A Lady of His Own bc-3

by Stephanie Laurens

  “And once they started looking…good God! Talk about rubbing salt into an open wound.” Charles slumped back in his chair; his expression grew distant and progressively stony. “That’s why,” he said softly, “they’ve sent an executioner.”

  Nicholas studied his face, then asked, “Are you using that term figuratively, or literally?”

  Charles met his gaze. “Literally.” He glanced at Penny, verified that although she was pale, she was her usual composed self. “In the world of informers and ‘advisors,’ there are such people.”

  After a moment, he frowned at Nicholas. “Why didn’t you tell me this as soon as I informed you why I was here?”

  Nicholas looked back at him. “Would you have believed it?”

  When Charles didn’t immediately answer, Nicholas continued, “Think back to what you said last night. You had most of the information, and from it you deduced we, the Selbornes, had been passing secrets for decades. The evidence is the boxes—the pillboxes here and the snuffboxes my father has. Who would believe they’d all been paid for essentially by one man’s imagination? You know more than most about the business, yet you admitted you found it difficult to believe.”

  Nicholas paused, then said, “There is no evidence my father passed concoctions and not the truth. It’s much easier to believe, given the boxes and their value, that he passed real information for decades, and for some reason has now fallen out with his ex-masters.”

  Charles held his gaze, then straightened in his chair. “You’re right except for one piece of information, and that you don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “There’s evidence by default that whatever your father passed, it wasn’t real. My ex-commander, Dalziel, is very good as his job, and he never could find evidence of any F.O. secrets actually turning up on the other side.” Charles stood, and stretched; at long last, the whole jigsaw was in place, barring only the executioner’s identity. He looked at Nicholas. “If it comes to it, and I don’t believe it ever will, not now, I’m sure Dalziel will be able to trace, and prove, instances of your father’s misdirection.”

  “Oh.” Nicholas blinked up at him, then asked, “So what do we do next?” He grimaced. “I hope you’re reading your ex-commander correctly because you haven’t seen the snuffboxes.”

  “Knowing Dalziel, he’ll be more interested in talking with your father.”

  “In that, I wish him joy. The old man drives me insane.”

  Charles grinned. “He’ll probably take to Dalziel.” He studied Nicholas’s careworn face, and sobered. “When did you learn of”—he gestured—“your father’s wild game?”

  Nicholas snorted and closed his eyes. “He never told me. He, Howard, and Granville all knew I wouldn’t approve, that I’d force them to stop, so they kept it their secret.”

  “They didn’t tell me, or anyone else, either,” Penny said.

  Nicholas nodded. “I found out last December when by chance I came upon him in the priest hole here. He was examining the pillboxes. Once I’d seen them, they had to be explained. That was the first I’d heard of it.”

  Charles hesitated, then said, “Your father retired from the F.O. in ’08.”

  Without opening his eyes, Nicholas nodded again. “But I was there by then, and senior enough to have dispatch boxes frequently with me at home, preparing them for the secretary or the minister, or analyzing the latest developments.” He sighed. “My father was always a night owl. He knew how to handle the boxes. It was easy to take a peek when everyone else was abed. I never guessed…”

  “Why would you?” Charles paced. “When the murderer killed Gimby, you must have suspected what he was after. Why didn’t you leave?”

  Eyes still closed, Nicholas’s lips twisted. “Granville was gone, and so was Howard. The French didn’t know me specifically, but I assumed whoever they’d sent would believe that, as my father’s son, I’d been a player in the game. Then when Mary was killed, I realized he must have been sent to get some of the boxes, too…” He shrugged, winced, and caught his breath as his wounds pulled. “It seemed wiser to stay, and give him a target here…and you were here, too.”

  “Better here than at Amberly, or in London?”

  Nicholas’s lips quirked, but he didn’t reply.

  Charles looked at Penny, read her concern; Nicholas was wilting fast. “The next thing we need do is to lay the whole before Dalziel—we can work on that tomorrow. There’s nothing more to do tonight—we may as well retire.”

