Checkmate, My Lord

by Tracey Devlyn

  She had come to him for answers, alone and unprotected. What would it feel like to have such a champion? To have a woman brave the city in order to beg the assistance of a virtual stranger on his behalf?

  Sebastian pulled in a shallow breath. Dark, unproductive musings, indeed.

  “He’s right,” Helsford said into the silence. “You are a direct threat to Napoleon’s success. We cannot be too cautious.”

  Sebastian nodded, recalling the recent assassination plot Helsford had uncovered in time to save his life. A plot Lord Latymer, his friend and superior, had helped concoct. “I will keep your words of warning in mind.”

  During his time with the Nexus, an elite group of international spies sworn to stop Napoleon Bonaparte’s conquering tempest across Europe, he had learned many things, often the hard way. But the one lesson he would never forget was that one can never know another’s true heart. A beautiful face could be a mask for the blackest soul, and the most horrific mien could provide protection for the purest heart. Worst of all, most people were not wholly evil or wholly good, but something infinitely more dangerous—a little of both.

  Sebastian glanced between the two men who had been friends since childhood, men he had helped raise, train, mold. Helsford, silent and thoughtful; Danforth, a volatile mix of passions. Both lethal when the moment called for such actions. The only one missing from this reunion was Cora deBeau, Danforth’s sister and one of Sebastian’s best intelligence gatherers.

  Over the years, he had wondered what their lives would have been like had Ethan and Cora’s parents not been murdered. The incident had set off a chain of events that turned the trio of friends into the brilliant spies they were today. Many thought Lord and Lady Danforth’s deaths resulted from an interrupted theft, but those close to the family knew otherwise.

  Predicting the coming storm between England and France, his mentor, Roland deBeau, the late Viscount Danforth, had begun introducing unusual skill-sets to his two children to test their interest and aptitude. Of the deBeau children, Cora had always been the most focused, the most levelheaded. Those qualities, and many more, had made her an excellent pupil.

  During one of their pickpocket training sessions, his mentor had asked Sebastian to evaluate his children’s progress. It was then the elder Danforth had extracted a promise from twenty-three-year-old Sebastian to watch over his children should something happen to him. Three weeks later, Danforth and his wife were brutally murdered by a French assassin and Sebastian became the guardian of two grieving children, Cora ten and Ethan fourteen.

  Although he had little experience with children, he had been overseeing his vast estates since the age of twelve—which made him a perfect guardian for Ethan. He understood the young man’s grief and fear and lack of confidence. His resentment and his restlessness. For it was Sebastian’s restlessness and determination that had caught the attention of Roland deBeau, the former chief of the Nexus.

  So Sebastian followed his mentor’s wishes and became Ethan and Cora’s guardian. To take their minds off their terrible loss, he continued their father’s unique training, shaping them into instruments of the Crown.

  “Shall I pay Mrs. Ashcroft a visit?” Danforth asked in a low, silky tone, a voice he’d used to great effect in boudoirs across two continents.

  “No.”

  The viscount raised a dark brow, sharing a glance with Helsford.

  Sebastian understood their confusion; he was rather surprised by his quick response, too. Any other time, he would have ordered Danforth to employ his special skills. Women loved him. They happily revealed their husbands’ or lovers’ secrets for a few hours in his bed, where he made them feel special and desirable.

  A vision of the widow surrendering to the agent’s well-honed touch tightened around Sebastian’s chest. Mrs. Ashcroft’s gentle beauty had always drawn his eye, and for that reason alone, he had kept her at a distance. He never dallied with his agents’ women. So the sharp swell of jealousy he suffered in reaction to Danforth’s query both surprised and confused him.

  He shoved the ribbon into his coat pocket and discarded the disturbing image of Danforth and the widow. The task of removing the image from his mind took far longer than it should. He forced his thoughts toward a conversation he’d had earlier that morning with the Superintendent of Aliens. “According to Reeves, the Alien Office is investigating my part in Latymer’s deception.”

  Danforth shot up from his chair and Helsford turned his back on the window.

  “Are they mad?” Danforth demanded.

  “What’s this?” Helsford asked.

  Sebastian rose to refill his glass from the sideboard. He took a healthy, fortifying swallow of the brandy. “It is nothing I would not do if I were in his place.”

  “That’s absurd and you know it, Chief,” Danforth said. “You nearly lost your life because of Latymer’s scheme. Besides, no one is more loyal to our mission than you.”

  Sebastian stared into his now empty glass, debating whether to replenish it or not. “Ah, but it was my friend and my watch.”

  “Latymer was also your superior. You can’t be expected to know his every move.” Danforth strode the length of the library. “Bloody nonsense, if you ask me.”

  “What now?” Helsford’s calm question was a stark contrast to the viscount’s fierceness.

  “Now I retire to Bellamere Park while the office determines the extent of my commitment.”

  The viscount stopped pacing. “They’re exiling you?”

  Sebastian resumed his spot at the sideboard. “Reeves suggested a holiday away from the city.”

  “Who the hell does Reeves think he is banishing the chief of the Nexus?” Danforth continued his defense. “The man’s been in charge of the Alien Office scarcely a year.”

