Realm 06 - A Touch of Love

by Regina Jeffers

  “Thornhill, we must think rationally,” Carter cautioned. “Permit Mrs. Warren her explanation.”

  A sorrowful note laced her words, and tears misted her eyes. Immediately, regret flooded Carter’s heart. He recognized the embarrassment and shame Mrs. Warren had suffered. “When I discovered…discovered my husband’s treachery,” she stammered, “I…I wished…” Carter prayed the lady would not finish her thought, but she did, nonetheless. “I wished to die. Yet, I could not. You see, if something happened to me, Simon would have no one in this world to care for him.” Mrs. Warren swallowed hard. Carter ached to comfort her. It was all he could do not to reach for her. The feeling was so strong, and he was not certain he liked it. “I have…it is foolish for me to think so…but I have come to believe Captain Warren arranged to have Simon sent to me. Surely Mr. Warren spoke of me to Simon’s mother. My husband knew I would not fail to keep the boy safe.”

  Carter admired the lady’s fortitude. For the child’s sake, she had convinced herself to make the benevolent journey. He knew of no one who would open himself to such scrutiny. “Did the child present any papers besides the note you described earlier?” he inquired. Carter quickly reasoned his only means to comfort the woman would be to locate the information she required.

  “Simon carried a small bag containing several rolled sheaves,” Mrs. Warren explained, “but they are written in Hebrew. I feared bringing notice to the boy if I had someone translate them.”

  Carter offered, “I could ask one of the recruits we have recently added to our staff to view them, assuming that situation would meet your approval.”

  “Your offer is one I readily accept.” Mrs. Warren smiled sweetly, filling the emptiness Carter experienced earlier. “Yet, I have a confession.”

  Carter frowned without recognizing he did so. “How so, Mrs. Warren?”

  He heard the pause, as if the lady sought the correct words. “Some…some several months back, an intruder entered my rooms while Simon and I returned books to the circulating library.” Carter realized the nearest library was well over a mile removed, and he once more admired the strength of the woman before him.

  Thornhill swore under his breath, but Carter calmly asked, “Were the child’s papers disturbed?”

  “Only one,” she explained. “One of the three rolled papers has gone missing. I could not understand why that particular item was the source of the invasion; however, Simon explained the paper was a record of his parents’ joining.”

  Carter leaned forward, as if Thornhill’s presence no longer existed. “Was the paper also in Hebrew?”

  Surprisingly, Mrs. Warren’s gaze rested purely upon him, and Carter relished the connection. “Yes, which I found most confusing because the man who follows us when the child and I are about our business appears English…I mean his skin is that of those who call England home.” She blushed with the awkwardness of her words.

  “Good God!” Thornhill expelled. “Break ins and someone following you!” In frustration, the duke jammed his fingers into his hair. “When had you planned to inform us of all this, Lucinda?” Thornhill was on his feet and pacing. “I had thought your situation one of an administrative nightmare, but this is something much more dangerous.”

  “Sit, Thornhill,” Carter ordered in a voice reminiscent of Aristotle Pennington. “Again. Permit Mrs. Warren time to explain fully, and then we can decide upon a plan of action.”

  Reluctantly, the duke returned to his seat. Carter thought it ironic that he, a mere baronet, without repercussions, had given orders to a duke. It spoke to his long-standing relationship with Brantley Fowler.

  The lady smiled with admiration, and Carter’s heart turned a graceful somersault in his chest. He wondered if there might be some means he could employ to keep the smile upon her lips. Yet, as he considered the possibilities, Mrs. Warren’s brow tightened in a decided frown. “There have been four questionable incidents,” she began. “Shortly after Simon and I moved to these quarters, we nearly met our end when a beer cart lost its load.” The lady paused as if choosing the details to share. “The stranger entering our rooms followed that incident. Shortly after the invasion, I began to notice the man who appeared to watch our every move. As my window does not look upon the street, I have no idea whether he is at the same street corner at other times, but he appears to parallel my comings and goings.”

  Her frown deepened, and Carter wished to smooth away her ills. “Perhaps I have erred. There remains the possibility the man simply pines for a woman in the neighborhood.”

