“I’ve been robbed! Highway robbery!” he told anyone who would listen, until Mrs. Winslow gave him a cup of tea in her drawing room. This at least told him he appeared to her to be a gentleman is his second set of stolen clothes. A few moments later, the lady’s husband came bustling in with some concern to hear his tale.
As though pulling himself together, Louis uttered an apology for bursting in on them. “My name is Lewis. Sir Lytton Lewis, at your service,” he said more calmly. “I was told you were the local magistrate, and in truth, I don’t quite know what to do. I’ve never been robbed before. I was travelling to Scotland for my health—I’m told the air is more bracing—and now I’m stuck here with neither vehicle nor baggage! I was lucky just to find that nag wandering around, for it happened in the middle of nowhere.”
“It is quite outrageous how lawless the local roads have become,” Mrs. Winslow agreed. “Why, only a few weeks ago, a lady was shot on the Carlisle road! And now this! What can be done, Mr. Winslow?”
“Well, we’ll make a search for your belongings and the fellow who took them, but between us, sir, he is likely to be long gone, probably into Scotland! There is a hotel in Blackhaven, if you have the wherewithal to put up there for a couple of nights while we investigate.”
Louis allowed himself a small smile. “I confess I hid some funds against just such an event as this.”
“The hotel is very good,” Mrs. Winslow assured him. “Also, there is a bank close by which can help if you find yourself short. And if you are travelling for your health, sir, many people swear by the Blackhaven spring waters.”
“I’m overwhelmed by your kindness,” he said, allowing a faint look of shame to cross his face. “I apologize for the rude manner of my entry. I’m afraid I am not at my best…”
“Have some tea with us,” Mr. Winslow invited, “and then I’ll drive you into Blackhaven. I’m going anyhow. Now, how would you describe this ruffian?”
“He was a big, dirty brute, wearing a long, tatty leather coat. I couldn’t see his face. I think he’d deliberately smeared mud on it.”
“Didn’t have a French accent, did he?”
Louis raised his eyebrows. “French? Lord no. London gutter, I’d say. Why would he be French?”
“Oh, it was just a thought. We had a prisoner of war escape from the fort a few miles away, and we can’t find a trace of him. But it seems we have a highwayman, too!”
*
The amiable magistrate was kind enough to enter the Blackhaven Hotel with Louis and explain his lack of baggage. As a result, he was given a decent, front-facing room and the best of service.
By the time his dinner had been brought to him in his bedchamber, his whole body ached and he wanted to fall into bed and sleep for a week. Worse, as he eased himself out of his stolen coat, he saw a little dried blood on his bandage. But at least the stitches appeared to be holding. If he could just avoid infection and fever over the next few days, he might just survive. By the time Gosselin came, he should be recovered enough to kill him. That he would come, Louis did not doubt.
He would have to, for he could not trust such work to anyone else. The news of his escape would reach France via the maze of spies and dupes Louis himself had set up from excisemen and other officials to smugglers. And Gosselin, who must have been furious at his escape into British custody, would come to finish his self-appointed task. And that would be his final mistake.
The trouble was, Louis needed to do more than wallow in his bedchamber for a fortnight. To hide was to invite investigation. He needed to be seen again, to establish himself more firmly as Sir Lytton Lewis.
At the last moment, he asked the maid to buy him some laudanum.
As she scampered off to do his bidding, he eased himself onto a chair by the window, tore off his badly tied neckcloth, and began to eat his dinner while he watched the world of Blackhaven pass by in the well-lit street below.
Blackhaven was a growing spa town, newly fashionable with the wealthy who attributed all sorts of cures to the spring water that flowed there from the nearby hills. And although the chills of a northern English December must have driven off many health-seekers, enough remained to give the town an air of bustle.
A few carriages trundled up the street, while on either side of the road, respectable working folk hurried home, avoiding the gentry who strolled along the swept part of the street in their furs and finery, no doubt on their way to dinner parties or the theatre.
