Live and Let Spy (The King's Rogues Book 1)

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  However, as she passed by the inn door, it swung open abruptly and she was nearly barreled over by a rushing man. His strong hands held her shoulders as she regained her balance.

  “I beg your pardon for bumping you, Miss, I was in a hurry,” a warm, pleasant voice apologized. “Polly’s so strict about closing her kitchen on time.”

  Olivia smiled, raising her head to tell the man the offense was small and forgiven. Then she looked into his face.

  The man from the woods!

  She heard herself gasp. The man’s expression changed from concern to surprise as he, too, remembered her. She had no idea how long they stared at each other, but the tension was broken by Polly’s call as she approached.

  “Adam! Ye’re back.”

  He gave Olivia’s shoulders a quick squeeze of reassurance and released them before sidling around her in order to greet Polly.

  “I’m not too late, I hope. I just about ran all the way back from Flushing for one of your pasties.”

  Polly laughed and gave the man an affectionate pinch on the cheek. Olivia started for the stairs but found her hand snagged.

  “Don’t go away, Missy, there’s someone I want ye to meet.”

  She allowed herself to be drawn back to the hallway.

  “Adam, this is Olivia Collins. Olivia, I’d like to introduce ye to Petty Officer Adam Hardacre.”

  *

  POLLY SLIPPED HER arm in his.

  “Adam’s retired from the Navy—”

  “—In a manner of speaking—”

  “—And he’s come home to Ponsnowyth.”

  Adam watched heightened color come to the woman’s cheeks and the doe-like eyes from their earlier meeting widened once more. He felt her discomfiture. She dropped a small curtsy, out of habit it would appear, although he thought under the circumstances he ought to bow to her.

  “Miss Olivia was governess at Kenstec House,” Polly continued without once taking a breath. “Miss Lydia and Squire Denton’s widow have taken themselves off to London.”

  So, she was not a maid at Kenstec.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be in Ponsnowyth for much longer, Mr. Hardacre,” the governess said. “I shall miss this place, but I wish you well for your homecoming. I imagine there is much you will want to catch up on.”

  She stepped back as though about to take her leave, but Polly wasn’t having any of it.

  “Ye can have a chat while I bring his supper and fetch ye a slice of apple pie with a cup of tea.”

  Adam met the woman’s eyes once more, and they shared a mutual look of empathy – the recognition that being under Polly’s roof gave her permission to order anyone about as she pleased. They followed her across the dining room.

  One or two of the men – old men now who had been acquainted with his father – rose to greet him. A moment later, everyone in the inn – including people Adam wasn’t sure he actually knew, was shaking his hand to welcome him home.

  Adam hadn’t expected to be recognized, but there it was. By this time tomorrow evening, his return would have been announced from Perranporth to Porthleven and all points between. Mission accomplished, even if mostly by accident.

  By the time he had managed to extract a promise of a longer reunion on the morrow in exchange for a quiet supper tonight, Olivia Collins was already seated at the table. The poor thing looked like she would rather face her own execution than dine with him.

  He leaned across the table.

  “If you wish to be away, I can have your excuses ready by the time Polly returns.”

  The woman shook her head and smiled, open and unforced. It warmed something in him.

  “I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble, Mr. Hardacre, and besides, I do wish to speak to you…” She hesitated. “About a mutual acquaintance.”

  The warmth in his chest turned to stone. When Ridgeway told him to expect the traitor to make contact, he had no idea they would use a woman as a go-between and do it so soon.

  “You may speak as freely as you wish,” he answered. Her lovely brown eyes met his once more. He knew she had not missed his change of tone.

  “No, it can’t be here.” She paused and swallowed, her nervousness returned. “The matter is of a delicate nature.”

  “Then where?” he said, his voice little more than a low grumble so as not to be overheard. The woman before him moved her arm but not before he noticed the rise of goose flesh on it. He watched her frown as if the question had not occurred to her – or perhaps she was trying to remember what she had been told.

  “Tomorrow then,” he said, voice decisive. “I can escort you back to Kenstec House in the morning and we’ll speak on the way.”

  Rosy cheeks turned deathly pale. “No! Don’t come to the house. Tomorrow afternoon. Meet me at two o’clock in the woods in front of the ruined monastery where we saw each other today.”

  Adam cursed the missed opportunity to ask her more questions as Jory and Will appeared with their food and drink. Miss Olivia Collins sat back in her seat and brought the cup of tea to her lips with the faintest of tremors.

  They ate in uncomfortable silence – or rather he ate while she pressed a fork into the slice of pie with clotted cream to make it appear as though she had attempted a bite. She did finish her tea though.

  She eyed him cautiously as he set down his fork. There remained nothing of the pasty but a few flakes of pastry on the plate.

  “Is there something amiss? Do I have food on my face?” He couldn’t stop his slightly peevish tone.

  She shook her head and offered a tentative smile. “Here.”

  Adam found her plate pushed toward him.

  “Do I look famished?”

  The smile became a small giggle, a charming sound, like the sound of wind chimes.

