by Cora Lee
“Of course,” Sarah said automatically. What kind of relationship did her husband have with this woman? And how was she involved in Sarah’s predicament? “I hope you’ll call me Sarah. There’s no need to stand on ceremony with an old friend.”
Mr. MacDonald offered Sarah a nod, and took her hand when she offered it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady. If you don’t mind I will stand on ceremony a bit, since I am a stranger to you all.”
Hartland led the small party to a pair of sofas upholstered in heavy green velvet, set at right angles to each other. “I think this conversation will be easiest if we’re all seated comfortably.”
“What conversation?” Sarah asked.
“Lady Rebecca Barrington,” Mr. MacDonald answered, “and her phosgene gas.”
He said the word slowly, in two distinct syllables, as if it was unfamiliar in his mouth: phos-gene. He probably didn’t have much, if any, scientific training. What could he contribute?
“Start from the beginning,” Hartland told him.
“My brother David was betrothed to Rebecca,” Mr. MacDonald began. “She worked with him in his laboratory trying to find a way to put an end to this bloody war with the French, and end the war with the Americans before it grew further. David would explain to me the ideas they had, but I didn’t understand much of it. Then, a few months ago, he became very excited about a new gas he’d read about called phosgene. It wasn’t his ideal way to end a war, but after testing it in various situations he was convinced that phosgene was so dangerous the French and the Americans would surrender rather than subject their soldiers and sailors to it.”
Sarah glanced at Hartland sitting beside her. Here was corroboration of two pieces of his information, but he was frowning at Mr. MacDonald. “Then what happened?”
“He took a trip to Dover to visit our grandmother, and brought some of his experiments with him to continue working on them. I never did get all the details from Rebecca—she’d gone with him—but it seems he was pushed by a woman in the street and the vials of phosgene he was carrying broke open. No one else was injured, but David breathed in the gas that was released and succumbed a few days later.”
Sarah’s whole body went rigid. Pushed in the street in Dover? Broken vials? It couldn’t be...
“Sarah?”
Hartland’s hand was warm as it clasped hers, and though she was still angry with him for his deception, she was glad for that show of support. He could easily have held this meeting without her, but he chose to include her so she could hear Mr. MacDonald’s story firsthand. He could also have sent her away at the first sign of distress, but instead he attempted to comfort her.
She squeezed his hand in hers. “I think I was the one David MacDonald met in Dover. Remember? I bumped into a well dressed gentleman carrying a box, and heard glass break when he dropped it.”
“You didn’t push him?” Mr. MacDonald asked, his eyes wide.
Sarah turned toward him and shook her head. “I wasn’t watching where I was going, and the collision was entirely my fault. But when I offered to replace anything that had been broken, the gentleman insisted there was no harm done.”
“That sounds like my brother. Can you describe him?”
It had been a short encounter, but Sarah did her best to recall features beyond his height and hair color. “The lid of the box had ‘Garwell & Sons’ stenciled on it.”
“That’s the name of our grandfather’s shipping business,” Mr. MacDonald confirmed quietly.
This was the verification they needed. A single chance meeting in Dover had set everything in motion, including the death of Mr. MacDonald’s brother. She managed to murmur, “I’m so sorry,” but a lump grew in her throat that prevented her from speaking further. It had been an accident, certainly, but Sarah was responsible for the death of a man. If she had simply watched where she was going, David MacDonald would be alive today.
“Is that really what killed him, then?” Mr. MacDonald asked. “This phosgene that Rebecca talked about?”
Sarah swallowed hard, forcing the lump down. “It’s possible. If the box wasn’t airtight some of the gas could have escaped, even if he didn’t open it. If he inhaled enough, it certainly could have been lethal. In fact, he may have saved my life by brushing me off and keeping me away from the box.”
Mr. MacDonald smiled. “That sounds like him. He always wanted to make the world better, safer for people. If he knew what he was carrying was dangerous, he’d have insisted no one handle it but him.”
