Woman dead?" Benedict needled, seemingly unwilling to let the subject go.
There were better things to think about. More important things.
The country was about to enter an election and a fool was in the running. South Korea was in the middle of a constitutional crisis. Taiwan was almost at war with China because the latter refused to accept that they had entered the 22nd century. Anthony had many on his table, and yet, his brother's question needled him so.
"No," he offered quietly, turning to snatch the paintbrush from Benedict's wily fingers and dipping it in blue paint. "How did you hear that anyway?" He swiped the paintbrush lackadaisically across the middle of the canvas.
"My wife has ears everywhere. And you do remember she used to work with The Woman, yes?"
Right, yes. Sophie and The Woman. Like two peas in a pod. Until Sophie fell in love with Benedict and they fell out. Or so Anthony was told. What did it say about the Bridgertons that they seemed to attract the most dangerous of characters?
Another moment of silence. Drawn out.
Anthony could practically feel eyes burning into his back, and he wanted very much to reverse time and never visit Baker Street at all. He could have just sent an email, or texted Henry, or leave Benedict hanging and let their mother lecture his ear off when Christmas actually arrived.
He didn't want to think about…The Woman. He didn't want her anywhere near him. He simply didn't want her to be such a pertinent part of his memory that she lingered every so often. Like a ghost, but she wasn't dead. Apparently.
"To come to me for help, you must be desperate."
See, the eldest Bridgerton brother loved his siblings. Equally. Well, perhaps not so – Francesca was his favorite by virtue of being the least troubling of them all. However, if he could avoid seeing them for longer than a month, he would consider that a balm.
They saw through him too easily. Knew him too well. Understood his tics to smoothly. He couldn't hide from them no matter how he tried. And he tried, because he was practically their guardian and he had to maintain his foothold on the insurmountable mountain.
"I have no other avenues," Anthony murmured, dipping the brush in brown paint and dabbing at the canvas.
"Don't you lead the MI6?"
"I occupy a small position in the British government."
"Who exactly are you trying to fool?"
"Not you."
"You are the smart one, brother," Benedict remarked from his armchair. Anthony hummed in acquiescence. "But you are also foolish."
Anthony swung around, paint dripping from the brush on the carpet. Blimey, Sophie was going to kill him for this. Still, he didn't much care for his sister-in-law's murderous capacity right now, so insulted by his brother's remark that he let the paint drip anyway.
"Do you know where she is?" Benedict asked, as if he hadn't just offended his big brother to the highest level.
"No clue."
"Fine. I will call you once I have any inroads."
"If you remember to charge the thing," Anthony muttered.
He turned back to the rudimentary painting that he whipped up in a flash. And it turned out…he wasn't so rudimentary after all. He had to lean on his cane at the likeness he had unwittingly crafted, yet to be completely colored in, but it wasn't difficult to identify exactly who he had been picturing.
Clenching his jaw, he carefully placed the brush in its paint holder by the canvas and took a step back, adjusting the lapels of his coat and picking up the hat he had hung on the rack by the door. He nodded at his brother in gratitude and walked out without a word. In his pocket, his phone buzzed.
Unknown (12:12 p.m.): How is Mr. Bridgerton? He better be treating Sophie like a queen, or I'll whip him into pieces.
They met like this.
Queen Charlotte had organized a ball, and Anthony was obliged to attend it, much as he didn't want to. He would prefer to stay in his club, ensconced in utter silence, reading newspapers from all over the world to gauge the best ways to strengthen the country he was so patriotic to. But with his position in the government and the palace, there was simply no escaping it.
And he had been bored. So utterly bored.
The attendants were all so…ordinary, thinking and talking about things that weren't really worth his time at all. He did not care who fucked who in the Ministry of Agriculture. He did not care for the latest happening on that garbage show on BBC. He simply wanted to show his face and drink brandy.
And then – and then he saw her. Anthony had had his dalliances with women – many, in fact. Loneliness had a way of creeping in, and he was but a man. But she was there, holding on the arm of the Prince of Belgium with a laugh on her face. No ordinary man would have discerned that it was all an act, but Anthony was no ordinary man.
Intriguing. Excitement. Something new in an extraordinarily dull affair. His interest was piqued – and that was his downfall.
