by Allegra Gray
Monsieur Durand looked agitated. “Beaufort, I made you an oath, that I would never again speak of certain events. I would ask that you release me from that oath now.”
The duke scrubbed a hand across his forehead, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “She would have told him herself, if she wanted him to know.”
“He is her husband. He has a right to know. Look at him. Think of her. They love each other, no? Yet they suffer. Also,” the Frenchman added, leaning forward and carefully emphasizing his next words, “he can protect her better if he knows.”
The duke nodded slowly. “True. All right. I release you.” He turned to Graeme. “Were you in London last summer? Did you follow the news?”
“Nay,” Graeme told him. “My sister and her husband had just been killed in a boating accident. Their young son came to live with me, and…suffice it to say, the news of the world at large was not my primary concern.”
“Understandable. Bear with me, then, for my answer to you concerning Charity’s condition will make more sense with a bit of explanation.”
Monsieur Durand rose to pour them each another drink. Graeme watched him closely, noting that the Frenchman’s own drink contained nearly a finger more of brandy than the others.
“Charity has a bright mind and a big heart, and until last summer, she never once experienced an episode of…what you call madness.”
“Go on,” Graeme said. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but if there was an explanation, or a cure… I wasn’t always this way. Charity’s truncated explanation echoed in his mind, the words repeating like an ominous drumbeat.
“Last summer, a small ring of French spies infiltrated London,” the duke said. “They were attempting to help General Bonaparte in his quest to reclaim his empire.”
“Lady Beatrice Pullington, whom I had only just begun to court, was unfortunate enough to intercept one of their communications.”
“Lady Pullington is a good friend to both Elizabeth and Charity,” said the duke. “Since Elizabeth was in delicate condition, what with expecting our son, Lady Pullington included Miss Medford in her adventure.”
“Adventure?” Graeme asked, feeling stupidly lost. True, he hadn’t followed the news, but this was quite a story the two men spun.
“She did not know, at first, that the note she’d received had come from the spies. She believed it a lovers’ missive, and curiosity led her to seek its sender, so that the young man would know it had gone astray, rather than thinking it had been received and rejected. The note requested a secret rendezvous at Vauxhall Gardens. Lady Pullington and Miss Medford attended. Fortunately, they at least had the presence of mind to keep from being seen.”
Vauxhall isn’t safe. Charity’s words from the picnic echoed in Graeme’s mind. They were beginning to make sense.
“Ah, l’amour. My daring Beatrice. When she discovered the true nature of the note, she turned it over to the authorities,” Monsieur Durand said. “I knew nothing of this at the time.”
“Monsieur Durand knew nothing of it,” the duke pointed out, “because he was among those suspected. A famous French painter, who’d never come to London before, suddenly choosing to spend several weeks there? The British Foreign Service knew Bea was sitting for a portrait. They asked her to observe him.”
“Lucky for me.” Monsieur Durand donned a lascivious expression.
Beaufort chuckled, then sobered. “We told Charity to have no more to do with the matter. She and Lady Pullington had started out thinking it a harmless adventure, but of course it was not. Charity never said it, but I think she felt we treated her like a child. She wanted to show she could be as helpful as Lady Pullington.”
“In a matter concerning spies?”
“Yes. Don’t get me wrong. Charity is not at all stupid, but she does act rashly. She was in over her head. Still, she gathered what she knew, and what she’d seen, and tried to piece it together. She believed one of the spies worked as a servant in the home of a family she knew. She started snooping around.”
Graeme shook his head. “Dangerous.” But it sounded exactly like Charity. From the first night they’d met, when she’d disguised herself to attend an illicit ball, he’d known she had a daring streak.
“Oui,” Monsieur Durand agreed. “Unfortunately, she was caught in the act. The would-be servant did not know what to do with her. So he took her to the leader of his group. Kidnapped her.”
“No.” Graeme uttered a curse word he rarely gave voice to. He considered his drink, but found he didn’t want it anymore.
Beaufort and the Frenchman looked at each other. “We found her,” the duke said. “Two days later.”
Graeme’s throat felt thick. “Please tell me you killed each and every one of her captors.”
“Given the chance, I would have,” the duke growled. “They were gone. We found her, locked in a dank cellar on the riverfront.” He closed his eyes briefly. “Lord Maxwell, they’d left her there to die.”
Graeme leaned over, feeling dizzy and ill. “Was she…did they?” he rasped.
The other two men exchanged a long glance. “I don’t know,” the duke finally answered. “We had a physician examine her, after we got her home, and he said no. But of course, that is what physicians in the ton are paid to say, when a young lady’s reputation is called into question.”
“But this is different!”
Monsieur Durand threw back the remainder of his brandy and poured another. The duke reached for the decanter after him.
“Different, indeed. And yet not so different. If it were bandied about by the gossips that Charity had been held captive by a group of vulgar criminals, let alone raped by them, do you think it would have matter that she’d been touched without her consent?”
Now Graeme closed his eyes. “Nay. The gossips would eat her alive. She’d be tarnished.”
“Do you think her tarnished?” the duke asked sharply.