  “If I’ve offended you, Mr. Hardacre, I apologize,” she said. “I suggest, if it is any consolation, that you could consider this a service to me because if Polly returned to an untouched plate I would have to answer to my appetite, and the quality of her cooking which, as you and I both well know, is without peer.”

  Adam felt the weight of suspicion ease a moment. He returned her smile. Olivia Collins had a very pleasant face to look at – a clear complexion, a small straight nose, and lips tinted the softest shade of rose.

  “So eating a slice of delicious pie is an act of chivalry?” he asked lightly.

  “It is a sacrifice to be sure – especially when I am certain you will be expected to eat a portion of your own much larger than this before the night is out.”

  Adam took the plate after a moment’s hesitation.

  “I’ve been told I have an appetite for danger.”

  “Really?”

  “Indeed,” he replied, and shoveled in a mouthful of pie.

  HE ROSE JUST at dawn. Jory yawned a good morning in the yard and Adam raised a fishing rod in response. He settled the strap of a wicker creel across his shoulder. He looked like he was going to be out for the day – and that was exactly the impression he wanted to give.

  A glance up at the second story window revealed it still curtained. A certain female was not yet up. That suited him just fine.

  Adam had spent another pleasant hour of conversation with Miss Olivia Collins last night. It had been a dance of sorts. She took a step forward and spoke of her family from Yorkshire; he returned the compliment by telling her an amusing story about being accidentally locked in the cellar overnight here at the Angler’s Arms. He skirted the topic of his return to town, while she danced around the issue of her current employment.

  Before they parted for the night, he once again made the offer to escort her back to the house and, once again, she withdrew, adamant she required no such assistance and that she would see him at two o’clock as agreed.

  He dropped the matter instantly, lest he arouse more suspicion than necessary. So, why that hour in particular? Was she expecting someone beforehand? Who?

  Well, that’s what he intended to find out.


  He made his way toward one of the popular fishing spots just outside the village and ventured further into the woods, following the watercourse upstream until it crossed onto Denton land. Adam continued until he could see the house and still remain within cover.

  Time to make himself comfortable, he thought. He settled himself against a tree trunk and placed the rod on the ground next to him. He unbuckled the lid of his basket, pulled out a spyglass, and trained it on the windows of the house. No discernible sign of life within presented itself.

  So far, it had appeared to be exactly as he had been told; Denton’s young widow and daughter had packed up, bag and baggage, to London and the house was closed up.

  He set the spyglass back and looked inside his hastily prepared kit. A knife, a notebook, and pencil. Next to it, a small bottle of ale and beside that another pasty that Polly had thoughtfully left for him. Adam took out the food and settled himself against the tree.

  He did not have to wait long. By the time the morning sun had lit patches of lawn, Miss Collins appeared, moving with great alacrity toward the house. He raised the glass and found her once more, head down, hurrying along as though she was late for an appointment. She crossed the front outside of the house and went down the northern side toward where the kitchen would be.

  About an hour later, he spotted a figure moving in the house. One window opened, then another. Adam tried to recall what that room might be – a library or drawing room perhaps.

  He had actually been inside Kenstec House several times as a young boy. The first Mistress Denton would hold a Christmas feast and pageant every year for the villagers, but he had never been any further into the house than the entrance hall.

  Outside, very little appeared to have changed, except for the unusual extension built into the southwestern corner of the house. Extending above the roofline by ten feet or so was a round tower topped with a small iron railing. He could not recall it from his childhood visits. And now, as he looked carefully, he could see how the bricks of which the turret was built had not weathered the same as the centuries-old house.

  He attuned himself to the sounds around him. Birds twittered in the trees, a dog barked somewhere beyond the estate, the gentle morning breeze caused leaves to clap, the stream behind chortled to itself.

  He allowed his mind to wander a little. It was a perfectly ordinary late spring day, hardly the backdrop for spies and intrigue. The whole thing seemed rather ridiculous. He was beginning to feel ridiculous.

  A short time later, he heard a faint rhythmic clip-clop of a horse and cart out on the road. He strained his ears to determine whether horse and rider would continue down to the village or turned into the drive. The driver turned.

  Adam pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at the time, ten minutes to ten. Through the spyglass, he watched the man – older than himself, perhaps in his fifties, a distinguished manner – bring his gig to a stop by the front door. It opened with his very own Miss Collins there to greet the man.

  So, who exactly was this person she hadn’t wanted him to know about?

  Chapter Eight

  OLIVIA WAS PLEASED to have had no sight of Adam Hardacre on her walk back to the manor. She’d wondered, having refused his offer of an escort, if she would find him waiting for her and insisting on accompanying her.

  With Fitzgerald coming to the house to finalize the paperwork today, she wanted her mind clear for the task. She didn’t stop for breakfast, instead getting up at first light to walk “home” to Kenstec. She let herself in through the kitchen to set a fire to heat some water for tea before going upstairs. She washed and changed her dress quickly, hoping the solicitor remained his punctual self and did not arrive early.

  After hanging up yesterday’s dress to air, Olivia got to her knees and felt under the bed for the writing box. It was still there, and she breathed a sigh of relief. It was a silly superstitious act, but somehow she needed the reassurance of its presence for her meeting with Adam Hardacre this afternoon.

