by Jayne Davis
“You didn’t know it wouldn’t be valid.” He hadn’t wanted to put the plan in writing, nor had he been sure the subterfuge would work.
Wingrave took a mouthful of brandy. “What was your intention with that? The deception could not have lasted long.”
“Delay,” Nick said. “In truth, mainly to gain enough time for you to return, to hand the whole mess over to you.”
“Mess?” Wingrave sat down near the window; Nick took a facing chair. “I’ll have another talk with Bella later, but won’t you tell me what’s been happening?”
“I don’t know all of it,” Nick admitted, but summarised what had happened. Wingrave’s expression varied from the thunderous—as he described the St Giles expedition—to amusement as Nick’s tale progressed.
“Be fair, Wingrave,” Nick finished. “Before you ring a peal over her for going to look for that seamstress, remember that she couldn’t be expected to know the dangers she’d face in such a place. Her main mistake was not listening to the advice of her maid and footman.”
“And trusting that Portuguese—who is he, do you know?”
“Not who he is pretending to be,” Nick said. He related his few encounters with the man, including his suspicion that da Gama had been involved in whatever Bella had been up to at Lady Yelland’s ball.
“That’s something I need to ask her about.” Wingrave swirled the remnants of his brandy, then got up and brought the decanter over. “More?”
Nick shook his head. “No, thank you. As for preventing an unwanted marriage, I’m afraid I didn’t do too well. I hadn’t got any further than gathering information about Narwood. She was right to avoid him—a deeply unpleasant man, by all accounts, and as dictatorial as Marstone. But there was nothing I could use to bribe or threaten him with. While I was doing that, she extricated herself.”
“And look how that turned out,” Wingrave said. “No, I’m not blaming you—it seems she had made good preparations for the journey, and you did what you could by going after them. Who could have foreseen the lengths Father would go to in order to get her back?”
Nick looked down at his glass, not wanting to answer the question he suspected would come. “What did you find out in France?” he asked, trying to divert Wingrave’s attention. “Talbot will tell me some of it eventually,” he added as Wingrave hesitated.
“He will,” Wingrave admitted. He put his glass down and steepled his hands—mentally censoring the information, Nick guessed. He didn’t mind; he didn’t need to know all the details.
“In brief, our original informant is still to be trusted, I think. The new one is, I strongly suspect, working for the French.”
“And the similarity in the information?”
“If I’m wrong, then both are bribing the same sources. If the new one is a French agent, he has access to the information, and the similarity merely confirms the accuracy of our original informant.”
Nick rubbed his forehead. This was a side of working for Talbot that he hated—the questions of loyalty and betrayal, who to trust and who not to.
“Don’t worry about it, Carterton,” Wingrave said, a laugh in his voice. “That’s Talbot’s headache.” He put his glass down and stood. “If you will excuse me, there’s much for me to do here. Perhaps it’s time you explained yourself to Bella? She was in the back parlour when I left her.”
Luis slipped into the mews behind Grosvenor Square at noon. The urchin had succeeded in bribing one of the parlourmaids, and Luis had spent some time flirting with her on the previous day, but she’d had no further news of Isabella. The maid had been ready enough to talk to him and take his coin, but he wasn’t sure how much she would do for him. If she failed to meet him today, he would have to come up with a different plan.
He leaned on a wall, hoping his clothing made him look like a groom whiling away time until his master needed him. He turned his collar up—the damp in the air was turning to drizzle. The noise of traffic in the square was muted here, the only disturbances being when horses or carriages from other houses on this side of the square came and went. The chimes of a nearby church clock sounded the quarter hour, then the half hour, before a figure in dark gown and white apron slipped out of the gate in the back wall of the Marstone House garden.
“Luis!” The parlourmaid hurried towards him, stopping in the meagre shelter of a tree that overhung the wall.
“Hola, querida.” Luis went to meet her, wearing his best smile, and she dropped her eyes and giggled. “Have you any news for me?”
“Oh, yes! Ever such a lot. It’s like a play.”
“What has happened?” Luis tried to mask his impatience.
“Oh, it’s ever so exciting.” She told a garbled tale of a wedding that hadn’t been a wedding, the return of the earl’s son, and his lordship being taken ill again. “Even more unwell than before,” she finished, lowering her voice. “The doctor says he might be dying.”
“Is Lady Isabella still confined to her room?” Luis asked.
“Not any more, not now Lord Wingrave’s come. He’s taken charge.”
“What’s he like, this Wingrave?” Don Felipe would be interested in knowing that, too, but Luis wasn’t going to tell him.
“I don’t really know. I’ve never seen him before. But she’s not watched any more.”
“That’s wonderful, querida.”
She giggled again. “It’s lovely when you say that.”
“One more thing.” He took some coins from his pocket. “I need to speak to Lady Isabella, alone. Can you take a message?”
Her smile vanished. “What are you wanting with her? She’s a proper lady, she is.”
“I only want to talk to her. Is there somewhere hidden in the garden I can wait? It’ll be worth your while,” he added, giving her one of the coins.
She folded her arms, her eyes still narrowed. “Just talk?”