  Nicholas nodded, opened his eyes, and struggled to sit up.

  Sliding a hand beneath Nicholas’s arm, Charles helped him to his feet. Nicholas stood, almost swaying, then he gathered himself. “Thank you.”

  Penny rose. She and Charles walked with Nicholas, one on either side, up the stairs. When they reached the top, Nicholas smiled, tired but faintly amused, and saluted them. “I can manage by myself from here.”

  Impulsively, Penny put a hand on his arm, stretched up, and kissed his cheek. “Take care. Ring if you need help. Charles has guards doing the rounds all night, so don’t be surprised at the footsteps. We’ll see you at breakfast.”

  Nicholas nodded and turned away. They watched him walk slowly to his room, open the door, and go inside.

  Together, they turned. She slipped her hand in Charles’s arm, and they headed for her room.

  Ten minutes later, she slipped under the covers, and snuggled up against Charles. He was lying on his back, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. One hand on his chest, she pushed back enough to look into his face. “What are you thinking?”

  His gaze flicked down to meet hers. “That strange though it seems, having disliked him and having him dislike me on first sight, I now have a certain sympathy for old Nicholas.” His lips curved. Drawing his hands from under his head, he closed his arms about her and lifted her so she lay atop him. “He’s had to deal with the Selborne wild streak, and he’s really not up to it.”

  She arched a brow. “And you are, I suppose.”

  He smiled, devilishly, and shifted beneath her. “Oh, yes.”

  CHAPTER 19

  THEY RECONVENED OVER THE BREAKFAST TABLE THE NEXT morning and decided on their way forward. Nicholas and Charles would work on a detailed report for Dalziel. Penny, meanwhile, would make a detailed inventory of the pillboxes.

  Charles insisted on instituting formal guard patrols around the house as well as maintaining those inside. “We want to leave him in no doubt that we’ve taken his measure. Later, we can appear to be less vigilant and invite him in—when we’re ready, and on our own terms.”

  Nicholas was hesitant over potentially exposing the staff to further danger. Penny argued that that wasn’t how they, the staff, would see things; in the end, she summoned Norris and Figgs, whose patently genuine reactions to Charles’s suggestion reassured Nicholas.

  They left the breakfast parlor together. Penny went with Nicholas to the library, ostensibly to get papers and pencil to make her inventory, in reality in response to Charles’s silent direction to keep an eye on Nicholas, who was still very weak, while Charles went to organize his patrols.

  She busied herself making a list of the pillboxes in the library. With both display cases smashed, Figgs and the maids had arranged the boxes on two side tables, leaving the cards scribed in her father’s hand in a neat pile. Matching each card with the correct box took time. She’d just completed the task when Charles returned.

  He nodded to her and went to join Nicholas at the desk, pulling up a chair to one side. Quickly listing the boxes and their descriptions, Penny listened as he and Nicholas discussed how best to structure their report. Detecting no difficulties between them, she collected a magnifying glass and headed for the door—and the sixty-four boxes concealed in the priest hole.

  When she came downstairs more than two hours later, her wrist was sore. Entering the library, she saw Charles writing at the end of the desk; she knew he was aware of her, but he didn’t look up.
Nicholas was sitting in his chair, his head back, eyes closed.

  As she neared, his eyes opened; he went to smile, but the gesture turned into a pained grimace. “I think we’ve got the salient points covered.”

  “Nearly finished,” Charles said. “I’ll send one of your grooms to carry it to the Abbey. One of my lads will take it to London.”

  Presumably Charles’s grooms knew where to deliver such missives. Penny murmured, “Luncheon will be ready as soon as you’ve finished.”

  Charles nodded and kept writing.

  Fifteen minutes later, with the final draft completed, reread, and signed by Nicholas, then countersigned by Charles and dispatched with not one but two grooms to the Abbey, they headed for the dining parlor.

  They dallied over the meal. According to Charles, there was little they could do but wait.

  “We know who he is—a French agent. We know his mission—to execute the Selbornes, Amberly at the very least, for crimes against the French state, and to recover all or some of the pillboxes and snuffboxes. What we don’t know is what disguise he’s wearing. So we wait until either he shows his hand, or we learn something to the point from Dalziel.”