  It was odd. Even without hearing the confirmation of his identity from his own lips, she somehow knew when she first saw him he was the man in Constance’s diary.

  Of course, he would have been only an adolescent then, but there was no mistaking the sandy hair and hazel eyes. Age had merely turned the youth into a man, the experience edged into the light lines around his eyes and mouth. Years at sea had added color to his skin, making the hazel eyes even more pronounced.

  Adam Hardacre was one of the most striking men she had ever seen.

  She hurried downstairs and opened a couple of the study windows. She wanted to be able to hear Fitzgerald arrive before he knocked at the door. Before too long, she heard his gig turn into the drive and approach the house.

  Olivia opened the front door and drew near to the horse, holding its bridle as the solicitor climbed down. She felt oblige to follow him about as he unhitched the animal.

  “Good morning, Miss Collins,” he announced. “Such a fine morning – we ought to be well pleased if the weather stays like this for a few weeks.”

  “It would be a most pleasant thing indeed, sir.”

  Fitzgerald looked as though he was about to say something else, mayhap to advance the acquaintance beyond that of professionals as Olivia suspected he was leading to yesterday. She turned away to head back to the house while he led his horse to graze.

  “I imagine you should like to get started,” she said as he entered the front door. “I shall leave you to the study while I attend to the tea.”

  He was giving her that look again. It was not lascivious – although she had little direct experience in that matter – but watchful and attentive. The burden of carrying someone else’s secret weighed on her. Olivia wondered whether it showed on her face.

  She would have to be careful in the solicitor’s company, mindful that her words and actions contained nothing to reproach her.

  To her surprise, the morning continued pleasantly. They worked in efficient silence. The talk between them pertained only to the business at hand. And soon enough, that was concluded.

  “My watch tells me it’s nearly twelve o’clock,” Fitzgerald announced. Olivia waited for a repeat of an invitation to dine with him. She readied an excuse in her mind, but he continued, “…and so I must leave you now. I have an afternoon appointment in Falmouth.”

  Olivia exhaled her relief slowly as he went on, “I don’t want to take these documents with me since I’m likely to be away late…”

  “Then allow me to bring them to your office in Truro tomorrow, Mr. Fitzgerald,” she said decisively. “I have a few appointments of my own in town.”

  The solicitor’s face brightened. “A capital suggestion! I gladly accept on the condition that you dine with me as you promised to do yesterday.”

  Olivia knew she couldn’t have one without the other, so she accepted. She allowed him to take her hand. He bowed over it and, for one awful moment, she was afraid he might kiss it, but he did not. Yet that peculiar watchful look returned.

  She locked the door on his departure, but watched through the window as the gig made its way down the drive and disappeared into the trees at the front boundary. She hurried upstairs into one of the empty bedrooms and peered out through the upper story window. Fitzgerald turned left to go down toward Ponsnowyth where he would meet the main road to Falmouth.

  Olivia prepared for the meeting she both anticipated and dreaded.

  THE BUTTERFLIES IN her stomach returned as she carried the writing box, covered by a shawl, in both arms into the woods where she had arranged to meet Adam Hardacre. Although she was early, he was already there waiting.

  All the words she had rehearsed and practiced in her mind since yesterday fled.

  He watched her with the same intensity as Fitzgerald, yet somehow it was different. This man had good reason to be wary of her. She was a stranger to him who insisted in meeting under unusual conditions in a place that probably held great significance to him. She would be susp
icious if the circumstances were turned about.

  She approached one of the tumbled-down blocks from the ruin and sat down on it with the box, still covered, in her lap.

  “Thank you for being punctual, Mr. Hardacre,” she said.

  The man shrugged his shoulders and approached, but came no closer than a yard. “You piqued my curiosity last night, Miss Collins, as does whatever you have under that shawl, I must say.”

  She drew breath to speak but the words disappeared.

  After a moment Hardacre tilted his head.

  “Are you unwell?”

  She shook her head and fiddled with the shawl. A gift from Miss Lydia, it had come from Spain – large red roses painted on silk, edged with a black crocheted border and silk fringing.

  Hardacre stood at ease, his arms folded.

  She breathed out. “I scarce know where to begin…”

  “The beginning usually works.”

  She gave him a sideways glance and continued to fiddle with the fringing.

  “Mistress Denton asked me to stay on at Kenstec to assist the solicitor with settling the estate. I accepted, grateful for the opportunity for more time to find new employment…” Her words tapered away yet again.

  “And?” he prompted.

  “I found this.”

  She drew back the shawl to expose the writing box and watched for his reaction.

  At first, there was none but slight puzzlement. Then Olivia witnessed a frown, eyebrows drawing down.

  “Dear God…” he almost whispered, then a grin split his face and spilled into his voice. “Where did you find it?”

  “It was in a cupboard in the study.”

  Hardacre reached out. She handed him the box to examine and he turned it in his hands but did not open it.

  “Not bad…but my marquetry skill has dramatically improved since then,” he said, more to himself than to her.

  “Do you remember who you made it for?”

  “I made two. One was an apprentice piece for my father to judge. That was among his belongings after he died. This one I made for—”