“Didn’t you say your brother was betrothed to Lady Rebecca?” Joanna asked. When Mr. MacDonald nodded, she turned to Sarah. “If she believes you were responsible for the death of her fiancé it would explain why she wants you dead—a woman in pain would want retribution for her loss.”
But Sarah couldn’t quite reconcile the Lady Rebecca that had spoken for her at Diana’s ball with the woman who considered her a killer, and had killed so many people herself.
“If what Mr. MacDonald says is true.” Sarah turned her gaze on him. “I mean no offence, but you have every reason to suspect that Lady Rebecca had a hand in your brother’s death. You could easily be feeding us a Banbury tale to avenge him.”
“I could,” Mr. MacDonald responded, “but I’m not. I admit that I do not like Rebecca, and that I didn’t want David to marry her. But she loved him more than anything else in the world, and she would never hurt him. I’m sure of that.”
His voice was even and his eyes met Sarah’s as he spoke. Either he was a practiced liar or he was telling the truth.
“Joanna?” Hartland asked.
“Lady Rebecca had no family, but Miss Talbot is a close friend. She verified Rebecca’s feelings for David MacDonald and the trip to Dover. She said the betrothal was a secret, so Rebecca could not have mourned publicly. Rebecca was distraught after David’s death, but because of the secret, was determined not to show it.”
Mr. MacDonald nodded slowly. “David was worried our grandfather would think he was marrying an earl’s daughter for the prestige she would bring, and that he was ashamed of our family because we are in trade. They each promised to tell only one person until David could win over Grandfather. David chose me. Rebecca must have chosen Miss Talbot.”
“Hartland?” Sarah asked, squeezing his hand.
“I’m convinced. That’s why Joanna brought him out here instead of writing it all in a letter, isn’t it?”
Joanna nodded. “It would have been dangerous to have this information in writing. But yes, I did also think you should hear it directly from Mr. MacDonald.”
“What happens now?” Mr. MacDonald asked.
“You will be my guest for as long as you like,” Hartland answered. “And we are going to find Rebecca.”
His use of the word “find” triggered something in Sarah’s mind. “What if we don’t have to find her. What if we can make her come to us?”
Joanna sat up a little straighter. “What are you thinking?”
“Something showy. Something that will have the whole of London talking. Hartland, when was the last time you hosted a ball?”
Joanna laughed and Hartland pressed his lips together the way he did when he was thinking hard. “I’d have to say...never. Why?”
Sarah grinned. “Then I think it’s time you did.”
~~~
Hart stared at his wife. She wanted to throw a party to catch a criminal? One who had killed numerous people already, and also wanted her dead. That didn’t make any sense. Why put a large population at risk when they didn’t have to?
Fortunately, Joanna voiced his thoughts in a much less condescending way than he would have. “How would it work?”
“What does Rebecca want more than anything else in the world?”
Joanna’s face lit with understanding. “She wants you dead. But no one has killed you yet, so perhaps she’d come and do it herself.”
Hart saw Sarah flinch ever so slightly at Joanna’s blunt phrasing. It could
n’t have been easy talking about one’s own person as a potential murder victim. But the idea was a good one. If Lord and Lady Hartland held a big, attention-grabbing event, Rebecca would have a hard time resisting the opportunity to go after Sarah.
“We could say we were celebrating our marriage,” Sarah continued, turning her blue eyes on Hart. “The fact that I’m alive to dance with my adoring husband while she can’t even wear black for her deceased fiancé ought to bring her out in the open. ”
“That makes you the lure,” Hart said more sharply than he’d meant to.
Sarah was still holding his hand and gave it a squeeze. “That’s why she’ll come. And then you can apprehend her.”
The apprehending Rebecca part he was in agreement with, but he was not at all happy at the thought of Sarah as the worm on the fishing hook. The fisherman might catch his quarry, but the worm never fared well in the process.
But he kept those thoughts to himself for the time being. Sarah wasn’t wrong about Rebecca. “You would be there?” he asked Joanna.
