“You mean when your Royalist companions were all taken prisoner and the king’s papers confiscated?”
Walcester suddenly looked quite old and weary. He leaned heavily on his walking stick. “I suppose you should tell me what else you found out in Norwood.”
Should he even give Walcester the chance to explain? The earl was a liar and a spy and probably not to be trusted.
Then again, though he suspected the man of being a traitor, he had no proof, and he couldn’t in good conscience pursue the matter without it. He should at least hear the earl’s side, if only to help in sorting through the lies.
Colin walked over to the brandy decanter on his desk and poured two glasses. When he offered the other to the earl, the man waved it away.
With a shrug, Colin sipped some. “I spoke with the Harlows’ housekeeper. She told me you’d spent three weeks in the Harlow home recovering from injuries, though she didn’t know, of course, what you’d been doing with Phoebe Harlow.”
“We were very circumspect.”
“Yes,” Colin said dryly, “until you left her alone with a babe in her belly.”
“And she was married off to the squire. I know all that,” Walcester bit out. “What else did the housekeeper say?”
“That you fled after the three Royalist spies were arrested. There was talk that they’d been betrayed by one of their own.”
“Aye, they had been.” Turning away, Walcester walked over to the fireplace.
Colin stared at him incredulously, hardly able to believe that Walcester would admit his treachery so freely. “You sent a message by Miss Harlow to someone in the town.”
Walcester whirled to stare at him. “How did you know that?”
“Annabelle told me. Her mother gave her the poem your message was hidden in and told her it was written by her father. Annabelle, of course, didn’t realize what it was, but I found it among her things and realized its significance at once. I just didn’t understand why you gave it to her mother. Until I went to Norwood.”
The earl went rigid. “The poem. Where is it? Where does my . . . daughter keep it?”
“Why?”
“Don’t you see? It proves everything.”
“I figured as much.”
Walcester couldn’t mistake the accusation in Colin’s voice. “No, you don’t understand. It proves that I warned them about the traitor in their midst!”
That took Colin by surprise. “You mean, it wasn’t you?”
“Good God, no!” the earl protested. “But there was one, and in the end he succeeded in getting them captured. Obviously Phoebe failed to deliver the message, and as a consequence the Royalists were arrested.”
Colin regarded Walcester warily. He didn’t think the man was lying, yet something wasn’t right. “Annabelle insists that her mother did deliver the poem. Your friend read it and then told her to leave.”
A desperate look entered Walcester’s eyes. “The girl must be lying.” At Colin’s fierce frown, he said hastily, “Or mistaken. Perhaps Phoebe delivered the poem to the wrong person.” He let out a chuff of exasperation. “Something had to have happened or the men would have been saved.”
“I don’t understand. I heard that you claimed not to even know the three men were in town. Why? If you did your duty back then, you’d have no reason to hide your involvement.” And no reason to spy on Annabelle.
“But I didn’t do my duty—that’s the point!” Walcester snapped. “My duty was to save those men, to tell them they had a traitor in their midst.” His expression turned grim. “My duty was to prevent them from being drawn and quartered and the king’s papers from being confiscated. Perhaps if I had, the war would have ended differently and our late king might not have been executed.”
His voice grew rough with guilt. “Instead I sent a woman to do my duty, and she failed.” Walcester shook his head. “Do you know what my enemies would make of that? They would think me a coward or, worse yet, suspect me of bungling it on purpose, of being a traitor. All manner of things might go wrong, and my political career would be over.”
“That’s why you’ve kept it secret? Because you didn’t go yourself?”
A faraway look crossed his face. “Aye. I shouldn’t have sent a woman to do my work.”
Silently Colin agreed. Poor, innocent Phoebe Harlow should never have been forced to aid Walcester in such a dangerous task. “Then why did you?”
“Because I was a coward. The soldiers were everywhere, and I knew if they caught me I’d die a spy’s death, drawn and quartered like the rest.”
