Realm 06 - A Touch of Love

by Regina Jeffers

  “Do people say bad things to you?” he asked. “Because your skin is darker than theirs. As dark as mine.”

  She reasoned, “I am a duke’s daughter, so no one says bad things anymore, but when we lived in Cornwall…” Simon cringed. He suspected several adults must have spoken unkindly of the girl. Perhaps, Mrs. Warren had spoken the truth of others not treating everyone fairly. This was a strange idea for a child accustomed to living among his family and church. The girl did not finish her thought. Instead, she reached for a small box. “These were my mother’s belongings,” she explained. “This was her favorite dress and shoes and the cloth for a sari. When I am older, I plan to wear these, and I shall not care if anyone thinks them odd. My papa says I cannot live for others.” Simon wondered again if others would accept him. In England, it seemed no one looked liked him, and if Mrs. Warren’s drawing held any truth, he held no resemblance to the late Captain Warren.

  He had returned to London but three days prior. A farmer transporting sheep pelts to Oxford had discovered Carter’s untethered mount and had come searching for the animal’s owner. Carter had begged for a ride, even upon the smelly sheepskins, so he might seek out the talents of a gifted surgeon in Oxford of whom he was acquainted. The surgeon had stitched up the deep cut across his shoulder and had bandaged the wound on the back of Carter’s head, but, thankfully, he had pronounced Carter well enough to travel. His arm remained stiff, but Carter had attempted to ignore it. “What did we learn of my attacker?” he asked Van Dyke, the Realm recruit assigned to assist him with the investigation.

  “We recovered the shrapnel; and you were correct. It was of the type used by the infantry units during the war. Whoever struck you broke the stock across your upper back.” Van Dyke ticked off the facts on his fingers.

  Carter frowned. “Was there evidence of more than one attacker?”

  “Two days of rain had muddied the area…”

  It was as Carter feared: no evidence other than the vague image of the toe of a polished boot. “I want one more sweep of the area. Take fresh eyes with you. Ask more questions. Hopefully, someone took note of strangers.”

  Lucinda had received a short, succinct note from Sir Carter giving her permission to proceed with whatever decorating in which she chose to participate. The note’s brevity had disappointed her. She had held some girlish fantasy the baronet might ask of her wellbeing or inquire of Simon’s taking to the country. “You are being the world’s worst fool,” she had chastised her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her hair. Lucinda had refused the maid Sir Carter had assigned to her: She would not permit herself a luxury she would be later be denied. “The viscount does not wish your friendship.”

  When she had written to ask his permission to purchase several items for the estate, Lucinda had carefully described what she had planned. She had expected the baronet’s response to include his opinion of her suggestions, and from there they could regularly correspond. Lucinda was quite lonely in the baronet’s household. Only she, Simon, and the servants occupied the manor. No one had made neighborly calls beyond the Duke and Duchess of Thornhill; no one knew of her residency. It made sense for the baronet to avoid explaining turning over his home to a stranger. The local gentry would think her Sir Carter’s mistress, or worse, as the duchess had explained, think her Thornhill’s mistress. Even Simon had deserted daily her for the pleasures of Thorn Hall’s library.

  However, Sir Carter’s note had dashed all her hopes of anticipating a letter from him. Try as she might, she did not understand what drove the baronet. Her failings were quite obvious, but what of his aloofness? Ironically, even in its conciseness, the note was more than she had ever received from Matthew Warren. In fact, she had never received a letter, all her own, from anyone. True, her father had included her in his, but they were truly meant for her mother. Unfortunately for Lucinda “You have my permission to make necessary changes. SCL” did not provide her the basis for an epistolary relationship. “Just set the changes in motion,” Lucinda warned her heart, “and cease your pining for something never to be.” Lacing the ribbon about the end of her plait, she wrapped the long braid into a severe bun. It would likely give her a megrim, but Lucinda thought it justice for her fanciful musings. She was not meant for a life of normalcy.