“I promised my husband I’d return home to him, but I could be at the ball if you needed me. Perhaps I can persuade Michael to join me. I’m sure some of our associates would be happy to help out, too.”
Hart smiled at that. The “associates” Joanna referred to were the other members of Wellington’s intelligence gathering ring. Old Welly had only ever intended for them to gather information and pass it along to him, but as the war on the Peninsula raged, the members of the ring had become of necessity more independent. And this was exactly the kind of threat they’d come to handle on their own.
“Thorston would come down from the north of England, surely. And Fortescue is in and out of London on a regular basis,” Hart said, ticking off the names on his fingers. Thorston already knew of the threat against Sarah, and Fortescue may have heard about it on one of his jaunts into Town. “Who else?”
“Wolf was planning to visit London the last time I saw him,” Joanna replied. “He was interested in catching the London shop bomber. You might be able to convince Bannerman, but don’t count on it. He seldom leaves his home now.”
Bannerman in particular would be useful—he was an explosives expert. And Wolf was always ready to take a malefactor out of commission. Ollie would certainly lend a hand as well. If Joanna and her husband attended, that made seven trained fighters who would be watching over Sarah. And Hart would be at her side the whole evening.
“It could work.”
“It will work,” Sarah corrected.
MacDonald piped up, voicing Hart’s own fear. “What if she brings her phosgene bombs? A spectacle like that, with all those people...”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Sarah smiled. “There won’t be any guests. At least, not inside Elliott House. We’ll hold the actual ball on another part of the property, an outbuilding that can be cleared and decorated in time, perhaps, or even outside. We’ll have the guests come to the house as usual and usher them through. On the outside it will look as if everything is proceeding normally for a private ball at a large home, but the guests will be safely away from danger.”
Hart grinned. His wife was absolutely brilliant. “And Rebecca can bring as many phosgene bombs as she’d like. Sarah knows how to decompose the gas.”
MacDonald’s brow creased. “Decompose?”
“Break it down into its components,” Sarah supplied. “All we need is water and chalk.”
“Chalk?” Hart repeated. “That’s the base?”
She nodded. “I found it just before Richards directed me here.”
Hart smiled, relieved. He’d nearly had to work a miracle to get the muriatic acid in such a short amount of time. “We can manage chalk.”
“And a ball?”
He had no idea how they were going to host a ball to attract the attention of a mass murderer without endangering anyone. But it was a better idea than spending untold months looking for Rebecca, leaving her to wreak havoc across the realm and menace Sarah.
“We’ll make it happen.”
Sarah held his gaze for a moment that was both forever and the blink of an eye. Her smile faded, but her blue eyes were steady and she nodded once. “Then let’s plan a ball.”
MacDonald excused himself to his chamber looking slightly overwhelmed. Hart supposed if he had to travel for days with a stranger to inform on the woman who was to be his sister-in-law, he’d be a bit worse for the wear, too. Joanna elected to remain, and Hart left her with Sarah to work out the details of this unusual ball while he went to write the necessary letters to his housekeeper at Elliott House, to Ollie, and to his fellow intelligence ring members.
~~~
Sarah’s first ball as Countess of Hartland and Diana wasn’t here to help her plan it. It didn’t matter that there might be other balls in the future. Sarah wished her best friend was sitting beside her, helping her choose flowers and refreshments and musicians.
Joanna proved to be both helpful and friendly, though. She’d also been to Elliott House, which was more than Sarah could say.
“So the carriages can wait here for the evening...” Joanna pointed to an area on the map she’d sketched of the grounds. “They’ll be within sight of anyone arriving, and Hartland’s stable lads can spend the evening patrolling in case someone hides something—or someone—undesirable in his or her vehicle.”
“Good idea.”
Joanna withdrew her hand from the sketch and turned her gaze on Sarah, tilting her head slightly. “Is there something you want to ask me?”
There were dozens of things Sarah wanted to ask this stranger who seemed to be part of the family. But she started with something easy. “Hartland said something about wanting me to meet you before today, but not to say anything about it in front of Mr. MacDonald. Do you know why?”
