Secrets of Lady Lucy

by Rachel Ann Smith

  “It’s hard to explain. I was first approached by the Foreign Office before Papa passed. I was to go to the Continent with Devonton. But once Papa died, I had responsibilities here, and I couldn’t leave and put you, Mama, and Edward at risk. The powers that be at the Home Office realized I would not be venturing to the Continent. Since I had been thoroughly vetted by the Foreign Office, the Home Office approached me to see if I would be willing to work on assignments for them. However, while I officially assist the Home Office, I have maintained my connections with the Foreign Office, and as a result, I have a unique role where I assist both.”

  Lucy was turning his answer over in her mind. Matthew had mentioned going to the Continent with Blake, but that alone did not confirm her suspicion that Blake worked for the Foreign Office. If Blake had been commissioned by the Foreign Office to provide cartography services, who else would have this knowledge? Could this be the reason he was kidnapped?

  “Matthew, if I understand correctly, you take direction from both offices and have access to resources both in England and abroad. I would imagine it can be rather complicated.”

  “It is. There have been times when both offices have had agents working toward the same objective; however, they don’t always communicate or agree upon how missions should be carried out.”

  Lucy considered the complexities of the two offices. “What if the missives we intercepted were not all from the enemy? What if some of them were from the Foreign Office in a code that differs from the Home Office?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t know, precisely. I’m just throwing out ideas… it’s still a little fuzzy in my mind, but somehow it makes sense.” She rose and walked over to sit at her desk and began poring over the missives but now from a different perspective.

  Carrington, laden with a tray, walked in and placed it on a side table. “My lady, would you like coffee or tea with your meal?”

  Matthew was nowhere to be seen. When had he left? How long had she been alone? Crumpling the paper in her hand, Lucy yelled, “Carrington, you were right!”

  “I was? How is it I was right, my lady?”

  Smoothing out the crumpled parchment, Lucy explained, “The five missives were not all written by the same party. After reexamining them, I can tell two of the five were of French origin, and the other three are primarily in English. My theory is the Foreign Office was trying to pass along information to some of its agents at the same time as Blake’s abductors were sending instructions.”

  Her heart was pounding against her chest. She furiously began writing and uttered, “Carrington, I need more paper. Go see if Matthew has any in his office.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Blinking, Blake was surrounded by darkness. The sway of the ocean was absent. His back hit a solid surface as he straightened. Male voices filtered through his fog-filled brain. Had they docked? Where were they holding him? Calais? His tongue rubbed again the gritty cloth stuffed in his mouth. Lifting a hand to remove the offensive gag, pain ripped through his arm and shoulder. They left my hands unbound—why?

  Lifting his head and opening one eye while the other remained swollen shut, he could make out the outline of a door. He was being held in a room. Raising a hand to his face, he gingerly tested the tenderness around his eye. Puffy, but the structure seemed to be intact. He didn’t consider himself vain; however, he did wish to preserve the looks he had been gifted with regardless if some considered him plain.

  The voices were increasing in volume. What was being said?

  He needed to get closer to the door. Aches and pains riddled his body as he rolled to his side. With his feet left unbound, he managed to position himself on his hands and knees and began to crawl. Who was beyond the door? Brutus? The gentleman traitor? French. He shook his head to clear it and closed his eyes in the hopes of sharpening his hearing. With his mind still foggy, he struggled to piece the conversation together, but there were a few words he recognized for certain. Unharmed. Healthy. Journey. Ride. Fortnight.

  A fortnight! The risk of remaining in one location for extended periods was high. They must be holding him in an area they were confident his presence would not raise suspicion. Healthy? Physically, he was barely able to hold his head up, drained of all energy. Mentally, the lack of information as to why he had been kidnapped was taking a toll on his mind. Journey? Ride? His body riddled with cuts and bruises, Blake was in no condition to mount a horse. He would need food and rest over the next fortnight to rebuild his strength. What concerned him most was whether he had the mental strength to endure another fourteen days of captivity.