She noticed him noticing her, because Anthony Bridgerton was easily the most important man in the room, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise. She released the arm of the prince and went over to him. She introduced herself.
He decided he liked the way her name rolled on his tongue, all unique and still common enough to not garner too much attention. He decided he liked the way she brazenly invited him back to her hotel room. He decided this woman would be the one extraordinary among the ordinary – until he realized she had planned it all along.
At that point, she became The Woman – the only person on earth who could beat him in slyness and under-the-table maneuvers and escape strategies and lord only knew what else. At that point, she had slithered so far down his skin that he couldn't press the button to execute a kill order.
Unknown (4:24 a.m.): I don't need your brother's protection. Call off your dogs.
"You're bleeding."
"Yes, I'm quite aware. Thank you for your astute observation, Viscount Bridgerton."
As it turned out, Anthony was the one who didn't get to make it to Christmas dinner after all. He could already imagine his siblings and mother blowing up his phone with texts and calls right now, but he couldn't much care about that at the moment.
In his defense, he was preparing himself for the onslaught of questions and ribbing that were inevitable at Aubrey Hall, dressed up to the nines so his mother would have one less thing to chastise him about. It didn't matter to her that he was practically a civil servant. It only mattered that he was her son.
And then it all went to shit when his doorbell rang – surprising in itself, that someone found where he lived, after all the lengths he went to ensure that his residence was not known to anyone but himself and his family – and he opened the door to find The Woman bleeding a Jackson Pollock on his welcome mat.
Don't ask why he had a welcome mat. He didn't have visitors. His mother liked to decorate.
"Who did this?" he asked, still lingering in the doorway.
"Would you mind letting me enter before interrogating me? As you've mentioned, I am bleeding," she quipped, retaining her fiery personality despite her state of injury.
Despite her request, he took a moment too long to observe. Not that he could be blamed – it had been more than a year since they last crossed paths. Since she last kissed him on the cheek and bade him farewell. Since he could take in her dark skin and not feel guilty for thinking about how much he would like to ravage her.
He had, despite his vehement protests to himself, missed her like a dog missed its owner. He missed how extraordinary she was, the way she spiced up his life in ways that went against all his morals and responsibilities. The way she tempted him so very much to shift to the criminal underworld. With his intelligence, he very well could dominate.
He took a step back and gestured airily for her to enter. She brushed past him with a murmured thank you, and he closed his eyes, inhaling that scent of hers. Unmistakable soap, scented with lilies. It was almost as if she went out of her way to make sure that he would never forget her just by that scent alone.
Anthony missed her. And he hated himself for it.
Unknown (6:56 p.m.): Open your door, Anthony.
His phone was blowing up with texts and calls from the Bridgerton brood, as expected. But he gave them no care, because there was a bleeding woman on his pristine white sofa, decorating it as another Jackson Pollock painting. His mother would surely have a fit once she found out he had gotten rid of the welcome mat.
Having procured his first aid kit from the pantry, he placed the item on the coffee table and allowed The Woman to have her way with it. He didn't want to touch her, lest he lost all his senses like he was prone to do in her presence.
"Who did this?" he asked as he stood on the opposite side of the table, hands crossed at his back.
She opened the first aid kit and evidently impressed with his supplies. With familiarity, she started fishing out disinfectants and bandages and cotton swabs and tweezers and a generous amount of painkillers. "No one you should concern yourself with," she replied.
"You are bleeding on my sofa."
"The great Viscount Bridgerton, throwing a fit over a sofa?"
"You would too if you realize my mother procured it."
And that was when Anthony Bridgerton realized that he had lost all his senses anyway, without even really touching her. On any other day, he would have found it interesting, but now it was entirely inconvenient.
She had paused in her ministrations of dabbing at the wound on her abdomen – a fucking gunshot wound – as if it wasn't anything serious. To her, perhaps not. To him, he wanted to find whoever did this and strangle them to death for even daring to lay a hand on her.
She stared at him in that ways of hers. Inquisitive and mischievous, like he had just handed her the best trump card.
Never mind that they'd seen each other at their worst and their best. Never mind that they had had quite a few tumbles in bed. Never mind that they each stored one another's deepest and darkest secrets. Never mind that Anthony was currently seeing her at possibly her most vulnerable.
