A Lady's Vanishing Choices

by Woodson, Wareeze

  Freddy strode into the derelict cottage with his saddlebags over one shoulder. Sun streamed through the broken window and the partially caved in roof. Dust danced in the beams of light, settling over the grime covering a rickety chair and table in the middle of the mud floor.

  The Frenchman glanced up from his papers and gold coins scattered on the table before him. He nonchalantly leaned back in his chair and stared at Freddy with a dissatisfied frown. “You’re late, Agent.”

  The Frenchman always called him Agent, to belittle him, no doubt. He was sick of everyone picking on him. Even Aunt Gertrude, with all her foibles, made him sound a maw worm.

  Freddy retuned his frown with a glower. Throwing his leather bags on the table, he plopped down in a less than sturdy chair. “I had the deuce of a time of it. Trying to escape notice, hiding like a dashed schoolboy avoiding his tutor. No sense in it. No one in that household would care or even notice when I come and go, except that antiquated old fidget of a butler.”

  “Caution, Agent,” the Frenchman advised with a level stare. “I call the tune.”

  Freddy threw up one hand. “I’m not disputing that. I sent the ol’ sod about his business with a flea in his ear.”

  “Agent, I’ve warned you not to make a stir. Just ease along in the background.” The Frenchman mocked, “It’s what you do best.”

  Freddy fired up. “And what would you do without me? You mock me with the name Agent. Besides, no one is here to care if you call me by my name or not. I’m quite tired of it,” Freddy announced in a belligerent tone.

  “No need to take a pet. Control your emotions the way I do, calm and collected.” The Frenchman grinned. “Besides, Agent suits you. We want no real names used here or abroad,” he warned. “Remember, we all have superiors, both here and in France.”

  “As you say.” Freddy shrugged and concluded with a grimace, “Very well, gentleman and agent it shall be.”

  “Now show me what you have.” The Frenchman reached and drew the saddlebags across the table.

  Freddy snatched the bags back to rest in front of him and unbuckled the straps. “That’s for me to do.”

  “Not all that much but still—a little.” Freddy giggled and picked some more papers from the satchel. “Government coves, ripe for a bribe—sympathizers and the like. The when and where of the latest secret meeting place. An invitation to a ball and dinner where dignitaries shall abound. A house party, no less. And by the way, your contact sent a message.” He handed his aunt’s note to the Frenchman.

  A deadly glimpse of amusement lit the Frenchman’s dark eyes, sending a chill down Freddy’s back.

  The Frenchman gave a satisfied smile. “Very good, my friend. Very good indeed.”

  He slid a folded and sealed piece of foolscap toward the agent. “These are your new instructions.” He held Freddy’s weak gaze to emphasize his position of power. “The wax isn’t stamped with my seal. I misplaced the curst thing but that don’t signify. You’ve received them from my own hand.”

  The cow-hearted fribble. He has no idea his usefulness is almost at an end. I would love to end it now, but his contacts are still valuable. The stupid little man is nothing but a whip-straw. The world would be a better place without him.

  Freddy rose from his chair, tried to loosen his cravat with one finger, and announced, “I must get back.”

  The Frenchman watched from the table while Freddy rode away.

  “Do you think he’s stable enough to trust?” a voice came from behind the Frenchman.

  The gentleman had a stern expression when he stepped into the room from his sheltered position behind a collapsed wall. He swiped at his receding hairline and patted his upper lip with a handkerchief. His shaggy brows were drawn in a frown, and his sharp eyes held doubt.

  “Well, Sir. He is so cow-hearted, there’s no saying. I have a bloke installed in the stable to keep a close watch on him, so he’s safe enough.”

  “See that you do keep watch, my boy,” the gentleman advised. “I see your opinion coincides with mine about the boy. It would never do for him to discover my identity.” He patted his brow with his handkerchief once again. “Personally, I never thought the boy had it in him—spying and all,” he uttered with a grimace. “An incurable piece of folly to use such a tool. Still I suppose it shall answer.” He inspected his surroundings and frowned. “This seems a curst dangerous spot to meet. Too near Birdelwood Manor to suit my taste.”