Colin stared hard at him. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“So you could scorn me? Would you have helped me if you’d known? Nay. You would have been contemptuous, and you would have washed your hands of me.” His voice lowered. “Or worse.”
A sadness filled Colin as he realized what the earl meant. “You’ve been a spy too long, old man, if you think I would have betrayed you.” This was what came of a long career looking over one’s shoulder. A man started to suspect even his friends of treachery.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t have, but you know damned well that others would if they learned of it.”
Walcester had a point. If the earl were exposed as a coward responsible for setting in motion the events leading to Charles I’s execution, it would indeed ruin his political career, if not open him to charges of treason.
“If you don’t believe me,” Walcester put in, “then look at the words of my poem. They prove my innocence.”
Colin ran through the words in his mind. “I can see that the line about keeping quiet or being forced ‘by crown-less hands / To sing the hangman’s lullaby’ is a warning about being caught by the Roundheads, but who were Portia and Beatrice?”
“Don’t you know your Shakespeare, Hampden? Portia saves Antonio’s life in The Merchant of Venice and Beatrice fell in love with Benedict in Much Ado About Nothing. Three Royalists were fleeing the Battle of Naseby with the king’s papers when one was wounded and they had to take shelter in Norwood, posing as wealthy merchants. Two of them took the names Anthony and Benedict. The message was for them.”
“And the third?”
Walcester’s expression grew fierce. “Paxton Hart. He was the traitor. He sent word to the soldiers at the Harlow house where the Roundhead captain was supposed to be dining. Only he wasn’t there, and you know how soldiers are. They couldn’t decide anything without first finding their captain. Besides, they thought they had plenty of time. But they didn’t reckon on me, of course. Since I was staying there, I heard everything. That’s when I sent the message.”
“That they should keep Hart ‘close and mute’ and ‘tread’ far from ‘the martyr’s plain.’ ”
“The inn where they were staying was in St. Stephen’s Street.” Walcester sighed. “I didn’t dare write the message out the way I wanted, in case it fell into enemy hands, but I knew ‘Benedict’ would understand. So I sent Phoebe to him with it, because I feared to go myself and risk capture.”
“Instead you risked Phoebe’s life, for the soldiers would have been no kinder to her if she’d been caught.”
Walcester blanched. “I’d hoped the coded message would protect her, but you are right. I should have done my duty and gone myself. Everything might have been different, then. I always assumed she never delivered the message.”
“Or perhaps the soldiers moved more quickly than you bargained for.”
“Probably,” Walcester said sadly.
Colin shook his head. What a tangled tale. Yet Walcester couldn’t blame himself entirely. The traitor was as much to blame as any.
“What happened to Hart?” Colin asked.
“They killed him with the others. They weren’t foolish enough to keep a man alive who’d betrayed his own companions.” Walcester paused a moment. “You know, the worst of it wasn’t that I trusted Phoebe to do my work, but that she wouldn’t have been regarded as trustworthy by anyone else. Her father was a Roundhead. Yet
it . . . it didn’t worry me. She said she loved me, and I thought she didn’t care about political matters—”
“I doubt that she did.” Colin managed a reassuring smile. “A woman in love can be fiercely loyal.” He thought of Annabelle. A woman in love could also be easily wounded. He’d tarried here too long.
First he had to ensure one thing. “Walcester, you do understand that Annabelle knew none of this.” Until he’d told her.
“Yes, you’ve explained that. I suppose if she had, she’d have found some way to punish me with the poem, since . . .” A look of chagrin crossed his face. “Since, as you say, she has some cause to hate me.”
“ ‘Some’?”
He blanched. “Perhaps more than some.” Each word seemed wrenched from him. Then he scowled. “But for God’s sake, man, you don’t understand how it galls to see one’s daughter playing the wanton on the stage! I have no children. Then I discover that I do have someone of my blood, and in the same day I learn she’s become a wild trollop—”
“I can set your mind at ease about that. Annabelle’s wantonness was a part she played and no more. The only man she ever bedded was me, and that only because I seduced her, as you seduced her mother.”