Graeme’s eyes flew open. “Nay!” Then he realized that, only minutes ago, he’d thought exactly that—though he’d thought it was her mind, rather than her body, that was tarnished. “That is, not any longer.”
The other man’s shoulders relaxed. “Good. I’d prefer not to have to kill you.”
“She could have told me.”
The duke nodded. “I’d rather hoped she would. But Charity never spoke of what went on down there.”
“When we found her,” Monsieur Durand put in, wincing as he spoke, “her fingertips were reduced to bloody nubs. She…she’d tried to claw her way out,” he finished in a whisper.
Graeme’s mind rebelled from the image.
“For weeks afterward, she could not even leave her room without gloves. You understand, now, why we made an oath never to speak of this. We wanted to protect her from any further ugliness. We wanted her to go back to her normal life.”
“Only she couldn’t,” the duke said. “She struggled. I know she did. The family…did what we could to help. As much as we wanted her to live normally, we also wanted to protect her.”
“Of course you did.” What dark hell had Charity lived through? Though his mind heard everything the two men said, he could not reconcile those images with the lovely, spirited woman he knew.
“Two of the spies were later caught,” the duke went on. “The servant who first garnered Charity’s suspicion, and a stage performer. The man they served, who’d sought the information they were trying to steal, was also caught.” He looked at Monsieur Durand.
“My father,” the Frenchman said softly. “The Brits were not so far off in suspecting me, as it turned out. They just had the wrong Durand.” He knocked back the rest of his second brandy, and Graeme understood why he’d poured himself extra.
“But two were never caught. And Charity knows this.”
“The nightmares…” Graeme mused, his mind shrinking in horror at what the content of Charity’s dreams might be.
“Yes. The nightmares.”
All three sat in silent
reflection.
“It is not madness, then,” Graeme said.
The duke sighed. “Not madness in the way of Bedlamites, no. But sometimes she is terrified out of her mind. It takes her a few minutes, upon awaking, to regain reason. We had to pay the servants extra to keep from gossiping.”
Graeme scrubbed a hand over the stubble of his beard. “Your Grace, and Monsieur Durand, I cannot thank you enough for trusting me enough to share this with me. I know I have not earned that trust. I am horrified to think of what my wife has been through…let alone what I have unwittingly put her through, since. I am relieved as well, for the sort of madness you describe, if it can even be called madness, is unlikely to be the sort passed from mother to child.”
“Ah.” Understanding lightened the duke’s features. “You feared having children together.”
“Aye,” Graeme said softly.
“Lord Maxwell, about the remaining spies—”
“Graeme,” he supplied. “We seem to have moved well past the point of formality.”
“Indeed. In fact, each and every one of our meetings thus far have proven quite…interesting,” the duke chuckled. “Should we continue this acquaintance, I may never have need of my box at the theater again, for the drama at home quite surpasses the performances on stage. Graeme, then. As for the remaining culprits. The body of André Denis, the most skilled of the remaining informants, was found two weeks ago. Stabbed to death. No indication of the killer’s identity. Denis had more enemies than friends.”
“That’s good, though, is it not? For Charity’s sake?”
“I believe so. I’d prefer to know who killed him, and what information the killer may have extracted before committing the foul deed. But it is unlikely I shall ever gain those details. So yes, I believe this is good news for us.”
“What of the other?”
“No sign of him.”
The men were silent a minute, staring into their brandy as though it might offer up answers.
“My sister-in-law’s description of the last spy matched that of a man with a surname of Morton. A small-time crook. His given name seems to change as often as his occupation. If he even is the same man, there is no indication he has had any other dealings in politics or espionage.”
“Is he a threat?”
The duke glanced at Monsieur Durand, who shrugged. “I want to say no. If Morton has any wits at all, he sailed for the Americas months ago. Like as not, we will never hear of him again. But it is a loose end. My Beatrice never saw the man in question, but she too played a role in the downfall of the others. I do not like to think her safety is at risk.”
The duke frowned. “Charity, to my knowledge, is the only person who can identify Morton by sight, and link him to the incident last summer.”
“Then her life is in danger.”
“That was my original concern in asking your wife’s whereabouts earlier today. We do have men on retainer, who have been instructed to follow any leads that may reveal Morton’s whereabouts—if he is even still alive.”
“Men in London.” His throat was dry. “Not men who could protect my wife this very moment.”
“You know and trust your staff?”
“Of course.” Most of them he’d known since boyhood. But how well did he know Miss Boyd, or the governess he’d just sent to Nathan? They were both women, so clearly they weren’t the criminal in question, but what of their character? A letter of reference could be forged.
“She is likely as safe as can be,” the duke asserted, alleviating Graeme’s fears only slightly. “Though if I know my sister-in-law, she might be rather put out with you at the moment.”
He almost chuckled. “I suppose I can see why.”
“It may well be a fruitless effort, tracking Morton. But I will not stop looking until I know the last man is dead,” Beaufort promised.
Graeme stood, feeling the effects of the brandy but forcing himself to push that aside. “Gentlemen, I must excuse myself. I am needed at home.”
