by Cheryl Bolen
Jack knew how Captain Heffington worked. Not that he approved of it. Heffington wrote everything down—something Jack never practiced, never condoned. Jack preferred to keep important information in his head so the enemy could never get it. “You did not find that information on his body—or in his belongings after he died?”
The Foreign Secretary shook his head woefully. “You must see now why I said this is so bloody difficult. There was nothing on him, nothing in the personal effects in his tent.”
Perhaps Jack had succeeded in imparting to old Heff the need to refrain from putting everything to pen and paper. “He may not have committed the information to paper.”
“That is my fear.”
Good lord, was Jack going to have to infiltrate back into France and try to duplicate the information? He spoke French, but certainly not like a native. His heart sank. Would he ever be able to make love to his very own wife?
“However,” Lord Castlereagh added, “I have a suspicion—not really a suspicion founded upon anything solid, more of an optimistic hope—that when the captain received his mortal wound he may have given the vital information to one of his fellow officers.”
“Have all of his fellow officers been questioned?” Jack asked.
The Foreign Secretary shrugged. “Not initially, no. You see, it wasn't until several days later that I even learned Heffington had not come straight back to England with his information, that he had died.”
Blast that Heffington! He was a great patriot, but he sometimes did the most stupid things. “It was careless of the captain to have risked his life in battle before completing his assignment.”
“Indeed it was! In fact, the entire chain of information was careless. Wellington was not informed when Heffington rejoined the camp, nor was I informed immediately when he died. Since then, Wellington and I have begun to piece all this together. By then, some of the soldiers in the siege had returned to England, others had died.”
“Will his grace Wellington be able to give me full access to maps showing where all his troops were on the day of the battle?”
The Foreign Secretary nodded. “I took the liberty of anticipating your request, and Wellington's courier has just delivered me the information. The siege, as you probably know, lasted two days. Captain Heffington lost his life on the first day.”
“Will I also have a list of which soldiers have either died or left camp since Sorauren?”
“I also anticipated that we would need that information.” His lordship reached down and picked up several packets of dispatches. Jack had seen ones like that before. Dispatches entrusted only to the most trusted and capable couriers.
Jack took the packets. Now he had to pray that Heffington had written down his information. And passed it to someone else upon his death. If the corrupt English officials were not revealed, their kingdom could easily fall to the French.
One more thing crossed Jack's mind. “I will need your paymaster's lists of soldiers who were at the siege at Sorauren.” Such a thought would likely never come to the Duke of Wellington, who thought all rank-and-file soldiers the scum of the earth. Like with Lord Castlereagh, it would never occur to Wellington that Heffington might pass such information to a common foot soldier.
“You will have that information tomorrow,” Lord Castlereagh said.
Jack's last concern—and one he would not voice—was that the French duc had learned of Heffington's success and had seen that the captain was murdered before he could turn over the information, murdered in a battle that looked like a fair fight. That's the kind of devious deeds the vile Frenchman was capable of.
“It is our desire that no one in the government know you're working with us,” the Prince said. “You will be free to work here in my library until. . .” He eyed the Foreign Secretary.
“Until Captain Dryden discovers what happened to Captain Heffington's important information,” Lord Castlereagh answered.
The very future of England could be in Jack's hands. It had been weeks now since he had taken such pride in what he was doing.
He was so eager to begin his assignment, he only fleetingly thought of one very skinny, bespectacled lady with unruly hair.
Chapter 3
Not having ever been in love before, Lady Daphne had no prior experience at being lovelorn. Even after she and her wonderful Jack had discovered they were in love, they had seen each other every day and therefore had no opportunity to dwell on the other's keenly felt absence.
But since the day of her wedding, Daphne had leisure to dwell on how acutely she missed Jack, to remember the feel of his lips on hers and the fluttering in her chest cavity when he hauled her into his strong arms, drawing her into him like clay to mold. She would recall the husky sound of his voice when he murmured endearments into her ear. She could almost feel his warm breath.
And she grew miserable. And irritable. She had snapped at Mama's maid merely because she offered to dress Daphne's hair. She refused to dine at the table with her parents and the sisters who remained at home. She had no desire to be submitted to their pitying stares. She had even tossed her poor cat out of her room merely because he wished to curl up on her lap and purr.
No contentment would ever be possible for Daphne until Jack returned.
Though only God—and the Prince Regent—knew where Jack was, she would sit before the desk in her bedchamber every day and write long epistles to him. Through her pen she could express sentiments that would seem hideously out of character coming from the lips of the former spinster Lady Daphne Chalmers. She would tell him how truly she loved him and how she never wanted to be separated from him again. She would look to their future together and share her hopes that they would have children, especially a little boy who would look like his father (but whom she prayed would not inherit his mother's deficient vision). She would admonish Jack not to take any risks with his person. Now that they were married, she wrote in the letters she was not sure she would ever have the courage to send, he must consider her feelings, he must not jeopardize his life and limb “for I am quite certain I would perish if something ever took you away from me.”
When she read those words, she was astonished that she was capable of writing such insipid, flowery words. Then she would think of Jack, and her heart turned to the texture of warm butter.