"Viscount Anthony Bridgerton…lets his mother picks his furniture?" she asked incredulously, a naughty grin slowly spreading across her face.
He shifted his weight, clearing his throat. "She likes to be busy," he murmured, finding himself exceedingly uncomfortable in his own home. "Here, let me," he added when it was clear she was too intrigued by his latest revelation to have a care of her still bleeding wound, sitting by her side and taking charge of the situation.
She kept a cool composure as he dabbed sufficient disinfectant on the wound and picked up the tweezers. Not a sound was made while he pried the wound just so to spot the bullet still lodged in there. It was almost as if he was treating a mannequin, judging by how quiet she was as he carefully dug out the foreign object.
It was only when he begun the process of stitching her up that she spoke.
"You never responded," she pointed out, a strain in her voice as the needle pierced her skin one by one.
"You change your number too much."
"Yes, well, I have to keep myself dead in a way," she breathed, sucking in sharply when his hand shivered ever so slightly. "I'm not sure you're supposed to do this at your old age."
He lifted his gaze to give her a deadpan expression. "Bit too late now, isn't it?"
"Did you ever visit my grave?"
He didn't answer for a long period, focusing on stitching up the bullet wound. He never wanted to hurt her more than she already was, despite the amount of pain she had put him through. He didn't even think he was capable of feeling pain to that extent until she inflicted it upon him.
And yet, never had he felt a need for revenge.
It was only her in her essence, showing that she cared in the most bizarre way possible. To be honest, he was flattered…in a sense. He supposed the two of them were faulty that way. Incapable of showing their emotions like proper human beings.
Her, a consultant criminal who doled out pain just because she felt like it. Him, a small-time servant in the British government who had the nuclear codes in the palm of his hand.
When the wound was completely stitched up, a pair of scissors was used to snip it off. He inspected his work for a second before deciding that she was most certainly going to scar. He had never claimed to be a medical expert. Too boring of a subject to really study. People lived and people died.
"There will be a scar," he huffed, packing up the first aid kit.
Once he discarded the bloodied cotton swabs and tarnished equipment, he returned to his previous post at the opposite side of the coffee table. Distance was necessary. This woman was dangerous.
She was fingering at the stitches, and he knew telling her not to wouldn't do a thing anyway – they were both too stubborn for their own good. It was in this quietness that he realized his phone had stopped buzzing, and if he knew his family at all, it was either they were prepared to slaughter him verbally on Black Friday…or they were on their way here now.
And yet, he had to know. "Who did this?" he asked again between gritted teeth, his hands still stained with her blood.
"I am a consultant criminal. Enemies are natural," she answered without answering again. "I do like your nickname for me better." He raised his brows in curiosity. "The Woman," she breathed reverently. "Like I matter."
"You can't not matter by virtue of your occupation," he retorted, though they both knew that it was a hell of a lot more than that. "Can't be the British government," he concluded.
"Why not?"
"Because I have to sanction it. And I know everything that goes on in this country."
She hummed, obviously flattered. "Tell me," she started, grunting as she moved to stand. "Do you think we would have had a chance, if we weren't who we are?"
"And who are we?"
"Emotionally stunted, for starters."
"Don't let my mother hear you say that."
"That's the second time tonight you've mentioned her. Do you want me to meet the mother?"
They eyed each other for a long stretch of time. And then she split her gaze away, taking in the décor that he had no part in. She wanted him to look at him again. Part of him wanted her to look at him like she did that night – like he was a target, like she was ready to eat him up and spit him out.
"Merry Christmas, Anthony," she bade, making her way to the door.
He was used to it – her coming and leaving whenever she wanted, wringing his heart so – but that didn't mean he wasn't hurt by it. He wished he could hate her, as she had hated him way back when. Then maybe he wouldn't feel these inconvenient things that disabled him from doing his job proper.
Still, he watched as she disappeared. Graceful as ever, even with a bullet wound, of all things.
"Merry Christmas, Kate," he whispered to the door.
Unknown (12:01 a.m.): Bullets are so barbaric. Should have stayed with old-fashioned swords and clubs.
"Nice of you to show up."