  Thornhill asked encouragingly, “Could you describe the man?”

  She looked off as if conjuring up an image. “Much shorter than either of you or the baronet. The man wears a brown hat–one a man working in the fields might doff. Early on, he sported a fleece lined coat, but he has abandoned its warmth for a plainly cut jacket.”

  “Which corner?” the duke prompted.

  “Across the street. Before the grocer.”

  Thornhill nodded to Carter. “I have it. I will go out the back and take Murray with me. Finish your conversation with Mrs. Warren. If the man is about, I will find him.”

  Carter inclined his head in acknowledgement, and the duke disappeared from the room. “Were there other incidents?” He meant to have it all. Carter was suddenly aware of the inappropriateness of being alone with this particular woman; yet, there was no means to correct the situation. They could not permit others to know of what they spoke.

  A moment earlier, Lucinda had known nothing but her tale. Now, all upon which her mind could concentrate was the sudden heat shooting through her veins. Instinctively, she glanced at her breasts as they beaded in anticipation. When Lucinda looked up again, she discovered the baronet’s eyes rested upon her bust line. Immediately, her heat turned to a flush across her cheeks.

  Flustered by the intensity of Sir Carter’s eyes, Lucinda could not recall his question. She should be placing her defenses in a row, as she had done with Lieutenant Worsley, but in a perfect world, welcoming the baronet’s attentions would be Lucinda’s wish. Unfortunately, she recognized her social position as inferior to his. The image of his lips claiming hers played like a beckoning dream, but she managed to shake it off. Without meeting his eyes, she stammered, “Once…bricks fell…bricks fell from a roof top…to land dangerously close to Simon’s feet. On another occasion, there was a small fire in the passage leading to our rooms. Fortunately, Mr. Peterman discovered the smoke before the fire spread. It was assumed the maid Nancy had dropped a warm coal on the rug after she cleared the ashes from the fireplace.”

  “But you hold different thoughts?”

  Lucinda uttered a strained laugh. “I have refused to acknowledge my greatest fears until this moment,” she rasped through a tight throat.

  The baronet moved to sit beside her upon the settee. He did so in natural concern, but Lucinda could not help but to catch her breath. “You must promise me, Mrs. Warren,” he said in what sounded of true disposition, “to speak earnestly at all times. If I am to assist you, you must trust me, even with your most private thoughts.”

  She wondered how the baronet would respond if she had told him she wished to know the warmth of his kiss. Silently, Lucinda laughed at the sheer absurdity of such an idea. “I shall endeavor to do as you ask, Sir Carter.”

  “May I view the papers of which you spoke earlier?”

  Lucinda knew this was a mistake; permitting Sir Carter into her life was a ridiculous scheme. If she had known Thornhill would involve the baronet in the investigation, she would have sought other means before succumbing to her situation. It had not come easy to pretend no knowledge of the man, but to look upon his fine countenance was such a pleasure after so great a time. “Of course,” she said stupidly. “If you will excuse me a moment, I shall retrieve them from my quarters.”

  Carter assisted her to her feet. He had erred when he caught her hand in his. To his regret, she presented him a quick curtsy and moved away. As he
watched her go, Carter subconsciously rubbed the zing of recognition, which burned his palm. Some might say, there was nothing uncommon about Lucinda Warren, nothing from the ordinary, but those critics would have erred. Behind those plain threads of a poor war widow stood a remarkable woman. Her exit created a strange sense of loss.

  As the lady slipped from the room, Thornhill returned. “Murray escorts Mrs. Warren’s spy to the Home Office,” the duke said with a bit of bravado.

  Carter scowled. “He confessed?” He held no doubt if the man existed, Fowler would apprehend him. The duke was a superb agent. What did not make sense was a ready confession.

  “Since I brought him from Cornwall to London, Murray has acquired several convincing methods of discovering information.” The duke straightened his waistcoat. “Our culprit did not announce who had hired him, but the man did admit he was to report on Mrs. Warren’s presence in Mrs. Peterman’s household.”