  “What do you think?” she nervously asked Mrs. Shelton. While they had awaited Sir Carter’s permission, she and the housekeeper had made detailed lists of the items once belonging to Sir Louis Levering, as well as the items sent to Sir Carter from the various members of his immediate family. From these, they had chosen several to decorate the rooms in question. Mrs. Shelton had suggested they separate the items according to color. “A palette of complementary shades,” Lucinda had agreed. “We will choose a color scheme for each chamber. Purchase small items–trays for soap and towels. Those sorts of necessities. Ribbon to trim drapes and pillows. Then we will add a vase of similar shade for fresh flowers. Nothing ostentatious. That would not be to Sir Carter’s tastes.”

  “Classic lines,” Mrs. Shelton agreed. “Perfect.”

  Lucinda had enjoyed the lady’s praise. She had never had the opportunity to express her eye for décor previously. It was a heady sensation to do so in Sir Carter’s name. “We should finish the rose chamber first. If all goes well, then we will have a pattern for the others.”

  “Jamot has resurfaced,” Pennington announced as he entered Carter’s office. The Realm’s leader rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Carter had been daydreaming; he had read Thornhill’s latest report on Mrs. Warren and had thought to return to Huntingborne to observe for himself how the lady got on.

  His face lit with the shared expectancy. “Is the Baloch still in Suffolk?”

  “Yes, Mir’s man has pledged his larcenous efforts with those of a rag tag group of former soldiers. Our informants say the band is responsible for much of the smuggled goods in the area. Part of the group serves upon a recently repaired Indian vessel believed to have been financed by Mir himself.”

  Carter scowled. “That fact does not ring true. Mir is singular in his insistence that one of us has his emerald. For him to finance a scheme, which does little more than to ruffle the feathers of local authorities is not in the Baloch lord’s scope. He is a ruthless warlord, as well as an intelligent strategist. It is how he has eluded the numerous attempts by the British government to capture him for so long. Mir engages only in ‘wars’ he can win. Fighting the British government on British soil would be a losing endeavor, one the Baloch chief would never choose. It would cost him dearly to lose face among his people. It is why Mir sent Jamot and Talpur, rather than to seek out the Realm himself. If his emissaries are unsuccessful, Mir may blame his servants.”

  Pennington nodded approvingly. “You have found the weakness in the report. It is always to your benefit to know your enemy better than he knows you. So, what say you is the truth?”

  Carter wondered if this was some sort of test of his ability to lead or perhaps Pennington meant to tutor him in his responsibilities. If those were the two choices for this encounter, he would choose the latter. Learning everything Pennington knew of threats to England’s safety had been Carter’s desire since he joined the Realm. “More than likely, Jamot has used Mir’s name, as he has done in the past with Talpur. Jamot is lethal, but he thinks small, while Mir dwells on grand schemes. Murhad Jamot is the perfect henchman: He blames others for his shortcomings and uses his guilt to punish those he deems his enemies.”

  “Interesting,” Pennington said pensively. Carter worried whether his superior meant “interesting,” as if Pennington had never considered Carter’s summation or “interesting,” as if Carter had missed the obvious. It would be another moment to replay over his evening meal, but Carter knew after four years of service under Pennington, the Realm’s leader would say little else on the matter. “I assume you will be to Suffolk within the hour.”

  Carter reached for his jacket, which he had hung on the back of his chair.
“I will send Monroe to the mews to saddle my horse. A Realm courier will bring you news of my progress.” As he slid his arms into the sleeves, he regretted the interruption, which would keep him from Mrs. Warren’s company. It was foolish to miss those few moments they had shared. After all, he was only her… Her what? Her savior? Not likely. He had learned little of her circumstances. In fact, since returning to London, he had spent his time chasing after information on Cyrus Woodstone, on his attacker, and on Jamot, but not on the lady’s dilemma. He had safely absconded her away, but he could not keep her there… in the country…in his home forever. She belonged with her family, not with him. Shaking off his rampant musings of blonde curls wrapped about his fist, Carter said, “Hopefully, this time Jamot will not slip away before I arrive.”