  “Dalziel…” Nicholas sipped the red wine Em had insisted he drink. “He seems to wield considerable power.”

  Charles nodded. “I have no idea whether that power derives from his position, secret as it is, or from his real self—his personal standing, his real title, his real name—all of which are even more secret than his position.”

  Nicholas studied his glass. “I’ve heard…whispers, never anything more. He seems a conundrum, at least within the bounds of Whitehall. He behaves as if he has no personal ambition whatever.”

  Penny watched Charles roll the comment around in his head, fitting it with his own observations.

  He shook his head. “That’s not quite accurate. I seriously doubt Dalziel has any personal ambition toward political or public life—I suspect it wouldn’t be an option for him. That must make him an oddity in Whitehall; with no civil service future at stake, the mandarins would have no leverage over him. However, when it comes to ambition of a different sort, relentless determination…” He drained his glass. “I think he could give us all lessons.”

  Nicholas raised his brows, intrigued; Penny kept her own counsel.

  The conversation drifted to other things, but they were merely passing the time. Charles had sent instructions to Filchett to redirect any communication from London to the Hall, so they no longer needed to ride to the Abbey but could remain with Nicholas—keeping a watch on Nicholas.

  Penny, Figgs, Em, and Norris had discussed the advisability of Nicholas’s resting; he was still pale and drawn. Penny held herself ready to distract him with some comment every time Norris, with the unobtrusive deftness of the best of his kind, refilled Nicholas’s wineglass.

  At two, Nicholas could no longer stifle his yawns. “I think,” he said, blinking dramatically, “that perhaps I should lie down for a while.”

  “An excellent idea.” Laying aside her napkin, she pushed back her chair. “While you’re upstairs, I’ll use your desk to make a proper list of the boxes.”

  They rose and went into the hall; she and Charles watched as Nicholas climbed the stairs. Once he’d disappeared, Charles turned to Norris.

  Who forestalled him. “Two of the footmen are already upstairs, my lord.”

  “Good.” Taking her hand, he started for the door. “Your list can wait. Let’s get some air.”

  She’d had enough of describing boxes and makers and marks; she let him tow her out onto the porch. “We could walk through the shrubbery.”

  He glanced at the high green hedges, shook his head. “I’ve developed a dislike of your shrubbery.”

  She looked at him in surprise.

  “It’s too closed in, and this madman seems to like it.” He drew her arm through his and set off across the lawns, away from the shrubbery.

  She thought, then glanced around at the wide lawns, the occasional trees, and nearby fields. “What if he uses a pistol?”

  “He’d need to be reasonably close, within good range, and pistols have only one shot, have to come from somewhere, go somewhere, and are not all that easy to hide.” He paced beside her, looking down yet, she was quite sure, not seeing. “Besides, we’ve seen two of his kills. He likes to be close, for the act to be personal. He wants to kill Nicholas, and probably you, too, and certainly Amberly, but he’ll use a knife or his bare hands.”

  She shivered.

  He glanced at her, squeezed her hand reassuringly. “It’s actually his weakness. As long as we can keep him at a distance from you three, make sure he can’t get close, he’ll be stymied. Eventually, he’ll try something reckless, then we’ll have him.”

  Looking up into his face, into his dark eyes, she saw nothing but supreme confidence. “You’re very sure of all this.”

  Charles shrugged, looked down as they walked on.

  “I suppose you’re used to it.”

  For a moment, he didn’t reply, then he said, “That’s true in a way, but…I was usually in his position.”

  Drawing breath, he looked up, met her eyes—and saw not the faintest vestige of shock or consternation. Rather, her expression was a mirror for his own arrogant resolution; she’d guessed the truth and didn’t care.

  His lips quirked self-deprecatingly; looking ahead, he conceded, “You’re right. In this instance, it helps.”

  They circled the house, then returned to the library, refreshed. Penny sat at the desk and composed a neat list. Halfway through, she put down her pen and wiggled her cramped fingers. “Remind me—why is this necessary?”