  “Precisely,” Sebastian said. “Reeves has not been in his position long enough to develop a solid opinion of me one way or another. And who knows what nonsense Latymer might have been spewing in his ear.” He had intended to stop pouring at the two-finger mark, but the amber liquid kept rising. “I am inclined to follow his suggestion. It’s long past time I visit my country estate.”

  “By removing you, he’s putting England at risk.”

  Sebastian studied Danforth, growing more worried for the viscount’s peace of mind by the day. In the last year or so, his temper and volatility had grown. “I will not be gone so long as that.” He kept his voice calm and even. To Helsford, he said, “Did Ashcroft divulge anything else besides whispers of a faction seeking to destroy the Nexus?”

  “Only a personal message to you, sir.”

  Dread stirred in Sebastian’s gut. “Go on.”

  “He asked that you look after his family.”

  Anything but that. Sebastian tossed back half the glass’s contents.

  “Doesn’t Ashcroft’s property abut Bellamere?” asked the ever-sensible Earl of Helsford.

  “Yes.”

  A new light entered Danforth’s eyes. “Brilliant,” he said, oblivious to Sebastian’s mental turmoil.

  Helsford understood, though. Empathy softened the man’s normally fathomless black eyes.

  Danforth continued, “You can see to your estate, retrieve the other letters, and watch over Ashcroft’s family.” He smacked Helsford’s shoulder. “We’ll keep an eye on Reeves and his Inquisition from here.”

  Such a neat bow tied around an untidy package. “Yes, brilliant.”

  “What are you going to tell Mrs. Ashcroft about her husband?” Helsford’s soft query reminded him that the worst was yet to come. “We are still investigating the situation.”

  Danforth’s expression flattened as understanding dawned. “I’ll do it.”

  Sebastian sent him a grateful yet pained smile. “Thank you, but no.”

  “There is no reason for you to deal with this alone, Chief,” Helsford said.
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br />   “My watch, remember?” Sebastian’s stomach churned unpleasantly. “You can help by finishing those ciphers and keeping me informed of Reeves’s activities.” He glanced from one man to the next. “There can be no announcement as of yet. Our men need more time to find those responsible.”

  They all fell silent. The younger men were no doubt reflecting on the scarcity of information they had collected since finding Ashcroft in a filthy alley, lying in a pool of his own blood. Sebastian’s thoughts, however, had turned toward the future, toward Ashcroft’s widow and the truth about her husband.

  ***

  August 7

  The moment Catherine exited Grillon’s Hotel, a fierce midday sun stabbed her already burning eyes. She paused in the shade of the building until the white spots overwhelming her vision disappeared. She had hoped to be quit of the city well before now, but a putrid stomach had demanded she stay near a chamber pot all morning. Which gave her plenty of time to review her conversation with Lord Somerton, when she wasn’t scrambling for the pot.

  Even now, a faint roiling deep in her midsection made her question the wisdom of embarking on a long carriage ride. But her parental instinct pushed her onward, despite the potential consequences to her pride. It was just her bad luck to have selected the pork instead of the fish.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.” A young man motioned to the door behind her.

  Her normal vision restored, Catherine gave up her shadowed spot. “My apologies, sir.” She continued on to where her maid, Mary, watched over her trunks while waiting for the carriage to arrive.

  Lord Somerton’s delay continued to chafe her nerves. So much of her life had been wrapped around the act of waiting. Waiting for her father, waiting for her husband, and waiting for the denizens of Showbury to lower their pompous noses. And now she must anticipate Lord Somerton’s arrival and pray he could help assuage her terrible guilt by tracking down Jeffrey’s killer.

  Then she could begin anew with her daughter and hope her conscience would ease its hold on her in time.

  A large cat with matted fur darted across Albemarle Street, chasing a smaller scruffy black dog, whose short legs were nothing more than a dark blur.

  “Oh!” Mary exclaimed, scurrying out of the way when the two creatures streaked by, ruffling Catherine’s skirts.

  Catherine followed their zigzag path, hoping the little dog would make it to safety. She glanced at Mary and they shared a smile. But the disappearing animals made Catherine consider her own departure. Was she doing the right thing by leaving the city? The restless energy thrumming through her veins begged her to stay and search for clues. Whatever they might be.

  “Good day, Mrs. Ashcroft,” a man called from the street.

  She turned to find a blond-haired gentleman dismounting from a rather expensive piece of horseflesh. He handed the reins to a young hostler and approached her with a sure stride.

  “Yes, sir?”

  He removed his beaver hat, revealing an array of handsome curls, then bowed. “I am so glad to have caught you,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Frederick Cochran.” Sorrowful blue eyes gazed at her. “A good friend to your husband, or was, I should say.”

  Mary backed away to a discreet distance.

  Cochran, Cochran, Cochran. The name was so familiar, but she had never seen this gentleman before. Her mind scoured her memories for some mention of him, but nothing surfaced. Then, her eyes widened as a vague recollection danced on the periphery of her vision. No, surely she could not be so fortunate. In one of Jeffrey’s last letters, amidst his incoherent scribblings, was the mention of someone called Cochran. Or was it Corbin? Collins? If only she had brought all the letters, rather than a sampling, she could verify the name.