"My boss needed a favor," Anthony lied to Eloise gruffly, brandishing a cigarette pack and lighter from his jacket pocket.
Soon enough, Benedict would join them. But for now, the two of them were hiding out on the backyard patio, smoking cigarettes and praying their mother wouldn't catch them in the act. He offered Eloise one after lighting one of his own, which she took without a word.
There was no mistaking the dark circles around his eyes, but he was grateful that she didn't speak of it. That was the way they were – not particularly close, but still understanding enough to know what they should and should not say. Still, he was glad that his sister had decided to keep her opinions to herself tonight.
"I have something for you," she said, and that surprised him – Eloise had never had anything for him but barbed words and cigarette requests. "I imagine you've been looking for it."
When he turned to her, she was holding out an A4 paper, doubtless printed from their mother's ancient printer in the ancient study that she refused to remodel.
Violet had claimed that it was their father's most precious place, and it would only dishonor him to change anything about it. And as the boy who once watched his father die, Anthony could no longer dissuade her after that explanation. That was how he saw Kate's empty grave – it was conveniently located in the same cemetery. He wondered if she did that on purpose.
Gingerly, his fingers reached for the paper and unfolded it. Once he read the words, he swung back to her, eyes wide and brows furrowed. Millions of questions hanging on his lips.
"I know a guy who knows a guy," she explained without really explaining.
He looked down at the information he'd been seeking since Kate showed up at his place last night, making him miss Christmas dinner and target of his mother's scathing glare this morning. Simon had simply patted him on the back, while the rest of his siblings eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
"Benedict was supposed to help me protect her," he said quietly, folding the paper and making a note to make use of it once he returned to work tomorrow.
"If The Woman wants to escape our attention, she very well can. She's done it every time," Benedict voiced from behind, having just joined with his own cigarette propped between his lips. "Got a light?" he asked Eloise, who handed over the lighter. "She took the bullet for Sophie, actually."
He clenched his fists. No wonder his sister-in-law was mysteriously missing this morning. He suspected she was either upstairs or at home, resting from nearly dying. Benedict wasn't mad, because he couldn't be. None of them could stop those two women from their antics whenever they got up to it.
His curious nature made him want to know more. His job often made information readily available. But this time, he knew no amount of digging could surface anything. Not unless he spoke to Sophie, but he suspected Benedict would forbid anyone near his wife until he was certain she had fully recuperated.
"What is it about her?" Eloise asked from her perch on the lounge chair.
Anthony squinted slightly. "She gave me a dressing down when we first met. Basically told me to my face that I'm not as important than I think I am, and she could tear me down with just her pinkie."
Eloise snorted, an amused smile on her face. "I like her already."
"So did I," he admitted softly.
"You love her," Benedict observed.
Anthony clenched his jaw and took one last puff before throwing the cigarette butt in the secret ashtray the three of them had hid on the slanted roof. He reached into his pocket and took out the paper, fishing out his phone. Before he dialed, he eyed his siblings.
"Thank Philip for me," he pointed out, smirking when Eloise was caught off guard. "It doesn't have to be immediate, but please have Sophie contact me as soon as she is well enough," he requested with his brother. "Not a word of this gets back to mother. Or worse, Daphne."
He then walked far away from the patio. He had a call to make. He had a man to track down. He had Kate to avenge.
Unknown (2:55 p.m.): I'm still not dead yet. Dinner?
That was reassuring enough. No doubt that number would change in a couple of hours. And he would get another text to reassure him that she was still out there. Diabolical. Alive.
He pocketed the device, rolled up his sleeves, and picked up the thumbscrew amongst the array of torture devices laid out in the chamber. Usually, Anthony wasn't the one applying these methods – he had people and secret torture chambers for that – but this was a special occasion. This concerned an individual that he cared about more than he should.
Approaching the man tied to the chair, the thumbscrew was casually tapped against his hand. Like it was nothing but a toy that would not do any harm. He knelt to level his eyes with Nigel Berbrooke. Just to make sure the man knew that he meant business.
"Who ordered the kill on Kate Sharma?" he inquired gently.
Before he had entered the chamber, his men had already done quite a number on Berbrooke. Split lip. Missing fingernails. Shorn hair. A variety of injuries undoubtedly hidden under his clothing. But since he refused to reveal anything, Anthony had to take things into his own hands.
