Free Checkmate, My Lord by Tracey Devlyn

half-empty tumbler for an ink-dipped quill and then steeled himself against the inevitable bout of sickness. Because no matter how potent the spirit, Sebastian would never feel at ease with what he was about to do.
    Dabbing the pen’s nib against the inkwell, Sebastian considered his first entry. None of them would be easy, but the first—the first name would start an unpredictable series of events that frankly scared the hell out of him. He tightened his hold on the pen. Who would be his first sacrifice?
    Images flashed before his eyes with blinding speed, making his head spin and his world tilt to the left. That’s when he saw it.
    A missive propped against the table lamp. He recalled Grayson handing it to him hours ago, but he had paid it no mind for he had already crossed the threshold into the darkness that engulfed him more and more these days. Why he noticed it now, he couldn’t be sure. But he welcomed the distraction.
    Replacing the quill, Sebastian picked up the missive and regarded the neat script. Beautifully formed letters made by a confident hand. He lifted the parchment to his nose and detected a faint feminine scent that managed to calm his raging imagination in a way the alcohol hadn’t.
    Breaking the seal, he pressed open the folds and skimmed the contents. Warmth flooded his chest.
    Dear Lord Somerton,
    I do hope you are settling in at Bellamere Park. After giving your situation additional consideration, I would like to extend an offer of my services. I have come to know the craftsmen in the area quite well and can make recommendations based on that knowledge.
    Should you wish to go it alone; however, I have taken the top three pressing issues from my previous list and indicated an appropriate craftsman for the task. Grayson will know how to contact them. This abbreviated list will get you started while you are sorting through the circumstances at Bellamere.
    Please let me know if I can be of further assistance.
    Your faithful neighbor,
    Catherine Ashcroft
    Catherine . His thumb traced over the widow’s signature. Like her handwriting, her name exuded quiet confidence, warmth, and invitation. The room shifted again, righting itself, and the darkness surrounding him began to ebb away.
    She wanted to help him.
    Sebastian could not recall the last time someone wanted to be of service to him without an outstretched hand in return or, in less favorable circumstances, using the service as a mask for something a great deal more diabolical. He supposed the widow could be pandering to him in the hopes of snagging a new husband.
    But that scheme did not ring true. With a difficult marriage behind her, she would not be keen on taking vows again. Unlike the aristocracy, Ashcroft had no qualms about investing his money in the Stock Exchange. As a result, his widow and daughter were set for the foreseeable future. However, she was nothing if not practical and would want what was best for her daughter. Which meant she might be father-shopping rather than husband-hunting.
    He pressed the tips of his fingers into the flesh covering his pounding temple. Agents shackled with families could be compromised by the enemy and distracted from their purpose. He had known this when recruiting Ashcroft. But the young man had shown such promise that Sebastian had ignored the greatest—and last—lesson his murdered mentor had ever taught: Families don’t survive the spy business.
    And Sebastian would have to live with the knowledge that, given the same situation, he would have recruited Ashcroft all over again. Because England had needed the clever young man as much as, if not more than, his family did.
    Sebastian blew out a harsh breath. The sight of Jeffrey Ashcroft slouched against the side of a soot-covered building, blood spreading across his filched peasant’s shirt, surfaced with aching clarity. Slamming his eyes shut, he squeezed the bridge of his nose in a feeble attempt to block the memories of that disastrous night.