“I give you my word of honour.”
The maid glared a moment longer, then nodded and took the coin. “There’s a little summerhouse in one corner. Everyone’s at sixes and sevens in the house, so they ain’t likely to look there.”
“That is good. Will you let me in?”
“Wait.” She went back to the gate and opened it. Stepping into the garden, she looked around and then beckoned. “Go along by this wall to the corner. You might have to wait a long time.”
Luis dropped the coins into her waiting hand. Mature shrubs lined the edges of the garden, and he crept along between the bushes and the wall until he came to a small octagonal structure, its white paint beginning to peel and its windows sorely in need of cleaning. He slipped inside, moving a chair right to the back where he was less likely to be seen from the house.
No-one was in the parlour when Nick entered, although tea things and a plate of cakes on a table by the window suggested that it had not been unoccupied for long. The single cup had been used, but the teapot was still hot to the touch. Outside, a fine drizzle misted the view—Bella would not have gone out for fresh air in this weather.
About to turn away, he caught a pale flash at the back of the garden, inside a summerhouse half hidden by shrubs. A maid in a dark gown stood outside, sheltering under an umbrella. Inside… Bella, if it was she, appeared to be talking to someone.
Da Gama?
Nick shook his head, ashamed to have jumped to that conclusion, but who else could it be? If someone like Lady Jesson or Miss Roper had called, they would be sitting here in the parlour. Although if their meeting was supposed to be kept secret, she wasn’t doing a very good job of it.
It was no use—he’d have to go and see.
Tamping down a sick feeling in his stomach, he made his way along the gravelled paths to the back of the garden. The maid was not much use as a lookout—she appeared to be paying more attention to what was happening inside the summerhouse. He was within a few yards of her by the time she noticed him, and turned to tap on the glass.
He strode forward, pushing open the door as da Gama
got to his feet, one hand going to a pocket.
“What are you doing here?” Nick demanded, clenching his fists, his arms going rigid with the wish to punch the man. Only Bella’s presence stopped him. “If you’ve harmed her, I’ll—”
“He hasn’t harmed me at all,” Bella interrupted. “Sally!”
The maid put her head inside the door.
“Thank you, you may return to your duties now. I will be perfectly safe with Mr Carterton here.”
The tension in Nick’s body eased at those words. Sally bobbed a minimal curtsey and hurried off, looking back once before disappearing into the back entrance to the house.
There was a metallic click. Da Gama was pointing a pistol at him.
“Please, sit down, Nick,” Bella said. “You, too, Senhor. And for goodness sake, put that thing away.”
“He will have me arrested,” da Gama protested, the pistol in his hand not moving. At least he was pointing it at him, Nick thought, not Bella. Why wasn’t she worried? Had they come to some arrangement?
“What are you doing here?” he asked again.
“He is trying to talk to me.” Her tone was sharp. “Senhor?”
“I have information that someone in your government needs to hear,” the Portuguese said. “Lady Isabella is the only person I thought might listen to me.” The oily manner Nick had observed in earlier encounters was absent now.
“There is no-one else in the whole of London?” Nick asked. “I find that hard to believe.”
“I don’t,” Bella said. “As Will is here, it would be best to talk to him. If you and he will permit the poor man to speak?”
Poor man? Nick bit his lip against the words—he’d already distressed her enough. No, not distressed—angered would be a better description. He nodded.
“And not arrest him?” Bella persisted.
“Why would I want to arrest him?” He’d like to, but attempting to compromise a woman was not actually a crime.
“I think he has not actually done anything wrong,” Bella said.
“If that is the case, he has nothing to worry about.” He was doing his best not to assume a reason for her defence of the man, but it was difficult.
“Do you give your word?”
“Have I not just said so?”
She waited without speaking.
“Very well,” he capitulated. “I give my word that I will not have him arrested, if he has done nothing wrong.”
Bella tilted her head to one side. “And Will?”
“And that I will do my best to prevent Wingrave from doing so. I cannot promise more than that.” He hoped for her agreement, but instead she looked to her companion.
“That will have to do,” Senhor da Gama said, stepping forward as he uncocked the pistol and slipped it back into his pocket. “Is Wingrave in residence? It will be quicker to tell my story only once, and there may not be much time.”
Chapter 28
The four of them sat in the library, Mowbray having been instructed that there were to be no interruptions. Nick kept a close eye on the Portuguese as Bella explained that he had something important to tell them.
“So this is the man who nearly compromised your reputation?” Wingrave said.
“Trust me, Will,” Bella pleaded. “I can explain that later. Please, listen to what he has to say.”
Wingrave looked from her to Nick.
“We may as well hear him, Wingrave,” Nick said.
“All right. Bella?”
“He is not Portuguese, but Spanish.”
Nick’s brows rose—Talbot had been right to be suspicious.
“He is a spy. You promised to listen, Will!” she added, as Wingrave frowned.
“So I did,” Wingrave said, then turned to da Gama. “Why are you here? What is so urgent that you must needs risk arrest?”
“I have been instructed to assassinate a Frenchman when he arrives in this country. Either here in London, or at the home of your Prime Minister.”