Berbrooke was panting and moaning in his chair. Quite a pathetic sight. If he wasn't still withholding information, Anthony would have ordered him to be tossed in the nearest homeless sewage. Let him rot in his own piss and remember Anthony's fury.
The whole world knew that Kate Sharma was not to be touched. If not for her network in the criminal underworld, then for his one-time order of denying anyone their rights to go after her. They had all thought that he wanted to kill her himself – they didn't know he just wanted her in his arms.
When Berbrooke offered no answer, Anthony groaned and reached out to grab his hair, pulling his head back and putting more pressure on his already damaged spine. "Who. Ordered. The. Kill?" he hissed.
Berbrooke moaned. Anthony made a noise of frustration and released the man, taking a step back to make sure he was in full view, tapping the thumbscrew harder against his palm.
"I am lazy, Berbrooke. I sit in my chair and order my men to do things, because legwork is so exhausting, don't you agree? Time wasted for only an iota of information," he said. "Still, they are not as good as I am, when I want to be a little more hardworking," he embellished with a rakish smile. "I will put you through hell and make sure you wish you're dead, do you hear me? I also have the Judas Cradle, but that's for special occasions. Do you want to be a special occasion, Nigel?"
Berbrooke moaned. Again. And Anthony was going to just apply the thumbscrew just to expel his frustrations, only to stop when Berbrooke opened his mouth again. Not to moan.
"Sheffield," the man gasped. Anthony narrowed his eyes. "George Sheffield," Berbrooke completed, slumping in his chair as if those words alone took all his might.
"Why?"
Berbrooke managed a shrug, and Anthony wasn't totally surprised. The man before him was notorious for willing to do any distasteful thing for money. There was a warrant out for him in New Zealand for serial sexual assault.
He tapped the thumbscrew one more time, satisfied when Berbrooke jumped in his seat at the noise. He placed the device on the table and rolled his sleeves back down, adjusting his waistcoat, because he was a Viscount still.
Unknown (1:11 a.m.): I wish I could say I want to kill Nigel Berbrooke myself, but I have bigger fish to fry.
The rest of December flew past. New Year's Eve arrived and passed. New Year came and passed, with no new year resolutions made, because Anthony had long disillusioned himself of that notion. Resolutions were only resolutions because they could never be achieved.
He stopped another war from erupting in Taiwan. He called up Pyongyang and warned them of consequences if they let their triggers flew again. He swept away the prince's extramarital affair as a favor to the queen. He stopped Benedict from infiltrating a secret facility with Henry with his credentials for a case.
He kept himself busy as he looked for George Sheffield.
It was the second week of January when Sophie finally deigned to call him. He was certain that she could have called him earlier, but perhaps she enjoyed watching him fumble a little too much. Perhaps his brother had something to do with it.
"I wouldn't have let her take the bullet for me, but she's fast," was the first thing Sophie said.
He hummed understandingly. "Yes, she's always too fast," he lamented, remembering the way she had slipped out of bed with the nuclear codes in her pocket before he woke up two years ago, prompting him to enact emergency measures and change up everything he had worked so hard to establish. "How do you always manage to find her, but I don't?"
"She is Kate Sharma," Sophie explained like he was a toddler. "And I am her best friend."
"I thought you don't talk anymore."
"We don't have to talk for a century, and she will always be my best friend," she said magnanimously.
It had been daunting in the beginning to find out that Kate Sharma, of all people, who could launch a missile because she felt like it, had a best friend. Sophie wasn't as whimsical, but could still shoot a man dead blindfolded. He and Benedict were all sorts of deranged for the women they were attracted to.
"I found Nigel Berbrooke."
"Oh yes, Benedict told me," Sophie said, sounding all to lackadaisical at the mention of the man who almost put a bullet in her if not for her best friend. "Finally, something to get you out of your chair."
"She should be honored."
"She's busy dismantling the government you're so determined to protect."
"I occupy a small position in the British government," he repeated his mantra tiredly, and sighed when she scoffed at the other end of the phone. "What happened?" he finally asked the lasting question, because Berbrooke had had his throat crushed after Anthony got the answer he wanted.