The maid returned with his laudanum so quickly that he gathered the hotel kept a supply. He took the bottle, setting it down on the table by his dinner, and thanked the girl with a coin. She curtsied, and he turned back to the window in time to see a familiar figure below.
He leaned forward, fatigue falling away from him like a discarded coat. She wore an elegant evening cloak trimmed with fur over a pure white gown that hung like silk over her graceful person. Her gleaming, raven hair had been piled high on her head and held with a wisp of some glittering net that may have been sewn with jewels. She took his breath away all over again, even before she laughed at something uttered by the handsome if carelessly dressed gentleman beside her.
“Wait.” Louis managed to stay the maid just as she reached his bedchamber door. “Do you know who that lady is?”
The maid, perhaps scenting romance, bounded back to the window.
“The black-haired young lady across the street, walking with the hatless gentleman and the fair lady,” he said, keeping the urgency from his voice with some difficulty.
“No idea who she is,” the maid said regretfully. Somehow, he hadn’t really expected a different answer, although he’d hoped. “But the other is Lady Serena—well, Lady Tamar as she is now. She’s the Earl of Braithwaite’s sister. From the castle. And Lord Tamar is the gentleman with them.”
“Ah. Thank you,” Louis said vaguely, and nodded dismissal.
He watched the raven-haired lady as she walked the length of the street with her companions, until they vanished around the corner. His whole body hummed with excitement, with the fresh plans forming in his mind.
He could justify those plans, of course. His meeting with her in the wood was unlikely to have been an accident, and so he needed to know how she fitted into the web of his enemies. And if he could make her an ally instead, this woman who walked with such careless, aristocratic grace, as though no street dirt would dare cling to her pristine white gown. Who appeared to face enemies, gory wounds and solitary rides in the dark with quiet efficiency, and yet flinched at his lightest, most unthreatening touch. Not so fearless, perhaps, as she pretended. If so, he could not but admire the calm manner behind which she hid the fact.
And it could have been that admiration which really lay behind his new plans. He wanted to see her again.
*
Anna, while furious to find her Frenchman gone, and annoyed to discover no trace of him around the shepherd’s hut, had not quite given up hope of discovering him again. If she truly had lost him, this would be her first failure. Unfortunately, it was also the most important task she had yet been given.
She’d been foolishly overconfident. But he should not have been capable of leaving the hut as he had. Her one hope was that he would still need help and look for it somewhere she could find him.
And so, she swallowed her ill-nature and returned to her other, self-appointed task of investigating Rupert’s marriage, which meant accompanying him and his wife to the dire musical evening at the vicarage. Of course, the idea of Rupert and herself in a vicarage at all, was amusing. Until she met the vicar’s wife, the stunningly beautiful Mrs. Grant.
Anna recognized Mrs. Grant as the one-time Lady Crowmore, the “Wicked Kate” who’d scandalized London for years, hovering on the verge of social ruin. Not that Anna had ever moved in such exalted circles–until now—but Kate Crowmore had been pointed out to her in the park and in the street. The idea of this dashing lady as the vicar of Blackhaven’s wife should have been funny, or even
tragic, but neither Mrs. Grant nor her guests appeared to find it so.
Rupert certainly seemed to be on friendly terms with her, but then, so was Serena. And when Mr. Grant finally walked into the room, the way his wife’s whole face lit up left Anna in no doubt that Wicked Kate had eyes only for her dull vicar.
Who turned out not to be so dull. He made a point of welcoming Anna to Blackhaven and to his home.
“I hope you will sing or play for us, Lady Anna,” he invited. “Our evenings, as you see, are quite informal, a fun way to raise donations. You merely put your donations in the bowl at the back to show your appreciation of each performer.”
“Of course,” said Anna, smiling. She had no money with her and none at all to her name except the small sum Henry had given her—and that she might well need to pursue her Frenchman into Scotland.
“Tamar, you have all the money,” Serena said unexpectedly. “Divide it up and let us choose our own favorites!”