  “Close enough to be convenient, but hidden. No one comes this way,” the Frenchman assured him with confidence.

  “We’re nearing the end now, so hold steady,” his superior advised. He scooped up the satchel and strode to the door. “I must be off. I have a trusted courier ready to carry all of this to France and my contact.” He glanced from under his brows. “Do you think your tool can be trusted to secure that secret memorandum for us?”

  “He certainly has access to places I don’t,” the Frenchman allowed, hearing the trace of bitterness in his own voice. “You could take the memorandum without involving him. Why don’t you?”

  The gentleman’s eyes widened in alarm, and he waved his handkerchief as if to wipe away any threat. “No. No, none of that. My name can’t be linked with the disappearance of the memorandum or any of this.”

  The Frenchman leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. He shrugged. “It is astounding how he can flitter in and out of high places without the least concern about his presence.”

  “That’s precisely why he may yet prove invaluable to us. Your lovely sister invited him to join us in our little games, I believe. Perhaps that was wise, after all. At first, I never thought the tone of his mind superior enough to serve us. It appears I was mistaken.”

  The Frenchman acknowledged the statement with a slight nod.

  The older gentleman raised his bushy brows and stared at him. “I don’t need to remind you that we must have that list of agents friendly to England. Bonaparte’s resurgence shall avail nothing if those infernal spies bring us down.”

  “Agreed. I don’t know how a Frenchman, even half French, who could turn his back on France. It’s unthinkable.”

  The older gentleman shrugged his shoulders. “They hope to hold on to their wealth here in England, and in France as well. Can’t blame the chaps.” He chortled. “Blunt is reason enough. What I’m after. Still, it’s dangerous to us. Every effort must be made to root them out.”

  “Too true,” the Frenchman drawled.

  “I’ll let you know when we’re to meet again.” With a cheery wave, the older gentleman trod out the broken door and rode away.

  The Frenchman could barely control the urge to laugh laugh out loud, long and hard. How true, how true, we are nearly at the end. Wonder how you’ll appreciate the evidence already stacked against you at the Horse Guards? You’ll receive the blame. I’ll have all the glory.”

  Chapter 14

  The wind picked up and tangled through Bethany’s hair with a whisper of the coming storm. “I hate storms.”

  She jumped and swiped at her head as the swaying branches deposited a wayward twig in her hair. Shivering as clouds covered the afternoon sun, she cast a glance at the fluttering shadows crossing the path, seemingly alive with threats.

  Bethany hurried a little faster while lightning danced in the distance and flared in her eyes. The boom of thunder rolled closer and closer, heralding the arrival of the storm. The smell of rain hung in the air, swirling around her. Glad to have made it to the manor before the storm broke, she took a deep, thankful breath. On the point of entering the house, she paused when a boy raced up to the steps.

  He had a mop of stringy, brown hair spilling from beneath a well-worn cap, dark brown trousers, and an unremarkable chambray shirt finished the picture of a youth. At first glance, she thought of him as a
n urchin, and he did appear young, but there was something about his face that belied her conclusion. Perhaps his small size dictated her assumption.

  She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what disturbed her, but unease tensed her shoulders. Not recognizing him, she demanded with raised brows, “State your business.”

  He tipped his cap and handed her a sealed note. “I were told tis a message for Lady Littleton.”

  She bit back a chuckle. I am a Lady Littleton too. Folks even acknowledge my title now. Pleased with the thought, she threw her shoulders back with pride. “There are three Lady Littletons in residence here. Which one?”

  “The gent will have me guts for garters if I make a mess of it, so he says as to deliver it to Lady Gertrude Littleton.” He pointed to the paper with one grubby finger. “See the name is writ right here.” The boy glanced at her with a hopeful expression. “You ain’t her, I takes it?”