Sophie went quiet, and he waited. He had his chair and his brandy. He could be patient, especially with the woman who managed to wrangle his obnoxious brother who loved to paint and didn't take money for investigative cases.
"I've been looking for her since the moment I found out she was dead – didn't believe for one second that the coffin was the opposite of empty. And then I tracked her down, because she can be sentimental too, believe it or not. I just didn't realize that Berbrooke had been following my trail," Sophie described.
"And then he tried to shoot you."
"I hope you put him through hell."
"I think he's somewhere in the London sewers. Didn't really follow up after I crushed his throat."
Sophie whistled. "I see why Kate's so attached to you."
His fingers flexed against the glass of brandy at the accidental revelation. He was sure that Sophie wasn't aware of what she was telling him of the mysterious Kate Sharma who came and went at her own whims.
If he asked, Sophie would give it to him. A way to contact Kate on a more lasting basis than her reliable burner phones and disposable emails. But he would never do that. There were things about Benedict that Sophie still didn't know. There were things about Kate that Anthony didn't know.
And the sun rose and sank every damn day. The circle of life that had everyone trapped exactly where they were. Freedom would only truly come in the form of death. And he would still not know everything about The Woman.
Unknown (9:57 p.m.): Let's make it a date [location]
The address led to a hole-in-the-wall pizza parlor a block away from the suburbia north of London city. Anthony briefly wondered whether Kate had deliberately sent him the wrong address to lead him on a wild goose chase as he inhaled the cheese and dough and pepperoni permeating the air. His second thought was that he was way too dressed up for this.
Well, wild goose chase or not. Pizza was pizza. He straightened his waistcoat and replaced his phone in his coat pocket, cane tapping rhythmically on the ground as he entered the establishment, confronted with a tiny main room that consisted of only five tables with sparse decorations.
"The chef used to work at a Michelin restaurant in Vienna." He swung around to find Kate sitting at a table by the window, nursing a glass of blood red wine. "Join me, will you?" she invited, gesturing at the empty chair before her.
His gaze took in his surroundings, cataloguing every mundane detail that could help if he ever needed it later. Then he took off his coat and sat, hanging the cane on the side of the table. He glanced down at the pizza and scoffed when he spotted pineapples.
She clicked her tongue. "He wasn't too happy at my request," she confessed. "I have unique taste buds, what can I say?" she added with a shrug, picking up a slice and taking a bite.
"How's your wound?"
"Quite well. It did scar. You shouldn't ever consider the medical field," Kate chastised.
"Too boring," he replied and picked up a slice himself, careful to remove the abominable pineapple pieces. "What are we doing here?" He kept his focus on everything but her, because he wanted to retain his constitution with him as long as possible.
"Did you miss me?"
He ate the pizza, contemplating whether to lie or be honest. Then again, it probably wouldn't matter. She always saw right through him, which was perhaps why he never managed to tear himself away from her orbit.
Caring was not an advantage; he still held on to that refrain. It was biblical to him – the guidance to the way he navigated the world he lived in. If Anthony cared more than he was supposed to, then there would be no government to run and he would perhaps be a lowly accountant somewhere.
But that had only been a notion for the longest of time, until he met her. Meeting Kate Sharma had all but cemented that idea. Caring for her had made him almost incapable of executing his job as well as he used to, though no one had ever noticed but his brother. And yet, he couldn't stop if he tried. It was bloody annoying.
"Why are you here?" she asked when he didn't answer her question.
"You tell me."
She raised her brows and leaned forward to prop her elbows on the edge of the table. "Yes, but you could have chosen not to come. Why did you?"
"Sophie worries."
"She does, doesn't she?"
He inclined his head in confirmation, his fingers flexing against the glass of wine a waiter had poured for him. He cleared his throat and met her eyes, losing all his senses in a second, sinking in brown eyes that had entranced him for seemingly his whole life.
"I worry," he confessed, voice thick with reluctance.
Seemingly satisfied, she leaned back again. "George Sheffield and his wife are hiding in the suburbs just one block away. I intend to clear the ledger with them tonight. You can join me, or you can leave after having this excellent pizza."
"Ledger?"
"I am owed."
"And you let them?"