  Lucinda looked up in surprise when Mr. Vance presented her a silver salver with a letter resting upon its surface. She had been at Huntingborne Abbey a fortnight, but other than the one note from the baronet, she had corresponded with no one beyond the servants and the Duke of Thornhill. She frowned as she accepted the letter from Sir Carter’s butler. “Is something amiss, Mrs. Warren?”

  She blushed thoroughly. “Certainly not, Mr. Vance. I was simply considering who might know of my residence in Kent.”

  “I could not say, Ma’am.”

  With his exit, Lucinda broke the wax seal to unfold the page. If the message was from Sir Carter, the baronet had not bothered to use his seal upon the wax. Anxiously, she opened the page to read another brief message: “Bring the boy to the Rising Son Inn on Friday. I have information regarding the child’s parents.” Lucinda frowned. The message left much to be explained.

  “That is all?” she mumbled as she turned the paper over several times as if something had been omitted. “Nothing regarding how I might travel so far nor the nature of the information the baronet has discovered. Has Sir Carter found Simon’s missing mother? Am I to turn over the child to a stranger?” The thought of parting with the boy squeezed her heart in anguish. She would not wish to place Simon in a home where he was not fully welcomed. “And where is the Rising Son Inn? It is not as if I am aware of each hostelry in England.” Lucinda read the note a second time. She snorted her disapproval. “The baronet did not even include a salutation or a closing signature. I never thought of him as a man of so few words.”

  Lucinda sat heavily against the hard leather seat. The duke had hired a hack to transport her and the child to an inn somewhere north of the Essex border. Thornhill had wanted her to use either Sir Carter’s coach or one of his smaller ones, but Lucinda had adamantly refused. She had also declined his offer to escort her. “I shall have none of it. Your kindness has already created a riff between you and the duchess. I would not add flames to the fire.”

  Of course, Thornhill had declared he would not permit his duchess to speak for him, but Lucinda was certain he would be satisfied not to witness his wife’s displeasure. She did graciously accept the services of Sir Carter’s coachman, Mr. Watkins.

  The boy had not been happy to leave the comfort of Huntingborne Abbey nor his new friendship with Sonali Fowler. She suspected Simon as lonely as she. “Perhaps, Sir Carter has found your mother,” she encouraged, but Simon had turned his head away. In silence, the boy wiped at a tear rolling slowly over his cheekbone. Lucinda wished he would share with her what little he knew of his parents. Any bit of information might prove the difference. As the shadows gathered, they rolled on. Mr. Watkins declared they would arrive in time for a late meal.

  The duke had provided her with enough coinage to purchase a room for her and the boy. “For a man known to tend strictly to details, Sir Carter is sorely lacking in this matter,” Thornhill had proclaimed, and Lucinda was very much in agreement.

  A sharp whistle announced their arrival. Mr. Watkins slowed the coach and reined in before a well-lit inn. She heard the scurry of feet as men rushed to secure the coach. Within a minute, Mr. Watkins opened the door to assist them down. “We’ve arrived, Ma’am.” He set the steps and reached for Lucinda’s hand. “I don’t see the baronet’s horse, but it may already be in the stable. I’ll look for Prime. If’n he not be within, I’ll come to watch over ye and the boy.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Watkins.” She did not like the looks of the inn. It was not a place for a woman alone. A shiver of dread ran down her spine. “Stay close, Simon.” Lucinda caught the boy’s hand. It felt so familiar in her grasp.

  A rotund man with a jovial countenance rushed forward to greet them. “I am Mrs. Warren. The boy and I require a room for the evening.” Her gaze slid across the common room, searching for Sir Carter’s familiar countenance. She realized belatedly she knew nothing of how they were to make contact. Lucinda had assumed the baronet would greet her upon her arrival.

  “I have a small room facing the back of the inn, if that would meet your requirements, Ma’am.”

  Lucinda’s eyes made another sweep of the main room. Should she instruct the innkeeper to direct Sir Carter to her upon his arrival? She certainly would not wish to appear to be expecting an assignation. “The room shall be acceptable. Please have someone bring a meal for the boy and me, as well as provide one for my driver.” She hoped Mr. Watkins would inform the baronet of her presence.