  “I’m afraid not. I shall see she receives the letter immediately. Or would you care to wait in the hall while I fetch her?”

  “Naw.” He handed her the note. “She weren’t to break the seal until after I was gone, anyways. That twas the instructions.” He whirled, ran down the steps, and took the path through the woods to the village.

  Bethany turned the folded foolscap over and examined the blob of wax without an identifying seal stamped in it. There was no mark on the note other than Lady Gertrude Littleton written in a bold hand, slanted and uneven. The pen had sputtered at the end where the author had pressed down too hard.

  “Remember, curiosity killed the cat,” she half whispered. Entering the house, she shut the door and headed for the drawing room, where her aunt could usually be found at this hour of the afternoon.

  She stepped into the chamber and found her aunt reposed in her favorite chair before a tall window, a book in her hand. “Aunt, a letter arrived for you.”

  Gertrude lifted her gaze and, without a word, held out her hand for the note. Bethany passed her the folded sheet and turned to leave. The rustle of the paper being spread with ruthless dispatch sounded behind her. Before she reached the door, a screech echoed through the chamber. “Betha, who delivered this note?”

  Alarmed, Bethany turned back to her aunt. “A stranger. A young boy came up to the house. Is something amiss?”

  Gertrude clutched the crumpled note in her fist and waved it at Bethany. “Find that boy at once. I must speak with him.”

  “Aunt, he is long gone. He ran off through the woods towards the village immediately after he handed me the note.”

  Gertrude threw her head back and glared at Bethany. “No matter. You know everyone in that blot on the map called a village. Fetch him to me at once.”

  Bethany raised both hands and shrugged. “I didn’t recognize him at all. I don’t know where to inquire.”

  “Ask round in the village, but bring me that boy.” She glared and tightened her lips. “Now.”

  Bethany anxiously muttered, “There is a storm coming. I’ll never find him in the rain.” For a moment, rebellion flared. What would her aunt do if she refused? She shuffled her feet. She didn’t wish to put her aunt to the test until her uncle no longer had any authority over her. I’ll be free and can do whatever I wish one day.

  “Betha, what did I tell you?”

  Reluctantly, Bethany flung a heavy cloak over her shoulders, headed out, and followed the trail taken by the boy.

  The storm broke with sheets of rain pounding the ground and Bethany. With her head lowered, she began to run while her skirts and cloak became sodden with mud. She glanced a few feet ahead to avoid puddles forming in the path. Spying a scrap of dark cloth snagged on a bush, she paused to pluck the scrap for closer examination.

  Concluding the boy’s clothing was made of just such material, she glanced around. Being a stranger, perhaps he was with one of the guests staying at Royce’s hunting lodge. Should I take a chance he is there or continue on my way? I don’t have a single idea where to look for him in the village.

  With a sudden decision made, she turned down the path to the hunting lodge. Moisture spiked her lashes and ran into her eyes. With little success, she wiped the rain away, only to have the wind blow another blast in her face. She shivered. Her hair clung to her head and dripped dampness down her back. The soaked cloak did little to protect her from the chill of the rain. The closer she came to her destination, the more her stomach roiled. How crazed to pursue the boy in this weather.

  She couldn’t determine which was worse, facing Aunt Gertrude without at least a word about the boy, or asking a complete stranger for information that might seem offensive or intrusive. At least there was a light shining from within the lodge. She took a shaky breath and rapped on the door.

  The panel opened and she thought her heart might explode out of her chest when her gaze met and clung to Royce’s stare. Frozen in surprise, she couldn’t manage a word.

  “Bethany, what are you doing out in this weather? Come in before you catch your death.”