There was a deathly silence in the room. Nick wondered if he’d heard correctly. Sent to kill someone? Bella herself was gazing at da Gama with wide eyes.
“Bella, why do you trust this man?” Nick asked.
“Carterton, this is not helping,” Wingrave interjected. “He is here, telling us about it, is he not? And Bella may be able to corroborate parts of the fellow’s story. Senhor da Gama, please continue.”
Wingrave had a point. Bella knew the man far better than he did, unfortunately. He should concentrate on what the fellow was saying, and not be swayed by his own jealousy.
“I came to London to work for a Spaniard called Don Felipe de Garcia,” da Gama said. “I can give you the details later. He wanted me to seduce the wives or lovers of certain men in your government.”
Nick stiffened, but a glare from Wingrave stopped him interrupting. This man had dared to court… to pretend to court Bella?
“Those seductions failed. Don Felipe then had me trying to gather information around the docks in London. He was particularly interested in possible convoys to supply Gibraltar. Then he said that Rayneval, one of the French—”
“I know who he is,” Wingrave interrupted. “Go on.”
“He is to meet your Prime Minister. Don Felipe has found out about this meeting and he does not want it to happen.”
“The Spanish are allies of the French,” Nick pointed out.
“Indeed. And both armies are working together to besiege Gibraltar. Don Felipe…” Da Gama broke off and rubbed his forehead. “He is obsessed with Gibraltar. His son died in the siege and…” He shrugged, spreading his hands wide. “I think he is not quite sane. He thinks Rayneval is meeting Rockingham to confirm that the French will negotiate even if you British do not agree to restore Gibraltar to Spain.”
“Why would he need a secret meeting for that?” Nick asked.
“Does it matter?” da Gama asked. “Don Felipe thinks that is the reason.”
“Is he working for the Spanish government?” Wingrave asked.
“I don’t know. But I do not think I am the only one in England working for him, and I am not sure that he trusts me any longer. I may not be the only person to whom he will entrust this task.”
Wingrave kept his gaze on da Gama for several minutes. In spite of his antipathy to the man, Nick felt reluctant admiration. It had taken some nerve to risk arrest in order to tell his tale, whatever his motives were.
Wingrave looked at Bella. “Do you believe him?”
Bella’s eyes widened, then she turned to da Gama. “Why did you come here?” she asked him. “To this house, I mean.”
That was a good question.
“I do not want to kill anyone,” he said simply. “I did not think that would be required of me when I came to England.”
He sounded sincere, even though Nick wasn’t inclined to give him the benefit of any doubt.
“You could have just gone back to Spain,” Bella suggested.
Da Gama’s eyes did not leave Bella’s face. “I remembered what you said to me at the ball. I was ashamed. If my father hears of this, he will know I also tried to put things right.”
“What did she say to you?” Nick asked, his voice sharp.
“I believe him,” Bella said to Wingrave, ignoring the interruption.
“Thank you, Bella.” Wingrave sat in thought for a few minutes more before addressing da Gama again. “Bella made me promise not to have you arrested, yet you have admitted to attempting to spy on our government.”
Da Gama nodded, his face grave. “I hoped that warning you of Don Felipe’s plans might counter my original intention—in which I was unsuccessful. I will tell you everything I know. The wish to assassinate one of our allies is… is beneath contempt.”
“I cannot guarantee anything yet,” Wingrave said. He moved over to the desk in one corner of the room, taking paper from a drawer and picking up a pen. “Carterton, Bella, there is no need for the two of you to sit through the rest of this.”
<
br /> Nick sat close to Bella when they returned to the parlour, and wondered where to start. How could he make her believe he wanted this marriage when he had arranged for it to be invalid?
“I wanted to talk to you about Fletcher, if I may,” she said.
Fletcher? After the events of the day, she wanted to talk about a seamstress?
“I didn’t realise when I asked her to accompany me to Devonshire that she would be risking arrest,” Bella went on. “I want to help her if I can. She has a position with Maria Jesson at the moment, but that cannot be a permanent solution. Is there a way I can help her to set up as a mantua-maker?”
At least he was of some use for advice. “That seems a sudden elevation from a seamstress.”
“She is more than that—she has a good eye for colour and design.” Bella gestured at her gown. “She gave me confidence, after I head people making remarks about my appearance.”
“There is more to a business than an eye for fashion,” he said.
“I know. Premises, buying materials, paying seamstresses, finding clients.”
“You have given it some thought.”
“I had a lot of time to think while that runner was bringing me back.”
“Money will help with the first three items you mentioned,” he said. “It is unusual for a woman to invest in such an enterprise, though. It might cause gossip.”
“I do not care about that.” She met his gaze squarely. “Would you?”
“No.” Her tentative smile told him that had been the correct answer. “Do you intend to give her money?”
“No. I do not think she would take it.”
That tallied with what he had seen of Fletcher—a woman as determined as Bella, although in very different circumstances.
“A loan, then, at low interest? You would need a proper contract drawn up, but I could help you with that, if Wingrave is too busy.”
“Or if he disapproves,” Bella muttered.
“Is he like to?”