Walcester’s eyes widened in disbelief, then outrage.
Colin faced him squarely. “Aye. Annabelle is no wanton. I can testify to the truth of that. She merely wished to humiliate you, and it seems she succeeded.”
“And intends to continue at it,” Walcester said with wry bitterness.
Colin’s insides knotted. “Now see here, Walcester. You’re not to do anything about those threats Annabelle made. You’ll leave that to me.”
The earl forced a smile. “Don’t worry. Any fool can see that you have more influence with her than I.” He surveyed Colin with grim satisfaction. “You care for my daughter, don’t you?”
Colin met his gaze without a hint of remorse. “I love your daughter.”
Walcester’s mocking laugh grated. “For God’s sake, why?”
“She was hardy enough to survive her childhood and daring enough to take on all of London society, which is more than you were willing to do. What’s more, until you showed up today and tore her heart to ribbons, she was willing to bestow mercy upon a man who neither asked for it nor deserved it.”
Walcester colored.
“Now,” Colin went on, “if you’ll excuse me, I intend to find your daughter and beg her—on my knees, if necessary—to forgive me for conspiring with you. Then I intend to marry her, if she’ll still have me.”
“Marry her?” Walcester said in astonishment. “You and Lord Falkham with your common women.”
Colin arched an eyebrow. “She’s no more common than you are, for your blood runs through her veins.”
“True,” the earl grumbled, surprising him. “I suppose I can hardly complain if you choose to make her respectable. I can’t believe the girl would refuse. She’d be a fool not to marry you.”
“Fear of being thought a fool doesn’t always stop Annabelle from doing what she wishes.”
“You have my permission to tell her I approve of the match.”
A sarcastic retort sprung to Colin’s lips, then died when he saw the wistfulness in the hoary earl’s features.
Somehow Colin managed to keep the coldness out of his voice. “My association with you hasn’t exactly endeared her to me, so telling her you’ve given me your blessing would probably prompt her to refuse my proposal at once. But if you wish, I’ll pass some other message on to her from you.”
Like a man who had lost his bearings, Walcester stared about him. In his world, men with titles never dreamed of marrying women of small wealth and bad reputation. But the war had changed a great many things for Colin—judging people by their rank and wealth was one of them.
“Aye, pass on a message to my daughter,” Walcester said. “Tell her . . . that I’ll claim her.” He hesitated, then his voice grew firmer. “Aye, you tell her that. She’ll be a bastard no more.”
Colin wanted to retort that society would never let Annabelle forget she was a bastard if Walcester claimed her. She’d almost be better off as Annabelle Taylor, the squire’s daughter whose mother murdered him, than as Annabelle Maynard, the earl’s bastard. And Annabelle would benefit most from the words I’m sorry.
But Colin held his tongue. After all, Walcester at least thought he was making a great concession. And though Annabelle might not accept the earl’s offer, it might soothe her pain to know he’d made it.
He stared at the earl, whose brow was knit with worry about his political future and whose hands clutched the walking stick, and Colin felt a stab of pity for the lonely old man. His dreams of power were his only sustenance.
Colin put his hand on the earl’s shoulder. “I’ll tell her,” he murmured.
But first he must find her.
He returned to Aphra’s and spent several hours there, hoping Annabelle would appear, but she didn’t. After a while, he had to face the fact that she wasn’t returning. By then, the long day and night had taken its toll on him. First his grueling ride, then his discussion with Annabelle and their time in the study . . .
A bitter smile crossed his face. He could hardly complain about that. For one sweet moment, he’d had her entirely within his grasp, before Walcester had arrived and shattered everything.
As he reached his town house and handed his horse off to the groom, he vowed that he’d find her if he had to comb all of England. Somehow he’d make her understand and forgive him for deceiving her.