  Carter’s anxiety spiraled tighter. It was all too easy, and he suspected easy was not how this investigation would go. He stifled a groan of frustration. “We should remove Mrs. Warren and the child to some place safe. What say you to Thorn Hall?”

  The duke flinched. “I have spoken previously of the duchess’s lack of comfort with Mrs. Warren.”

  Carter was not impressed by Velvet Fowler’s ignorant naiveté. The duchess had a long way to travel to equal the magnanimous nature of her cousin Lady Eleanor Worthing. Why was it, he thought, the more beautiful the woman, the more insecure she became? “Then do you have another suggestion? The others are farther from London, and our investigation centers about Mrs. Warren’s activities since arriving in Town. It would seem best to keep the lady close.”

  Thornhill said ruefully, “Huntingborne Abbey remains nearly empty.”

  Carter said incredulously, “I cannot bring the woman to my estate. I have only a minimal staff to attend her. And who would protect Mrs. Warren while I am in London?”

  Thornhill reasoned, “I can provide the lady with a maid, as well as men to protect the house.” He gestured aristocratically to their surroundings. “It is not as if the lady has been living in austere quarters.”

  If he were more of a gentleman, Carter might have objected to the absurdity of inviting a woman of Mrs. Warren’s station to his home, but his years with the Realm had blurred the lines of propriety. Finally, he said, “I will leave it to you to convince the lady yours is the best plan for her immediate future.”

  He had called on her for three consecutive days. Each time, Carter had hired a hack, rather than to use his fine coach and to draw attention, actually, more notice than usual, to his presence in the neighborhood. With each call, he had removed more of her belongings. Daily, Mrs. Warren packed her personal items in a small valise, and Carter transferred the items to a trunk he brought with him. In that manner, the lady would appear to return with what she brought with her. It was an excellent plan if another “spy” had replaced the one Thornhill had apprehended.

  “This one is heavier than the one yesterday,” he said with an easy taunt. He lifted her bag to the carriage bench before he assisted her to the seat.

  The lady blushed, and Carter thought the color did wonders for her looks. “I included my father’s papers today. They are in the metal box on the bottom of the bag.”

  “I will guard them with my life,” he whispered before lifting the boy to the opening.

  As foolish as it seemed, Carter could not recall a time he had been more excited to spend time with a lady. He had instinctively known from the meeting three days prior he would enjoy touching her: enjoy lifting her small form from the carriage and placing her hand upon his arm. The experience was his personal exquisite torture. Yet, he had also discovered she enthralled him with her intelligent conversation. Mrs. Warren was well versed in the country’s politics, and Carter had delighted in sharing many of the government’s not-so-guarded “secrets” with her. The lady’s eyes lit in anticipation, and he relished teasing her with each new fact.

  Just as surprisingly, he had taken pleasure in the boy’s antics and the child’s delight at the smallest gesture of kindness. Whether it was an afternoon playing in Marylebone Park or a gift of a book from one of the many shops or an ice from Gunthers, Simon Warren freely expressed his gratitude. He thought the child and the lady were well matched in temperament.

  Only yesterday, she had confided something he had never considered. “If what we suspect holds true, I must decide whether to announce to the world my imprudence by resuming my former name or falsely claim the name of a man I have learned to despise.” The boy chased a ball Carter had found in his suite of offices, while Carter and the lady shared a park bench.

  Carter paused before responding. “If you choose to raise the boy as your ward, it would prove well to keep Captain Warren’s name.”

  Her lip took a bitter curl. “Yet, in their grief, my husband’s parents have rejected me. I am certain they would not have a care if I kept their son’s name alive,” she protested.

  The sun hid behind a cloud, and the shadows blurred his view of her countenance. Wishing to understand her better, he said, “Perhaps you could tell me a bit more of your marriage. Even the most miniscule fact could be the one to solve this mystery.”