  “Mr. Cochran? Your name is somewhat familiar, sir.”

  “Indeed? Did your husband speak of me?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure how I recognize your name,” she said. “You were looking for me?”

  He inclined his head. “Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was unable to attend your husband’s services. When I heard you were in the area, I rushed over to offer my condolences.”

  “I had not thought my arrival was widely known.”

  “When one works at the Foreign Office, one hears all sorts of chatter.”

  “Foreign Office?”

  “Why, yes,” he said in a curious tone. “That’s how I came to know your husband.”

  Catherine’s world narrowed to a small circle of vision, one that centered on Cochran’s mouth. She stared hard, waiting for more words to emerge. Words that would clarify his ridiculous statement. None arrived.

  “Pardon, sir? Are you implying my husband was also employed by the Foreign Office?”

  He searched her face. “You didn’t know.”

  Time slowed, and Catherine’s heart slammed once, twice, three times against her rib cage. The crowd, the carriages, the squabbling vendors disappeared. Only silence remained. Punishing, unrelenting silence. Deafening, suffocating silence. “How long?”

  He glanced around. “Is this your carriage approaching?”

  She nodded, not removing her gaze from his face.

  Taking in her small cache of luggage stacked behind her, he asked, “You are returning home?”

  “Yes, Mr. Cochran,” she said with growing impatience. “Please answer my question.”

  The carriage rocked to a halt, and Cochran motioned her inside. “Let me explain in a more private setting.”

  Catherine considered the propriety of allowing a stranger into her carriage, especially while in mourning. But this was London, not Showbury. No one knew her here, and she had learned long ago to take matters into her own hands if she wished for a particular result.

  “Very well, Mr. Cochran. Mary,” she called.

  “Yes, ma’am?” The maid eyed Cochran.

  “Would you mind riding with the driver for a short time?” Catherine asked.

  “No, ma’am.”

  While the hotel staff busied themselves loading her trunks, Cochran assisted her into the carriage and made arrangements to have his horse tied to the back. When Mary was seated and all was in readiness, he bounded inside and settled across from her.

  They rumbled down the street in silence for what felt like hours. Her pulse pounded hard within her ears and sweat trickled down her right side. “Please do not torture me with this suspense any longer, Mr. Cochran. How long was my husband with the government and in what capacity?”

  “I believe Lord Somerton brought him into the fold about four years ago.”

  Catherine ignored the sharp clenching pain around her heart. “And his capacity?”

  He brushed a few specks of dust from his coat sleeve. “Since Ashcroft is gone, I suppose telling you won’t do any harm. But I must ask you to keep what I’m about to impart to yourself. Discussing Foreign Office affairs—even old affairs—could have an ill-effect on current initiatives.”

  “You have my word.” She would promise him anything at the moment. “I will not repeat your confidence.”

  “Ashcroft was in the business of collecting sensitive information.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “I can’t go so far as to tell you specifics,” he said, “but he sought any type of intelligence that would protect England’s shores.”

  “Do you mean he was a spy?”

  He paused a moment. “The preferable term is agent.”

  Jeffrey was a spy. For four years. Under Lord Somerton’s tutelage. Dear God. How could she be ignorant of something so important and dangerous? Could Jeffrey’s work for the government be the reason he all but abandoned his family to the country?

  “He wasn’t always an agent, mind you,” Mr. Cochran said. “Somerton started him out as a messenger. Your husband made many forays across the Channel
retrieving vital intelligence on Napoleon’s movements.”

  Gut-churning dread washed over her, not only for the danger her husband faced but also for the role Lord Somerton had played in Jeffrey’s activities and his decision to keep this knowledge from her. How amused he must have been yesterday. “Are you aware of the details surrounding my husband’s death?”

  “He was set upon by footpads, as I recall.”

  “That is what was reported to me.” She studied him. “However, I have reason to believe something far more nefarious occurred.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Based upon what you’ve disclosed and the nature of the letters I delivered to Lord Somerton, I can’t imagine any other outcome at the moment.”

  “Letters?” A new intensity entered his tone.

  “My husband’s,” she said. “Jeffrey sent me several pieces of correspondence before he died. They made little sense to me, but a few of them mentioned Lord Somerton, so I thought they might be of use to him.”

  “Interesting, to be sure.” He stared out the carriage window. “Did your husband mention anyone else in his correspondence?”

  Catherine hesitated, still unable to recall where she’d come across the man’s name, though the letters seemed the most likely source. “I’m afraid I don’t recall offhand,” she said. “Once I receive the letters back from his lordship, I’ll review them again and let you know.”

  “Very well,” he said. “Since we are developing a temporary partnership, I will say that I share your view on Ashcroft’s means of death.”

  “You think he was executed, too?”

  “Not at all.” His face scrunched in a look of disgust. “The French execute their citizens. The English perform more civilized forms of removal.”

  “What possible method of killing countrymen could be considered civilized?”