His footman greeted him at the door to take his cloak. “The woman who accompanied you home last evening is in the drawing room awaiting you, my lord. I wasn’t certain whether I should allow her to stay, but she simply would not go.”
“You did the right thing,” Colin said, relief coursing through him.
When he strode into the drawing room, his heart leapt at the sight of the slender form asleep in an armchair before the fire. “Annabelle.”
Her head came up and she rubbed her eyes.
“Where have you been?” he cried, going to her side.
Her expression of sleepy confusion faded to one of wariness.
How long had she been here? And where the devil had she gotten such a lavish silk gown? It was all he could do to keep from gathering her up in his arms, but judging from her expression, he dared not.
She settled herself demurely in the chair, her gaze dropping from his. “I need to speak with you, if you’ll spare me a moment.”
“Spare you a moment?” he said incredulously, wounded by her formal tone. “I’ll spare you a few years if that’s what it takes. I have to explain—”
Her gaze shot to his, dark with worry. “There’s no time for that. Let me say what I’ve come to say, and then I’ll leave you alone.”
Oh no you won’t. But he didn’t say it. He must handle this carefully if he were to get her back. “Very well. Speak your mind.”
Now he noticed what she held clutched in her arms—the box he’d seen on her bureau. Ah, hell. That couldn’t be good.
She rose to face him. “I’ve done a terrible thing.”
The blood pounded in his ears. “And what is that, dearling?”
The endearment gained him a quick surprised glance before it changed to something that looked oddly like guilt. She looked heart-wrenchingly beautiful in the gorgeous gown, part of her hair swept up and tied with a ribbon while the mass of it cascaded down her back. It made his blood race to see her thus.
“You know that poem I told you about? The one my father gave Mother?”
His gaze flew to the box before he caught himself. He reminded himself that she didn’t know he’d seen the poem, that he’d drugged her to get a glimpse of it. One more secret for him to make penance for. “Yes. I remember.”
“After I left here, I—I was so angry with you and my father. I could tell that you were indebted to him, and it hurt to think you’d helped him.”
&nbs
p; “I helped him in the beginning,” he put in. “He saved my life once, so I didn’t feel I could refuse him when he asked me to find out what you were up to.”
“Yes, I see,” she said almost distractedly.
He plunged on, blindly afraid of that strange distraction. “But I took the trip to Norwood on my own, because I’d already fallen half in love with you and had to know what I was getting into. I swear to you, that’s the truth.”
She stared at him with a gut-twisting sadness. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve done something far worse, I’m afraid, than anything you could ever have done.”
“What do you mean?” Dread built slowly in him when she kept glancing away, as if looking at him would kill her.
“I went a little mad after I saw the two of you together.” She paused. “You’d already told me that you thought my father was a traitor.”
At that statement, his eyes narrowed.
“I read the poem again,” she continued, “but I could make no sense of it. It did seem to me, however, that I ought to do something. If my father truly was a traitor, he deserved to be punished.” Her voice grew more distant with every word. “I knew you wouldn’t stand against your friend, and I knew of no one else who had the power to see that justice was done.” She drew in a sharp breath. “Except perhaps one man.”
A cold chill struck him. “Who?” he asked.
“His Majesty,” she said in a small voice.
He felt as if someone had just knocked the wind out of him. She’d gone to the king after all the pains they’d taken to keep her safe? Was that why she was dressed this way? His blood rose at the thought of the king speaking with Annabelle in the dead of night. Surely that wasn’t the “terrible thing” she spoke of. Surely she wouldn’t have let His Majesty lay a hand on her.
“You went to the king?” was all he could manage.
Her words came out in a rush. “He was with Buckingham and some others. I showed him the poem; I explained everything, but it all got turned around, and before I knew it Rochester was accusing you of treason and Buckingham was calling for my father’s arrest and—”
She broke off with a sob. “Dear heaven, Colin, I didn’t want to hurt you! You may not believe this anymore, but I do love you. That’s why I had to warn you about what they intend.”
Silver Deceptions Page 24