While she was sitting at her desk the fourth day of Jack's absence, her duchess sister, Cornelia, quietly entered her bedchamber. Daphne gathered up the pages of her letter and shoved them into the drawer, then turned to face Cornelia. She looked over her sister's shoulder, searching for Cornelia's twin, Virginia. The two never went anywhere without each other. “Pray, where is Virginia?” Daphne asked.
Cornelia slung herself on Daphne's tester bed. “I am sure I don't know.”
“But I thought you never went anywhere without your twin.”
“If you must know, I did not want to be with her today.”
Now this was a novel situation. The twins might not always agree—in fact, they often disagreed—but they were entirely too fond of one another to ever be truly out of charity with the other. Daphne's brows lowered. “Are you having a spat?”
“No!” Cornelia snapped.
“Then, pray, why did you come alone?”
“Really, Daf, Virginia and I are not inseparable. We have full lives apart from one another.”
That was partially true. For all their closeness, the twins were vastly different. But Daphne had the intractable feeling that Cornelia had deliberately come without Virginia today for a particular reason.
And Daphne meant to find out what that was. “I can read you like a Minerva novel, pet. Why is it you've left Virginia behind today?”
Cornelia burst into tears.
Daphne rushed to her. “Whatever is the matter? It can't be that bad.”
Cornelia buried her face into the velvet coverlet on Daphne's bed, her shoulders heaving with the force of her cries.
“Dearest, you must tell me what's w
rong.” Daphne gentled her voice and stroked Cornelia's thin shoulders. She was the petite twin.
“I'm in the most horrid trouble.”
“Surely it can't be that bad.”
Sniff. Sniff. “It's worse than bad.”
Daphne fetched a lace-trimmed hanky and offered it to her sister. “Perhaps I can help. You must tell me.”
Cornelia sat up and blotted at her tear-streaked face, sniffed, and met Daphne's concerned gaze. “If I tell you, you must promise never to reveal to Virginia what I'm about to say.”
This was another novel experience. The twins shared every confidence. They had for their entire three and twenty years. “Are you sure that's what you want?”
“Yes, I am most decidedly sure.”
“Very well. I will honor your request. I will never tell Virginia—unless you give me leave to do so.”
Cornelia blew her nose and eyed Daphne. “I am in a most horrid predicament, and I can't let Lankersham ever learn of my dual discretions.”
Her infidelities. Was that all? Daphne had always known about Cornelia's infidelities, and she suspected Lankersham did, too. “Well, of course, that simply isn't done. One does not tell one's husband about one's lovers.”
“Oh, it's even worse than that!”
That Cornelia had multiple lovers, Daphne also knew. “Then Lankersham has found out?”
Cornelia shook her head. “It's not that, either.”
“Then what can have distressed you so?”
“I feel it's so terribly hopeless. If only your captain were here. I know he could help me.”
Daphne's family had learned of Jack's cleverness that extricated Wellington from all manner of hopeless situations, but Daphne was a bit miffed over this praise. After all, she had been just as instrumental in saving the Regent's life as Jack.
She stiffened and gave the duchess a haughty stare. “I assure you, with the exception of sword fighting, I am just as capable as Captain Dryden.”
“That's why I'm here.”
The two sisters stared at one another, and Cornelia's eyes filled with tears again.
Daphne drew her close, hugging her. “It can't be that bad, my dear love.”
Cornelia whimpered. “It is.”
Would Cornelia ever get to the point? “You must tell me all about it. I might be able to help.”
“I've been paying exorbitant sums to a blackmailer to keep him from giving Lankersham love letters I wrote to Major Styles.”
So that explained why not just one problem plagued Cornelia, but two. She was not only trying to keep the letters away from her husband, but she was also getting deeply into debt in order to prevent the letters from reaching Lankersham.
“Have you been forced to go to the money lenders?”
Cornelia nodded ruefully.
“This is a very grave situation, indeed, but cheer up, my sweet! You've come to the right person. I shall investigate the matter for you. I will find out who this vile person is, and I will recover your letters.”
Ever since the business with the threats on the Regent's life, Daphne had fancied herself to be most clever at discreet inquiries. She would show Jack! He wasn't to be the only clever investigator in their family.
“How can you be so very confident?”
Daphne shrugged. “I supposed it comes with being the firstborn.”
“You've always been bossy, but until you met Captain Dryden I never knew you to be particularly clever about investigating.”
“It's a latent talent I've discovered. Now, you must tell me everything. I seem to have a vague memory of a flirtation between you and some military officer, but was that not a couple of years ago?”
“Indeed it was.” Cornelia's tears threatened again. “He's dead now.”
“Your major?” The thought of a dead major was too similar to dead a captain, and such a thought made Daphne feel as if she'd stopped a cannonball. Dear God, she thought, Jack has to be safe.
Cornelia nodded. “He died just weeks ago.”
“Is that when the blackmail commenced?”
“Yes.”
Obviously, someone got the major's letters from his personal effects after he died. But who? “Was there a . . . Mrs. Styles?”