  “Because once you’ve completed it, Norris and I will verify it as accurate, after which we’ll both sign and date it. Then even if anything subsequently goes missing, we’ll still have proof it was here.”

  She considered the reasons why that might be useful, sighed, picked up the pen, and continued transcribing.

  When she’d completed the list, Charles took it and, leaving her to enjoy her cup of tea alone, retreated with Norris to the priest hole. She mentally wished them joy. Then Nicholas joined her, looking better than he had; she poured him a cup, and they sat in silence—a more companionable silence than she’d shared with him to date. One benefit of adversity shared.

  Half an hour later, Charles returned. He handed the list to Nicholas. “I’d put that somewhere safe.”

  Nicholas glanced at it, then nodded. “Thank you.” His gaze shifted to Penny. “Both of you.” He drew in a deep breath, opened his mouth.

  Charles dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t bother. We’re all in this together, and aside from anything else, after learning the whole story, I’m dying to meet your father.”

  The comment surprised a bark of laughter from Nicholas. He swiveled to face Charles, but Charles, frowning, was moving to the windows that looked out along the drive.

  “Visitors?” Penny wouldn’t have been surprised; news of the attack on Nicholas would have percolated through the local grapevine.

  Charles didn’t immediately respond. Both she and Nicholas could now hear what he had; horses trotting up to the front steps. Charles started to smile, a smile that grew to unholy proportions as he turned back to them.

  “Not visitors—Dalziel’s sent reinforcements.”

  Two of them. Charles strode out to the front porch to greet them. Penny and Nicholas followed more slowly.

  Charles went down the steps as the pair handed their horses to the grooms who’d come running. The men turned eagerly to meet him; there followed much shaking of hands and slapping of backs, and a few pointed, distinctly jocular remarks Penny suspected she wasn’t supposed to hear.

  The newcomers saw her and Nicholas; the trio turned and came up the steps.

  “Your man at the Abbey told us you’d left instructions for all communications from London to be forwarded here—we decided, in the circumstances, we qualified.” The
taller of the two, a few inches shorter than Charles, smiled winningly at Penny as the three men stepped onto the porch. With fairish, wavy brown hair and hazel eyes, his clear-cut features set in an amiable expression, he was startlingly handsome in a quintessentially English way; he bowed gracefully to her. “Jack Warnefleet.” His eyes twinkled as he straightened. “Lady Penelope Selborne, I presume?”

  “Indeed.” She smiled and shook his hand.

  “Lord Warnefleet of Minchinbury,” Charles clarified, halting beside him. “And this—”

  The second gentleman smiled and reached for her hand. “Gervase Tregarth.”

  “Earl of Crowhurst,” Charles added.

  Surrendering her hand, Penny instantly placed Tregarth as a fellow Cornishman; he had the typical long planes to his face, the long limbs, and the short, curly hair often found on denizens of the region close to Land’s End. His hair was a soft mousy brown, his eyes an amber shade of hazel, paler in color than Jack Warnefleet’s, also sharper.

  Smiling in return, she shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you both to Wallingham Hall.”

  They turned to Nicholas; Charles performed the introductions. Standing back, Penny seized the moment to examine Dalziel’s reinforcements.

  They were an interesting pair, tall, well proportioned, attractive; presumably, like Charles, they possessed other talents, too. Physically Charles was the most flamboyant of the trio, the one who caught the eye. Jack Warnefleet wasn’t far behind him in that, albeit in very different style, yet watching him greet Nicholas with genial bonhomie, she wondered how much of his lazy, laughing amiability was a mask. Like Charles, she would swear his cheeriness was a facade and, behind it, he was a man with secrets.

  As for Gervase Tregarth, his was a quieter, more austere handsomeness. He was altogether quieter; a quality of stillness hung about him that even the fluid grace with which he moved did not disturb. It occurred to her that like the others, he possessed a reserve, a distance he preserved from the world, but in his case, it was part of the cloak he habitually wore.