She looked out the window for a second before meeting his eyes again. For once, those eyes didn't twinkle with mischief or sparkle with knowledge. They were dark and dimmed and haunted. And Anthony didn't think it possible.
He took a sip of his wine and wondered who could have put that look in her eyes. And then wondered what resources he would have to pull to find them and put them underground.
"Contrary to popular belief, I didn't break out of a rock. I had a sister. And a father. And a mother. And a stepmother," Kate confessed, her voice low and serious. "The Sheffields are essentially my grandparents, and they have done us many wrongs. I am owed. We are owed."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Everything I've ever done is for my family. Every misstep I've taken. Every wrong I've committed. Every connection, bad or good, I've established. All to find out everything about the Sheffields and toppled them once and for all."
"Why are you telling me this?" he reiterated, seeing that things weren't quite right here.
She sighed. "When all this is done, I may just disappear."
He froze in his seat. He could practically feel everything screeching to a halt.
Disappearing could mean many things, but ultimately, disappearing would mean she would disappear, because that was what she was capable and what he knew she would do exactly. Anthony had lived the better part of the past ten years worrying about her, missing her, wanting to kill her and kiss her at the same time, but she was always there.
Lingering in the horizon. Threatening to throw him loop when he least expected it. She was always present, and he was always aware of her presence, regardless of where she was in any corner of the world.
"You will abandon –" He cut himself off, realizing what his last word would be, but she knew anyway, judging by that turn of her lips. "What about your empire?"
"I have no need for it once the Sheffields are dealt with." He glared at her from across the table. "It was the plan all along," she breathed.
He was struggling. To breathe. To think. To so much as utter a word without laying his heart on the table – if he had one at all. He downed the whole glass of wine and gestured for the waiter to refill it. Then he downed that glass too. Another refill, but he left it sitting there this time around.
"Why am I here?" he finally asked.
"Take care of my sister for me. I would ask you to take care of my mother too, but she's not in London right now," Kate requested. "I've never asked you for anything. Consider this a favor, after all that's happened between us."
"You have vexed me for ten years."
"I gave you excitement, admit it."
"What if I asked you to stay?"
A genuine smile spread across her face, as if that was the one thing she had been waiting to hear all night – all ten years that they'd orbited in each other's spaces. She relaxed further back in her chair, swirling her wine. And he felt a sense of hope spreading within his stomach.
Only to have it all dashed out when she shook her head. She stood up and rounded the small table to stand at his side, placing a hand on his shoulder. He inhaled sharply, looking up at her in anticipation and a way to memorize all her features, because he knew deep down, this would be the last time.
It seemed she was doing the same thing too, with the way her hand traveled up his collar to his neck and then his cheek, her fingers brushing his skin softly. Etching the contours of his face into her very skin. He let her.
"Will you miss me?" she asked.
Well, to hell with it. What did he have to lose?
He had practically given her everything he could afford. A heart that he didn't think he possessed. Entrance to his lodgings, of which its security was still not updated, just because he had hoped she might show up again.
"Viscerally," he whispered vehemently.
She hummed, satisfied. And then she leaned down to capture his lips with hers, not caring for their spectators, who were amazed at the people occupying this little establishment right now. A viscount and a woman he'd never been seen with before.
He didn't care either. He couldn't care less if a terrorist group decided to annex a small region. Or his employer decided to abdicate her throne. Or if his brother was stuck in the middle of a case with only a mitten for a clue. He didn't care about any of them now.
All he cared was that Kate was kissing him. And he was kissing her back. And just like the first time, his hairs on the back of his neck stood, and he wanted more than just a kiss. He wanted to be electrified like this for the rest of his short life. He wanted her in his arms. In his bed. In his life. For however long the gods above would let them.
He stood with her, enclosed his arms around her waist, and pulled her close to him. He willed time to freeze, and willed for her to never let him go. Willed for her to ensnare him in her willful. Do with him what she would.
"Thank you for not killing me, Viscount Bridgerton," she whispered once she pulled back and leaned their foreheads together, hands tender on his neck.
He closed his eyes and breathed in lilies. "Thank you for not killing me as well, Woman."
She kissed one more time. Short and sweet. Everything she wasn't known to be.
And when he opened his eyes once more, she was long gone from his arms and out the door. The chef informed him that the meal was paid for.