  Light footsteps approached, definitely not Brutus. Uncertain if it was morning, noon or night, Blake let his eyes close as he slid to the floor. A tray scraped along the floor, and a whoosh of air brought with it a clean, sweet scent to his nose. A woman. The metal click confirmed he was again imprisoned in the small cramped bedroom. Where was Brutus? Why had a maid delivered his tray? Did she fear him? The idea that a woman was afraid of him tore at his soul.

  He shuffled to the tray and picked up the metallic cup. As water flowed down his gullet, his stomach quickly revolted against the liquid. Too much, too soon. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deep breaths. After a minute or two, he eyed the meager fare of cheese and bread.

  Lucy’s voice filtered through his thoughts, “Croissant? Bread, light and airy? With paper-thin layers? I’ve never experienced such a thing.” She had been incredulous of his description of the French creation.

  Once again, the image of Lucy brought him renewed hope. Blake began to consume the food in painfully small quantities until all was gone. Shoving the tray away, he rolled his stiff shoulders. Time to begin strengthening.

  Stretching his legs out and tensing the muscles that were weak from lack of use, Blake groaned as a stabbing pain shot down his right leg. Rubbing the aching limb, he found he was unable to reach past his knee before wincing as his back muscles seized up. Forced to lean against the wall, he let his head fall back. Deliberately, he began to relax each muscle, starting with those in his forehead and working down his body until he reached the soles of his feet. He wasn’t going to escape in his current condition; he would have to bide his time and rebuild his strength.

  Having spent the past week diligently working through each missive, Lucy jumped up from her seat. “Carrington, we did it! We figured it out! Not only have we figured out their destination, we now know who was behind Blake’s kidnapping. We will need to contact…”

  Lucy stopped short as Matthew and Mr. Smyth entered the library. “Matthew, where have you been? I’ve completed the assignment.” Waving sheets of paper about, she said, “The Foreign Office was aware of the threat also and had placed agents…”

  “Lucy, please slow down.”

  There was no time to argue with her brother. She needed his help to get to the Continent and swiftly. She briskly walked over to Matthew and shoved two sheets of parchment into his hands. “You can read the decoded missives yourself.”

  Matthew read:

  Foreign Office Missives

  Tracked Addington down. Plans to travel to Sandgate Cove.

  Intercepted correspondence indicating Devonton is to be taken within the fortnight.

  Agent should be advised—urgent.

  Unable to identify Addington’s contact. Lord H seeks permission to continue investigation on Continent, delay return.

  * * *

  French Missives

  Transport arranged on Njord to Calais.

  Asset to be delivered in good condition, healthy and able to travel distances.

  Addington to receive payment upon delivery of asset.

  Matthew frowned down at the decoded message. “Lucy, are you certain? Addington has not returned from France, and he is one of the Foreign Office’s best operatives.”

  Lucy was assisting Carrington in packing her writing instruments but stopped at her brother’s question. “I’m positive I’m correct. M
atthew, if you know him and how he operates, it will be easier for us to track him down and locate Blake. We must pack posthaste…”

  Matthew and Lucy’s gazes collided. “Pack?” He took a bracing step toward her. “Lucy you are not going anywhere. You are to remain here with Mama and Edward.”

  “Why?” She began to plead, “Matthew, I can assist…”

  Matthew’s features were drawn tight. “No.”

  One glance at Matthew’s stubborn stance and features and Lucy knew there was no way she would convince him to alter his decision. Deciding it would be far more efficient if she were to arrange her own departure with her own staff and team, Lucy gave Carrington a side glance, and her maid scuttled out of the room.

  She didn’t need the assistance of her brother or the Home Office. Giving her brother a placid smile, she replied, “All right, brother, as you wish.”