The idea of Rupert with any money at all was an alien one to Anna. But he had married an heiress. Exchanging banter with his wife, he duly emptied his pockets into Serena’s lap and let her divide the coins evenly between the three of them. Anna, watching their faces rather than listening to their nonsense, was surprised to find not only contentment but fun there. They liked each other.
Well, Rupert deserved that. Although she didn’t understand it, she was glad he had married for more than the money, and glad, too, that Serena seemed happy with the outcome.
I have nothing to do here. I can chase my Frenchman into Scotland, or I can go home… Neither prospect explained her restlessness, her unspecific discontent.
When invited, Lady Serena sang first, without any show of reluctance or embarrassment, and yet with a pleasing modesty that proved flattery had never gone to her head. There was a lot to like about Serena. That, too, was unexpected.
When Serena’s song was finished, Anna duly dropped some coins into the bowl. They collided with those thrown at exactly the same time by a quietly dressed man who gave her a conspiratorial and rather charming smile.
Almost immediately, her attention was distracted by Mrs. Grant, who introduced her to Mr. and Mrs. Winslow and their daughter Catherine.
“And so, you have come from London to visit your brother?” Mrs. Winslow said as they strolled toward a sofa. “How charming! My daughter is going to London for the season next year. Perhaps you will look out for her.”
“Oh, I don’t go much into society,” Anna said. “I live quietly with my sister and her husband.”
“Oh, well, but you might at least meet in the park,” Mrs. Winslow said, disappointed but making the best of it.
“I shall bow to you,” Anna assured Catherine. “And I won’t be the least offended if you give me the cut direct.”
Catherine laughed nervously, betraying that she knew exactly how Anna’s family stood in the world. At least before Tamar’s extraordinary marriage.
“I would hope my daughter incapable of such rudeness,” Mrs. Winslow said, bridling.
“Lady Anna was joking,” Catherine said hastily. “Will you sing tonight, my lady?”
“If anyone’s brave enough to listen. But I believe it is your turn, Miss Winslow. Mrs. Grant is beckoning you.”
Catherine turned out to have a pleasant voice, well enough trained to reach all the right notes so at least there was no difficulty in complimenting the proud parents.
“And are you coming to our masquerade on Friday?” Mrs. Winslow asked. “I shall be sure to send a card to the castle for you. It’s the first time I remember such an event in Blackhaven!”
“You do seem to have an exciting town,” Anna observed, “what with masquerades and escaping prisoners-of-war!”
“And highwaymen,” Mrs. Winslow added.
“Highwaymen?”
“Why yes, only today some poor man was robbed on the Carlisle road.”
“Goodness!” Anna had no need to pretend her avid interest. “And who is this villain?”
“Well, we don’t know! He doesn’t appear to be a local ruffian, but my husband, who is the magistrate, thinks it likely that wherever he came from, he has vanished into Scotland.”
“I was thinking of travelling north myself to visit other friends,” Anna said. “You must give me the description of this villain before I do!” She hesitated, then, “I don’t suppose he is your escaped prisoner?”
“We thought if that,” Mrs. Winslow admitted. “And I suppose he could be, although he did not speak with a French accent but with a low London one. Do you think he could have copied such a thing?”
“Perhaps,” Anna said. Her Frenchman had certainly spoken with a distinctly foreign accent, but knowing who he was, she didn’t put anything past him.
“Lady Anna,” Mrs. Grant said. “Might we call on you for a fresh voice? This is Mr. Banion, by the by. He refuses to perform for us but has kindly agreed to turn your music.”
Mr. Banion turned out be the man who had smiled at her over the coin bowl.
“I have no music,” Anna said. “But he is welcome to play along, if he wishes!”
It was the sort of tactic Anna often used to repel male encroachers, but in this case, it did not result in her victim’s embarrassed retreat, Instead, he sat down at the piano.
“What are you singing?” he asked. “Or shall I just improvise?”
“Oh, improvise,” she replied, “by all means.”