“Hart probably didn’t want Mr. MacDonald to find out who I really am.” Sarah must have looked confused because Joanna smiled. “Joanna Perkins is the name I use when I am in public, or with strangers.”
“Strangers like me,” Sarah added.
“Strangers like Mr. MacDonald,” Joanna amended. “My work is sometimes of a sensitive nature, and not everyone needs to know my real name.”
“Like Hartland and his Armored Man persona, if his identity was a secret.”
Joanna laughed. “Yes, though I don’t think his ego could handle a secret identity.”
Sarah grinned. Before they were married, Hartland had never shied away from the spotlight even when he didn’t actively seek it. “He’s done reasonably well playing the new husband with me, though I know being away from Town in the middle of an investigation has worn on him.”
“I’m sure it has.”
“Hartland also said you were the Joanna he thought should teach me to shoot, but I don’t think the name he used was Perkins.”
“Devlin is my married name. Hartland thought I should teach you to shoot?”
Sarah clasped her hands together in her lap, recalling the day she’d rediscovered her courage and asked to learn to use a weapon. “I presume he’s told you something of my situation or you wouldn’t be here with Mr. MacDonald.”
“He has.”
“Did he mention the attack at Hartland Abbey?”
Joanna nodded slowly. “We only had a few minutes to talk before you arrived, but he told me about the ambush. Don’t worry, he was discreet,” she offered in response Sarah’s raised eyebrows. “He made sure Mr. MacDonald didn’t overhear anything.”
“Good.” Hartland had only reluctantly allowed her to tell her own mother the truth. If he’d been careless in front of a complete stranger...
“He wouldn’t do anything that could put you in more danger,” Joanna replied. “He only told me because he thought I might be able to help. And I think he wanted some reassurance that he was indeed doing everything he could to keep you safe.”
“Hartland needed reassurance?” Sarah tried to remember a time when he’d been anything except confident, bu
t nothing sprung to mind.
“He seems rather unnerved by the whole thing.” Joanna paused a moment, staring at the drawing of Elliott House. “I haven’t seen him this concerned about anyone since Major Oliver’s convalescence.”
Sarah leaned forward slightly in her chair. “You were here when Major Oliver returned from Spain?”
“I was. Hartland was beside himself with worry, but he tried desperately to hide it. He buried himself in his workshop for days at a time, working on various suits of armor for soldiers to wear in battle. He pushed himself past the point his body could endure and ended up confined to bed himself for several days.”
Joanna paused again, tilting her head slightly to one side. “But when he told me what happened at Hartland Abbey, he didn’t even try to disguise how afraid he’d been. I don’t think he could have, anyway. It’s plain as the nose on his handsome face that he loves you.”
Even with her resentment of Hartland and his decisions for her own good, her traitorous heart danced a happy jig at Joanna’s pronouncement. Sarah’s conflicting emotions must have shown on her face, because Joanna gave her a small smile.
“He did something foolish, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” She was willing to concede that much, but the rest was between husband and wife. “He’s promised to make it up to me, and has so far been as good as his word.”
“But it was enormously stupid and you aren’t sure you want to forgive him yet.”
Sarah noticed that Joanna’s words were a statement rather than a question. Perhaps Joanna knew Hartland as well as Sarah did—or better. “It’s not so much that I don’t want to forgive him. It’s that I’m not sure I can forget how much he hurt me.”
Joanna smiled again, and this time the gesture included a note of pain. “I’m no expert on marriage, but I have a bit of experience in asking forgiveness of one’s spouse. If he truly loves you, he will remember the consequences of this thing he’s done and he’ll try his damnedest to keep from doing it again.”
If that were the case, perhaps Sarah might be able to let go of her anger. She would never forget what Hart had done, but if she could believe he actually saw her as a person with her own mind rather than a fatuous female to be coddled, there might yet be hope. Unless, of course, he still wanted his own life separate from hers.