  Mr. Smyth’s smirk caught Lucy’s attention. Sending a silent plea not to speak his mind, Lucy continued to address her brother, “I shall retire to my room. Have a safe trip.”

  With questioning eyes, Mr. Smyth quietly opened the door and let Lucy pass. She dare not return his gaze, for if she did, he would detect she was scheming.

  After placing her foot on the first step to ascend to her rooms, Lucy paused. Who should she send word to first? Reports of her brilliant stratagems had spread over the years. She was often sought out by various individuals to investigate complex or plain bothersome issues. Some cases were more challenging than others, but ultimately the majority were related to funds or a lack thereof. Figuring out the identity of an embezzler, blackmailer, or kidnapper had kept her occupied when she wasn’t working on an assignment for Archbroke.

  Captain Bane. She trusted the captain would get her across the Channel safely and undetected. In order to obtain all the necessary resources and information to locate and retrieve Blake, she would have to call in nearly every favor she possessed.

  She and Carrington rushed about Lucy’s bedchamber, packing for her departure. Neither noticed Mr. Smyth’s arrival. “Lady Lucy, I need to speak to you.”

  Surprised and relieved at Mr. Smyth’s entrance, Lucy asked, “Mr. Smyth, what is it?”

  “My lady, as you are aware, I have orders to protect you. I fear you have no intention of remaining in England as your brother has asked of you. I am here to tell you I have never failed in my duties; thus I shall be accompanying you.”

  “If you suspect I’m planning…”

  Mr. Smyth interjected, “I know you are, Lady Lucy, and I intend to be a part of those plans.”

  “Mr. Smyth, I’d be happy to have you along with us for the journey.” Lucy turned her attention back to Carrington. “I need you to cover for me as long as possible.”

  Carrington pleaded, “Lady Lucy, please, let me accompany you. I want to be of assistance.”

  “Carrington, the best way you can assist me is by not letting Matthew know that I have left. I need you to remain behind and ensure I’m not missed.”

  Resignation set in and Carrington sighed, “Yes, my lady. I’ll do my best.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  They had said a fortnight. If I’ve counted correctly, today is day fourteen. Stripped to the waist, Blake stood, anxious to escape. While his skin remained spotted in varying shades of blue, green and yellow, he was able to lithely move about without pain. His strength had not yet fully returned, but he continued to push himself each day. He had adopted a routine of meditation, breathing, and exercises that used his own body weight to strengthen his weakened muscles.

  The light footsteps from the hall indicated it was time for him to cease. Sliding on his ragged shirt, he leaned against the back wall as the door opened. “What do you have for me today?”

  He had slowly gained the maid’s trust. She now came into the room to deliver his meals; however, she never spoke regardless of what language Blake decided to converse in.

  “Let me guess… cheese, bread, and water.” He received the same three meals each day. When the maid moved to the bed and laid out a set of clean clothing for him, he stood. Blake straightened to his full height, and the maid skittered to the door. The lock clicked into place before he had even managed to reach the bed.

  Shaking out the lawn shirt, he noted its design was uniquely French. They were getting him ready to leave. But where and when was he to be transported? He quickly shed the filthy, ragged clothes he had worn for weeks. Pouring water into an empty basin, he washed, eradicating most of the offensive odor he had acquired. Am I ready? Blake donned his new ensemble before sitting at the table to consume his meal. Why did someone go to such lengths to abduct me?

  The question continued to plague his thoughts. He had spent hours upon hours working through multiple scenarios, none of which warranted the risk of being hung for treason, for that was the punishment for kidnapping a lord.

  His mind whirled with other pressing questions. Where was Harrington? He had remained in one location long enough to be found. Why had the Foreign Office not dispatched more agents to assist? Now that the war was over, was he of no use to them? Would no one come to his aid?

  Doubts and negativity would not help him escape. Blake rested upon the bed, placing his hands behind his head. He attempted to quieten his mind. The result was he fell into a deep slumber.