Unknown (3:09 a.m.): Goodbye, Viscount Bridgerton.
"Let's play a game."
"I'm not here to play games," Anthony snarled, but leaned on his cane anyway, waiting for the next of Benedict's eccentricities.
"Can you pick that up for me?" Benedict gestured at the mantel place vaguely with a harpoon – Sophie had only shrugged and rolled her eyes when Anthony glanced at her curiously, and proceeded to enter the bedroom, having had enough of the Bridgertons' antics for the day.
Anthony sighed and picked up the book – a tourist guide to India – tossing it over to Benedict, who pierced it with the harpoon. He wondered if Sophie ever got the memo that his brother should never be allowed anywhere near lethal weapons.
He had to jump back when Benedict thrust the tourist guide back in his direction, missing him by only a few centimeters with the sharp end of the harpoon. He grumbled under his breath and plucked the book off the edge, pushing the weapon gently back to his brother.
"What are we doing?" he grumbled.
"A client left this behind yesterday. What do you reckon?"
"I'm busy."
"Oh, go on. I want to show my superiority."
A sniff was taken. Pages were flipped. Corners were examined. Footnotes were noted. And then Anthony lowered the book, looking at his brother.
"I always win." Benedict shrugged. "She's well-traveled. Particularly fond of India. Sentimental too, jarringly."
"She?"
"Certainly."
"How so?"
"This guide has obviously only ever been held by the hands of a woman. Long and nimble. Nail polish traces if you looked at the cover carefully enough. But not big enough for it to belong to a man."
"Could be a child's."
"You said your client, didn't you?" Anthony pointed out, smug smile on his face. "One can tell that she's fond of India from the yellowed pages and folded corners. And she's obviously taken the time to learn the language, judging by the notes scattered across the pages. She likes India, and she's not done exploring it," he continued, unable to resist now that his head was in it.
The rational part of him could recognize this for what it truly was. A form of distraction in the only way Benedict would know how.
The eight siblings had always spent their time of their childhoods trying to one-up one another with their deduction skills and over-the-top pranks. And now, Benedict was trying to distract Anthony by trying to one-up him but obviously failing. Anthony always won.
"You did miss one thing," Benedict pointed it, wiggling his fingers.
"What?" Anthony asked, tossing the book back to his brother.
Benedict smiled, but not in a smug way. No, this was…brotherly. Caring as much as they could with their limited capacity. He flipped through the pages, various expressions crossing his face at any one point. And then he flipped it closed again.
"If you look closely, you'll notice the notes aren't just notes. They are clues." Benedict turned his head when his wife emerged from their bedroom. "Coordinates, if you will."
"Coordinates?"
"Coordinates," Benedict confirmed.
Anthony disliked being out of the loop. His job was to be in the loop. At all times. And judging by how Benedict and Sophie exchanged a look, he was infinitely out of the loop this time around. And he hated it. He hated a lot of things these days.
Snatching the book from his brother's possession, Anthony flipped through the pages more carefully this time. Reading the notes in feminine handwriting. Ballpen. Not gel pen. That was a clue, but it wasn't definitive. He ran through all the code dictionaries installed in his head, running through the numbers and alphabets and foreign languages.
But it was only when he reached the index that he figured it out. That was slow, especially for him. Benedict would never let him get away with it. But he would gladly let him hang this over his head if this clue meant what he thought it meant.
"Yesterday?" he murmured offhandedly, still staring at the question directed at him in the index, circled in random alphabets and numbers that wouldn't make a lick sense to an ordinary person.
"I'd say three months are long enough to disappear, especially with her resources," Sophie offered from the kitchen doorway.
Anthony's chest shuddered as he exhaled. He gingerly closed the book, determined now to return it to its owner. The coordinates could have changed, but given that it was given to Benedict yesterday, she couldn't be far.
"I worry about you constantly," he told his brother. Benedict squinted. "All our brothers and sisters, in fact."
"I just gave you the coordinates –"
"Tell mother I will be gone indefinitely. I'm traveling to India," Anthony announced abruptly, picking up his cane and pocketing the book.
"A thank you would be nice!" Benedict bellowed to his disappearing back.
Unknown (5:13 p.m.): Do you like Vada Pao?