  She turned her chin to watch the boy at play, and Carter recognized the pain, which crossed her brow. Brutal self-appraisal crossed her countenance. “Our parents’ estates ran along side each other, and the Warrens and the Rightnours were great friends. With my birth, the colonel and Father Warren drew up an agreement. From my earliest memory, I knew I was to be Matthew Warren’s wife. We never discussed the arrangement, and I had thought Captain Warren had accepted our parents’ wishes.”

  Mrs. Warren caught the ball as it rolled toward her feet before returning it to the boy with an encouraging smile. “Mr. Warren departed for the war in the later part of ’07, but I did not follow as I was still in the schoolroom. At the time, the colonel had accepted half pay, and we were in Devon until he was recalled into service in early 1811. My father’s return to the war was the reason for Mr. Warren’s homecoming to exchange our vows. Little did I know he had kept the secret of another wife.” The lady’s former conceit obviously gulled her.

  Her gaze veered skyward, and she muttered something, which sounded of a curse. The fact the lady held a spark of defiance pleased Carter immensely. Resilience would serve her well in overcoming the evils surrounding her. “I lost Captain Warren to a fever after we had spent a fortnight in the cold and rain. I could not return to Devon for the colonel had let the estate, and Uncle Gerhard had parted ways with our family long before I was born. My mother had passed shortly after I married, and all I had remaining in the world was my father. There was no time to grieve for my husband’s passing. My father was alone, so I joined the colonel. Beyond my early years in Devon, following the drum is all I have ever known.” A single tear crept down her cheek, and Carter resisted the urge to flick it away. “I lost the colonel at Waterloo. I have no family remaining, which makes Captain Warren’s betrayal even more painful.”

  Hers was a twisted tale of woe, and Carter had difficulty believing Warren had not given some indication of the duplicity he practiced. Likely, Mrs. Warren had chosen to ignore her husband’s dual life, telling herself his absence from her bed was a result of the war. For Carter, perhaps this was the hardest part of her story to believe: What he knew of the lady would not speak of unwariness, but she had turned her vision from what was evidently her husband’s unfaithfulness. It was only with her retelling that he realized who her father had been. “Colonel Roderick Rightnour was your father?” Her casual mention of the colonel and Waterloo meant Mrs. Warren was not aware of his connection. He wondered what she would think of him if Carter spoke his heart regarding Rightnour’s grievous mistakes during the battle.

  The lady looked at him in dismay. “Were you unaware of my parentage?”

  Experiencing a touch of guilt, Carter attempted to conceal hi
s knowledge of Rightnour’s ability to lead his men in battle. “I had only known you by your husband’s name,” he explained. “From Thornhill, I recently learned your father served England, but I had not placed the connection until I heard you speak of the colonel’s demise.”

  A suspicious frown crossed her countenance. “Did you know my father?”

  Carter again withheld his true thought regarding the man. “I served Wellington for only a short time. When the opportunity arrived to make a more personal difference in our country’s struggle, I seized it. I had only briefly known private service when Wellington pressed me into action at Waterloo. Otherwise, I would not have been involved. I was aware of Colonel Rightnour’s service. It was I who assumed the command of the colonel’s regiment after his fall.”

  “So it was you who was credited with saving the lives of his men,” she countered.

  All emotions faded from his eyes. Carter shrugged away the accolades. “I did what any good Englishman would have done.”

  “And knew a severe injury for it.”

  “How did you know I was wounded?” His eyebrow rose in curiosity. “Those in charge removed me from the field.”

  Mrs. Warren blushed thoroughly, but her voice remained steady. “I am a colonel’s daughter, and I volunteered in the records’ office. When the Duke of Wellington requested a special transfer for a wounded soldier, I took notice. Then I saw who you were and what you did. I was indebted to you for saving my father’s reputation, and I meant to express my gratitude, but you were gone. Like you, I thought no more of the name I had discovered.”

  Carter was not certain he liked the idea of the lady being privy to the Realm’s secret maneuverings in his behalf. “As I was intended to be nothing more than a messenger on that day, the Duke assumed responsibility for my condition,” he explained.

  “I thought it a wonderful gesture on His Grace’s part,” she admitted. “Unfortunately, with the loss of my father, my world shifted under me. I had no time to know more of your recovery.”