  An image of lavender silk brushing up against his leg flashed before him only to be replaced by a vision of twinkling eyes that were slightly more gray than blue. Lucy’s voice echoed through his mind, “Oh, Blake, to have been able to roam about a castle of that magnitude…” Gone were the tantalizing pictures of Lucy. In their place were his drawings of the Chateau de Coucy in Picardy, one of the holdings the Foreign Office had sent him to infiltrate and illustrate. Why would he recall that particular holding now? He opened his eyes, hopeful Lucy would be within arm’s reach. It was only a dream.

  Every night Lucy had surfaced in his sleep. His dreams often began with them sitting under a tree, chatting, laughing, and ultimately kissing. Some nights his visions were so vivid he could have sworn she lay next to him. Memories of the afternoon he spent in her room at Redburn House fueled his dreams. He envisioned her writhing under him as he tasted her, starting from her lush lips, moving down her neck, trailing her collarbone, and licking his way to her breasts. His dreams progressed beyond reality as he imagined sinking into Lucy, slowly at first and then with an intensity that only sought to bring her pleasure and ultimately release.

  He was in the middle of a rather lucid dream when Brutus entered the room. Hauling Blake up to his feet, he barked, “Get up.” Brutus spoke with the same peculiar accent as his employer, English with a tinge of French.

  Blake rolled his shoulders forward and waited. Brutus had a short fuse and was not above cuffing him or knocking him out.

  Brutus shoved him toward the door. Blake stumbled but rapidly recovered and asked, “Are we going for a stroll?”

  As expected, Brutus’s fist came flying at his jaw, and while Blake had enough time to avoid the blow, he stood and took the hit. Even if he had fully regained his strength, Blake knew he would not be successful in taking Brutus on alone. He needed to keep his wits about him but couldn’t prevent himself from sharing, “It has been a while. My face was beginning to miss the feel of your…”

  In no mood for witty banter, Brutus roughly grabbed him by the arm and pushed Blake out of the room. Squinting, Blake’s eyes adjusted to the light streaming in from a window at the end of the hall. Were his days and nights mixed up? Had his captor intentionally reversed the order of his meals?

  A row of doors on each side of the hallway indicated he had been held captive in what appeared to be a coaching inn. He had assumed he was being detained in a cottage, which was more common in coastal towns.

  No sound came from any of the rooms they passed, and it was quiet belowstairs. Careful not to remind Brutus that he was free of his bonds, Blake leaned against the wall and descended the stairs slowly. Impatient wit
h their progress, Brutus hauled Blake over his shoulder the remaining ten steps. Blake’s feet hit the wood floor, and he was thrust once again toward the exterior door.

  He repeatedly blinked, not having been exposed to direct light in weeks. A coach and four were waiting.

  Brutus opened the coach door, picked Blake up, and deposited him in the vehicle unceremoniously. The door slammed shut, and the sound of wood falling into place followed. The door was barred, and the windows were boarded on the inside.

  In the dark, he ran a hand over every surface, noting the upholstery was well worn. The coach began to move, and Blake had to steady himself, bracing his feet wide and placing a hand on the sidewalls. This was the opportunity he had waited for, a chance to escape. He set his mind to devising a plan.

  Holding her mount steady with a slight tightening of her thighs, Lucy pulled her wool coat tighter as the wind was biting this evening. “Mr. Smyth, is everyone in place?”

  “Yes, my lady. We had word from the innkeeper that he is to be moved tonight.”

  “Excellent. Any news of my brother?”

  “No, my lady. I’ve not been able to confirm his arrival. I’m fairly certain he has not yet set sail as the winds and tides have not been favorable since we left.”

  Spying Mr. Smyth’s odd expression, Lucy asked, “Did you have something more to add?” She often caught him with a conflicted countenance. He never expounded and had remained focused and respectful.

  “Lady Lucy, I was…”

  “Go on. Spit it out, Mr. Smyth. We do not have all night.”