The duke smiled. “Indeed, you are. And, Leventhal, If I hadn’t thought you a solid sort from the first night we met, know that I would never have allowed Charity to ‘escape’ to Scotland with you.”
“You could travel together.” Monsieur Durand suggested. “You share a destination.”
“We do?”
“We had hoped to pay a surprise visit to you and your wife. Help celebrate the nuptials, since we could not be there for the actual wedding,” Beaufort explained.
“I, on the other hand, am itching to return to London,” Monsieur Durand said. “Horses are not my favorite subject matter.”
“Your favorite subject matter is the woman who made you come here.”
“True enough, the Frenchman chuckled, explaining to Graeme, “My lovely wife blessed me with a daughter six weeks ago. I am quite the proud papa. So much so that Bea and her mother became exasperated with my hovering and sent me off with Beaufort, here.”
“He spent the entire trip here sketching the baby from memory. He’s soft over her.”
“As though you aren’t soft over your son?” Monsieur Durand retorted. “The only difference is that I can draw. Besides, Bea won’t say exasperated for long. She’s probably missing me terribly not that she’s had some room to breathe.” He winked.
“Congratulations, Monsieur. It sounds as though you’ve found true happiness.”
“Oui.”
“I hope to do the same. Given the circumstances, Beaufort, I would prefer to travel alone. I need to see my wife. I need to explain. And perhaps—forgive me—she does, too.”
The duke gave him a long, measured look. “Agreed. Elizabeth and I had planned to stay through the races anyhow. I will grant you two weeks’ head start. It took you less time than that to decide you wanted to marry Charity in the first place, so it ought to be plenty of time to sort out your misunderstandings.”
He hoped so.
“After that, I doubt even I could stall my darling wife much longer. She is terribly anxious to hear all about the elopement. And I am certain Charity will be glad to have her sister present to help celebrate.”
Or commiserate, should I fail. Graeme shoved the pessimistic thought back down to the dark place from which it had risen. He wasn’t going to fail.
“Agreed. Two weeks.” He was halfway out the door already as he spoke the words. His mind reeled. The spirited beauty he’d wed had endured more than enough horrors for one lifetime. Whether he’d known it or not, he’d added insult to injury by abandoning her. He prided himself on how well he cared for his people and his lands. Yet he’d endangered the very person most important in his life. He needed to get home. Fast.
Chapter 17:
“How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?” — William Shakespeare
As Jasper Morton saw it, he had two choices. Kill, or run. Killing the yellow-haired wench might or might not solve his problems, though. He’d still be a wanted man. The duke, and now Lord Maxwell, too, would triple their efforts to find him if he harmed her. Without Lady Charity to identify him, would the drawings she’d provided prove a close enough likeness?
His head hurt. It was too hard to think this through.
Much as he hated the idea of leaving the British Isles, a peaceful life here was looking less and less likely. America. Or maybe Barbados. Yes, Barbados didn’t sound too bad. He’d heard a man could turn a quick fortune there—if he survived the trip there. He’d need blunt to book his passage, and even more to guarantee good treatment from the crew and captain. He’d heard the tales of food running scarce, ship captains who took bribes, and poor folk who scraped their life savings together to get on a boat, only to discover so many new expenses, that by the time they reached land, they’d indentured themselves as servants. Jasper, being an independent sort of man, did not think he’d take well to servitude.
He rubbed his ample nose. Spying hadn’t made him wealthy. He hadn’t even gotten the last
two installments of pay he’d been promised, what with the whole operation going up in smoke. He could steal the money, but from whom? The only one in these parts likely to have that kind of coin on hand was the earl himself. He’d have to steal it out from under the nose of the lady whose living breath was his biggest threat.
Then he’d be free, once and for all. Surely they’d never chase him that far. He could forget all of it. He just had to do this one thing.
One last run. All or nothing. His fingers trembled and itched, fear and gleeful anticipation mixing in equal portions.
He had to plan this job. Planning was not his strong point. Jasper considered himself more of a creature of opportunity.
Where would the gold be kept? The earl wouldn’t leave coin just lying about. He’d have some at Leventhal House, though. The banks were too far away for routine trips. Any valuable would do, as long as it wouldn’t be traced right back to the earl. Good old-fashioned coins, even paper money, would make his life easiest, though. Save him the trouble of selling stolen goods, and of answering questions.
The best way to learn how to steal from a man was to work for him first. Learn his habits, and those of the household. Bugger. That was out of the question this time.
He could wait until the house was empty. Some kind of holiday, perhaps. Did they all attend church? Or he could plan on the next full moon…sneak in while the household slept. No. Too dangerous when he didn’t know exactly where to find what he was looking for. An empty house was safer than a sleeping one.
First, he had to watch, and learn. He’d know when the time was right—as long as he didn’t let Lady Charity catch sight of him first.
“He’ll have to return sooner or later,” Charity declared. Her husband had been gone three weeks. Nearly a month. Not that she’d counted the days. Or even the hours.
She told herself she’d stopped looking down the lane, stopped listening for the sound of hoof beats that would signal his return, but it wasn’t true. No matter what else she turned her attention to, a part of her was always listening, always waiting. “Lord Maxwell is not the sort of man to ignore his estate.”