But if she’d hoped to humiliate him for his boldness, she was disappointed, for although she chose an obscure Cornish song she doubted had ever been written down, he quickly followed her lead. In fact, they ended by playing a musical game, piano and voice chasing each other with echoes and harmonies that appeared to charm their audience. And since it was unexpectedly good fun, Anna laughed and forgave him.
She even allowed him to take a turn with her about the room while the next performer was decided upon. Until he broke off in mid-sentence to say, “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are when you smile?”
Disappointed in him, she said, “No, for I never smile in the looking glass.”
“You should.”
She sighed, and perhaps he recognized that he was losing her, for he added with a hint of desperation, “No wonder Tamar has kept you hidden from the world.”
It was meant to be amusing, but she wouldn’t allow it. “Actually,” she said in bored tones, “Tamar is the only man I’ve encountered who doesn’t try to keep me tied to his wishes.”
At that, seeing no doubt that he’d caused unintentional offence, he tried to catch her hand. She had only time for the beginnings of her most freezing glare before Serena suddenly stood between them. “Anna, lend me a sovereign? I put all of mine in for Catherine and now have run out.”
Anna accepted the rescue for what it was, though it struck her Serena might know more of her history than she was comfortable with. But, fortunately, Serena didn’t try to discuss the past. Instead, she said abruptly, “I heard what you said to Mr. Banion. Tamar doesn’t need it, but you defend him like a lioness.”
Because he had once defended her, to the death. They never spoke of it, but it was always there.
“I will always defend him,” she said shortly.
Serena’s lips quirked. “I’m not his enemy.”
“I know,” Anna muttered.
Serena cast a quick glance around her to be sure no one could overhear. “Is that why you came? To be sure?”
“To be sure I didn’t need to rescue either of you,” Anna said deprecatingly.
Serena blinked. “How would you have rescued me while defending him?”
“If it came to it, I’d find a way.” Her lips twisted. “I always do.”
Serena frowned, not skeptical or even frightened, but as though trying to understand. In spite of herself, Anna rather liked her new sister. It was time to do her a kindness.
“You needn’t worry,” Anna assured her. “I thought I’d go to Scotland for a few days
.”
“Oh, not yet,” Serena insisted. “You must come to the masquerade ball first! Besides, you know, the border roads will be terrible so late in the year.”
“Well, I can find out,” Anna said lightly. There was a lot she had to find out.
Chapter Four
Anna rose early the following morning. A night’s sleep had convinced her that she should indeed stay at the castle, at least until after the masquerade.
Judging by the romps she had witnessed at Vauxhall Garden masquerades in London, people dropped their guard at such events, safe behind the anonymity of a costume and mask. And if her Frenchman wasn’t dead—there was a whole tangle of reasons why she didn’t want him to be dead—then someone in the neighborhood must surely have been helping him. If he was indeed the highwayman the Winslows had told her about, then someone must have given him a change of clothes, whether or not they were aware of his identity. Before she chased after him into Scotland, she needed a clue, a direction to begin her search.
Or the highway robbery could be a distraction while he returned to his old hiding place…or hid on a fishing boat or a smuggling vessel and sailed back to France. Which would be the worst possible outcome for her and for Great Britain.
So, she rode up toward the fort once more, just to see if he’d crept back to the hut, or if she could find any trace of him nearby. Finding none, she made her way to the road and rode past the fort, where she paused to make conversation with the bored guard by the front entrance.
“Good morning!” she greeted him.
“Morning, Miss,” the soldier returned.
“It’s a beautiful day, is it not? Though cold, I imagine, for guard duty!”
“That it is, Miss.”
“This will be the Black Fort?” she asked innocently.
The soldier nodded.
“I hope your charges are not all monsters,” she said with a shudder.
“Good as gold, most of ’em. Just like you or me. Well, not you, Miss, obviously! And they don’t all speak a godly language, but I suppose that’s just their way.”
The Wicked Spy (Blackhaven Brides Book 7) Page 4