  She stepped inside the lodge. A fire crackled in the fireplace, inviting her to warm her fingers and casting a warm glow about the room. This manly room, with dark paneled walls and hunting gear along with a few guns stacked in the corner, exactly matched Bethany’s idea of a gentleman’s hunting lodge. Several pipes were strewn over a small table beside an over-stuffed chair drawn close to the fire.

  She swallowed and glanced around. Her heart fluttered into her throat. He was completely alone.

  What the devil is she doing out in this curst weather? Suspicions circled in his mind while he regarded her standing in his cottage, wet and bedraggled. Her disheveled appearance did little to dampen her beauty. Moisture, dewing her skin and hair, added to her appeal. More’s the pity. Almost overwhelmed with the need to gather her in his arms, to protect her, to comfort her and make certain all went well with her, he stepped closer. “Would you like my assistance to remove your cloak?”

  She glanced down at the puddle of water gathering at her feet. “I’ll ruin the floor.”

  “Nonsense. It needs a good scrubbing.”

  “Perhaps I should leave.” She swallowed. “I only came to make an inquiry. A boy left a note for my aunt, and I’m trying to locate him. I thought he might have come this way.”

  Now seems the perfect opportunity to question her, perhaps catch her out in an untruth. Not exactly gentlemanly, but needs must. He gestured around the room with both hands raised. “As you can see, I’m here by myself.”

  “All the more reason to leave.”

  At that moment, a blaze of lightning flashed and a boom of thunder shook the windowpanes. Bethany started and stepped closer to him, staring out at the gathering darkness.

  She seems vulnerable, even afraid. Definitely the time for answers. “I think the storm has decided differently.”

  Bethany gathered her damp cloak tightly around her shoulders. “Perhaps the storm will pass quickly.”

  With calm insolence, he said, “You may pray for such an occurrence, but you may as well be comfortable while you wait.”

  She appeared undecided for a brief second before she began working at the fastenings of her cloak with stiff fingers.

  “Allow me.” He promptly removed the offending garment and draped it over the back of a wooden chair before the hearth. When he turned towards her, his gaze skimmed over her soaking dress, and he nearly lost his breath. The wet, thin material clung to her very feminine form from shoulder to hem.

  Her breasts had pebbled against the chilled fabric of her gown, creating an itch in his palms to cover each mound with a loving touch. He swallowed hard. Several long moments passed before he forced his gaze to return to her hair and face.

  Grabbing a towel from the washstand, he proceeded to wipe her face, keeping his gaze well above her drenched apparel. Relea
sing her chin, he took a step back before he pitched the towel to her. “Finish drying your hair. You need to shed all of those wet things as well. I have a robe that should do admirably.” He blew out a breath. “It will cover you completely.” I may not survive if she doesn’t shed that wet gown and quickly. My good intentions are slipping as it is.

  Ushering her into the next room, he shut the door and leaned against it. Of all the rotten luck, how the devil could he distance himself from her if she keeps arriving on his doorstep? He rolled his eyes. How could he question her when he could think of nothing except the rain-washed scent of her hair? He gritted out a savage oath under his breath.

  She emerged with her hair hanging down her back in damp curls and draped in his robe. The loving way the material clung to her curves had his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth. The notion of her bare body enclosed in his dressing-gown set him ablaze. He blew out a deep breath. I’m in serious trouble.

  He bit back a groan as his pulse thudded in his ears, in his throat and all the way to his groin. By her totally unaware expression, he concluded she had no idea of her effect on him. She seemed merely a little uncomfortable with being alone in his presence. Biting back a curse, he fought against her appeal, but his breath quickened and became heavy.

  From the moment she entered his lodge, he realized the path he traveled held a great deal of danger. Filled with disdain for himself, yet unable to draw back from taking the next treacherous step, he hunched his shoulders. Hardening after the first instant his gaze landed on her in her wet clothing should have been warning enough, but he ignored it. I should move the hell away from her, but I cannot. As a gentleman, I must protect her even from myself, and I’m man enough to handle the situation with at least some finesse.