  A few minutes later, she had paid the innkeeper and stood in the middle of a starkly simple room. “It is not much,” Simon said with disapproval.

  Lucinda’s opinion mirrored the child’s, but she held her tongue. She thought of the simple touches she and Mrs. Shelton had added to the rooms at Huntingborne. They had enlivened the rooms without making them overly ornate. This room could use some of what she had left behind. “We have been spoiled by the baronet’s generosity,” she declared. “Unfortunately, this is our reality.” She gestured to the plain furnishings.

  He had followed Jamot’s trail for three days, and with each frustrating dead end, his temper had grown tighter. An informant had claimed Jamot frequented an inn on Surrey’s southern border, and so Carter and Monroe had donned their working clothes to assume a familiar role as ex-soldiers searching for gainful employment. Carter had tethered their horses in the woods behind the inn, and they had approached on foot. He feigned a limp as they entered the open room. The movement was not so foreign a feeling. After Waterloo, it had taken him several months to walk normally after a surgeon had dug a French bullet from his thigh.

  He and Monroe pushed past the hovering innkeeper and sought a table in a dark corner. When the busty barmaid arrived with two beers for which neither he nor Monroe had placed an order, Carter slid a coin across the table. “What if we wished yer best brandy?” he asked caustically.

  “You, Gents, kant ‘ford no brandy,” she said saucily. “Besides, the brandy be watered down.” She smiled a toothy grin at Monroe. “Ye be requirin’ anything else, ye ask fer Nell.”

  When she strolled away, purposely twitching her hips, Monroe leaned Carter’s way. “I would be afeared of what I might take with me from the fair Nell’s bed.”

  Carter chuckled. “Aye, a man must be careful with whom he shares his time.” Immediately, he thought of the “fair Lucinda Warren” and knew he would gladly share whatever she offered.

  Monroe jabbed Carter in the side with his elbow. “Is that Jamot at the bar’s end? Beside the man with the gray hair.”

  Carter’s heart rate jumped: Monroe’s keen eyes had cut through the shadows and the tobacco smoke to discover their man across a crowded room. It was the closest Carter had been to Jamot in over the year. Unfortunately, there were some two-dozen people between him and the Baloch. His eyes searched the room for possible escape routes, as well as for accomplices. For a year, he had investigated Jamot’s associates in the opium ring, but this was a new group of compatriots. The majority of England’s smugglers were villagers and farmers. Few were harden criminals: Most wished only to supplement their meager incomes. Some thought they had a right to the goods denied them by embargos and treaties and political maneuverings. Despite
their lack of training and motivation, Carter held no doubt Jamot’s latest companions would fight to protect the Baloch.

  “I will attempt to move closer,” he said under his breath. “There are too many innocents between Jamot and us, and the Baloch has never been ashamed of placing others between him and a bullet. Stay alert and watch for my signal.” Monroe nodded. Carter rose slowly, giving any watchful eyes the impression he had had too much to drink. Keeping his back to the room, he staggered between the tables, pausing occasionally to slap one of the locals on the back in a friendly manner and to motion to Nell to bring a round of drink for a table he had jostled.

  Throughout his antics, he kept one eye on the Baloch. Jamot had yet to look up at him. The Realm’s enemy appeared deep in conversation with a man who was dressed a bit too finely for those who regularly patronized the Rising Son. Within fifteen feet of a man he had sought for more than two years, Carter leaned heavily on the lip of the bar. With his head down, he reached into an inside pocket to ease a specially crafted pistol into his palm. Now, it was a matter of waiting. He would wait until the three men arguing over the price of grain shifted from the line of fire, and then he would make his move.

  However, the farmers tarried, and Jamot had become irritated with his companion, and before Carter could react Jamot sat his mug heavily upon the bar’s marred surface and turned toward the exit.

  Carter snapped into action a second behind the Baloch. “Jamot!” he called over the din of voices as he lifted the gun for a safe shot. Shouts of dismay filled the air while people scrambled from the way, but Carter’s focus remained on the Realm’s long-time enemy.