“Yes.” Cornelia looked up, her face suddenly bright. “It must be her! She has reason to loathe me, to want to ruin me.”
“And she could probably use the money.”
Cornelia's eyes narrowed. “She could live exceedingly well off the money she's drained from me.”
“Do you have the blackmail letter still?”
“It wasn't just one letter. I received the first about ten days ago, and I paid. Then yesterday, I received another letter, demanding even more money than the first.” She reached into her reticule, withdrew the folded letter, and handed it to her elder sister.
Daphne studied it, not just the few words that had been printed, but she noted that it was written on high-quality parchment. It read:
Leave £1,000 in a bag on the Penzance mail post Thursday & your letters will be returned.
“It's obvious the person who wrote this printed to disguise his or her distinctive hand,” Daphne said. “This person is possessed of a bold hand.”
“Well, of course she's bold!”
“Don't jump to conclusions. We don't know for sure the letter writer is Mrs. Styles. Tell me, how was the letter delivered?”
“By the post.”
“From London?”
Cornelia nodded.
“Just as I expected.”
“I would have thought the person might be in Penzance.”
Daphne shook her head. “No. Because Penzance is so far from London and there are so many stops between the two cities, our blackmailer knew there would be many bags on the coach. He—or she—could easily remove one without it being missed. I wouldn't be surprised if the person was able to remove it before the coach ever left London. Was the first payment also placed on the Penzance mail coach?”
“No, it was on the Edinburough coach.”
Another vast distance from London. “Did you deliver it to the post chaise?”
Cornelia looked down her dainty nose at Daphne. “A duchess doesn't go near so common a conveyance.”
“Then you had one of your servants deliver it?”
“My maid.”
“Did you ask her to watch after it?”
“I never thought to. I assumed someone in Edinborough would pick it up.”
“It's a very good thing you've come to me. You are much too simple-minded to deal with something like this.”
“That's a wicked thing to say about me!”
“But you've got so many other fine attributes. No one in London can match you for exquisite taste in clothing—and you must own, the sons you bore are not at all simple minded. They are brilliant little fellows, which I don't mind saying, even though they are my own nephews.”
Cornelia studied Daphne from beneath lowered brows. “You only say that because dear little Bexley is so much like you. Everyone says he's clever like his aunt.”
“Comfort yourself with the realization I'm the clever sister because you got the beauty. Which would you rather have had bestowed upon you?”
The dainty duchess of the huge brown eyes gave her sister a smirk. “The beauty, of course.”
And Daphne was happy she received the brains. “We've got three days to try and discover the blackmailer's identity before Thursday.”
“But if you don't succeed. . . I cannot possibly come up with a thousand pounds in just three days.”
“Oh, there's no question about it. You'd have to return to the moneylenders. I understand they are only too happy to give financial assistance to a duchess. They know Lankersham's vastly wealthy.”
“He's already been so generous to me, I can't possibly ask for more.”
“Especially not an excessive amount like that.” Daphne recalled that Jack accounted for all his needs on a mere hundred pounds a year. “
It seems to me the way to trap your blackmailer would be to select your strongest footmen, install them in the same livery as the post chaise men wear, put them on the coach bound for Penzance, and have them apprehend the person who snatches the bag.”
“I'm afraid Lankersham would notice the absence of our strongest footmen.”
“You can concoct some story to explain their departure.” After all, Cornelia was adept at concealing her little romances from her husband. “First, though, you must procure the post livery and make sure you have it by Thursday.”
“Would I have to put real money into the bag?”
“You might have to. The blackmailer may be watching you. He's got to know to get your hands on that much money you would have to go to Jews.” Daphne spun around and glared at her sister. “Don't tell me you sent your maid to the moneylenders for you?”
“Of course I did! A duchess can't go traipsing about in The City, mingling with that sort of person.”
“This time, you will go. And I shall accompany you.”
“I certainly hope you don't go ordering around your captain like you do your sisters!”
“Speaking of sisters, why can we not share your . . . your perplexing predicament with Virginia?”
“Because she's so utterly, disgustingly besotted over that husband of hers. She does not approve of my little flirtations, and she'd probably have apoplexy if she knew I'd written passionate love letters to Major Styles. Honestly, Daphne, I'm sick to death of her praises over her Sir Ronald.”
It would have been nice, Daphne thought, if Cornelia was possessed of a bit more devotion toward the duke she had married. Daphne could not remember Cornelia ever praising a single thing about poor Lankersham.
Daphne herself was perplexed that Cornelia could have written passionate letters to a married major. She certainly hoped Jack never found out about them because he loathed adultery. She smiled to herself as she thought about the man she had married.
“We shall go to the moneylenders on Wednesday,” Daphne said. In the meantime, she had some inquiries to make.
* * *
Damn but his back ached. Jack had spent more than twelve hours a day each of the past two days slumped over the dispatches in the Regent's private library in Brighton. He knew the position of every officer who fought at Sorauren. And since obtaining the paymaster's report, he had the names of all soldiers who had served there under Wellington's command. It had gotten to where Jack had memorized the names of most of those who had been at the siege. It had been arduous work.