Unmasking the Spy

by Janet Kent

  She was laughing at her aunt’s tales of the many foibles that befell Louis along their trek when soft footfalls caught her attention. They were not those of her husband, unless he’d grown many, many more feet. Delighted to find all four of Ian’s sisters crowding the doorway, Alicia leapt to her feet to lead the introductions.

  “Aunt, I’d love for you to meet my new sisters. Here are Miss Poppy Morrissey, Miss Julia, Miss Mavis, and Miss Carlotta. Ladies, may I present my great-aunt, Miss Beatrix Kinsey?”

  While each of the sisters performed polite curtsies, Beatrix struggled to her feet and peered at them through a slightly crooked quizzing glass. Noting a thin smear of paste around the edges of the lens, Alicia had a sneaking suspicion that this particular tool had been the one hurled at her father when the whole betrothal fiasco first began.

  “All misses, are you?” Beatrix asked in her soft, tremulous voice, before turning to give Alicia a pointed look. “Guess none of them have been compromised.”

  Alicia clapped a hand to her forehead as her eyes rolled back in her head. Trust Aunt Beatrix to break the ice with such an implication. She peeked through her fingers at the four dark-haired beauties, dreading to see whether Mavis was going to rail into her again.

  “Oh, not yet,” cried Carlotta. “None of us has taken our bow, although I suppose that has nothing to do with being compromised. How funny it would be to have everything all out of order!”

  “It wouldn’t be funny, Carlotta,” Julia rebuked her with a frown. “It would be disastrous.”

  “I may not have taken my bow, per se,” Poppy broke in, extracting her fan from her pocket. “But you cannot deny I’ve been ‘out’.”

  “Oh, that’s true!” Carlotta exclaimed. “You very nearly had a suitor.”

  “She did have a suitor,” interjected Mavis, folding her slender arms over her chest and casting an irritated glare at her youngest sister.

  “Well, I don’t know. Can he be considered a suitor if he doesn’t come up to scratch?”

  “We were in mourning, Carlotta.” Poppy flapped her wrist and the delicate fan cast a gentle breeze across her curls. “Although I had hopes to the contrary, a year is a long time for a man to be patient.”

  “Humph. We were in half-mourning most of the time,” Carlotta muttered with a pout.

  “We were in half-mourning half the time,” corrected Mavis. “And even six months can be six months too long to a man.”

  “Well, we’re out of mourning now. Poppy will snap up another suitor in no time,” Carlotta said confidently and turned to grin at Beatrix. “And then perhaps one of us will get compromised!”

  Feeling it prudent to jump in at this juncture, Alicia murmured, “I don’t believe she was suggesting you ought to aim for such a goal, Carlotta.”

  “Why not?” Beatrix asked with a mischievous smile. “It worked for you.”

  “Aunt–”

  “So you did trap him,” Mavis said with narrowed eyes.

  “Not by choice,” Alicia began, only to be interrupted by her great-aunt once again.

  “They ruined each other!” crowed Beatrix. “It was brilliant. She managed to escape the clutches of Louis, and he managed to throw off the heavy shackles of bachelorhood.”

  “I’m not sure my brother would agree with your definition of bachelorhood,” Julia said, the threat of a smile struggling on her lips.

  “What do men know?” scoffed Beatrix, shocking a startled smile out of Mavis.

  “Not much,” she answered. “Mama hadn’t left the house since… for a long time, but Ian could’ve taken us to court if he’d wanted to. We could all be married by now.”

  “He didn’t want to,” Julia said. “He said he’d never step foot in London if he could help it.”

  “Well, he did say you could take Miss Livingstone,” Carlotta piped up.

  Mavis goggled at her sister. “We didn’t want to go to Town with your governess!”

  “We could’ve all gone! I was nearly seventeen when he said it.”

  “We’d have needed a better chaperone than she, I’m afraid,” said Julia with a little shrug. “Besides, I’m not sure we’d all fit in his townhouse. I’ve never clapped eyes on it.”

  “Me neither.”

  “We know you haven’t, Carlotta,” Mavis said with ill-contained exasperation. “But perhaps his wife has been there.”

  Alicia jumped when five sets of curious eyes pointed in her direction. “Er, no. I’m sorry to say, I’ve not seen it either. We came straight here after the wedding.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t really have one! Perhaps he stays in hotels,” crowed Carlotta, clapping her hands together.

  “I am certain our brother does not stay in anything so vulgar as a hotel,” Poppy replied from behind her ivory fan. “Just because we haven’t seen his townhouse doesn’t mean he hasn’t got one. We haven’t been to London, remember?”

  “Alicia’s been to London. She’s from London!”

  “Mrs. Morrissey isn’t Ian’s sister, Carlotta. And where’s your respect?”

  “She said I could call her Alicia! I begged her to first-name me from the start.”

  Poppy shuddered behind her fan. “Good Lord, child.”

  “I’m not a child. I’m her sister! She said those very words. It’s not like you all call me ‘Miss Carlotta’ except when you’re angry.”

  “And this,” Julia interrupted with a weak smile in Alicia’s direction, “is why sending the four of us to London under the chaperonage of the lovely – if elderly – Miss Livingstone would have been a singularly Bad Idea.”

  “I suppose… I suppose I could take you sometime,” Alicia offered hesitantly. “I’m still youngish, and since I’m married to your brother, I would think I’d be as respectable a chaperone as any.”

  “Oh, would you?” Carlotta bounced on her toes then threw her arms around Alicia in a sudden hug before leaping back to beam at the others. “You see? She’s our sister. And a jolly good one!”

  “Er, perhaps not all at once, though?” Alicia added as an afterthought. “And I suppose I ought to check with Ian as well.”

  “Ian,” scoffed Carlotta with a wave of her hand. “Child’s play. Have you ever met anyone so easy to get along with in all your life?”

  ###

  Hooding his eyes from the piercing rays of the setting sun, Ian slogged across the grass toward the back of his house and shoved open the door. Alicia lounged against one wall, looking delectable, if a little impatient. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d been watching for him. With a nod and a little half-smile in her general direction, he stepped around her, heading into the main hall. She followed.

  They were going to have to speak.

  “Good afternoon, wife,” he offered.

  A smile lit up her face. “Good afternoon, husband.”

  He waited, but she didn’t seem inclined to say anything more. Rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead, he asked, “How do you like Heatherley?”

  “Heatherley is beautiful. How wonderful to have grown up here.”

  “I like it,” Ian admitted. “I hope my sisters feel the same.”

  “I’m sure they do. They’re lovely young women. And healthy. Nary a cough among them.”

  “I hope you’re healthy as well… fresh country air has strengthening qualities,” he added, feeling the conversation falter. After a moment gazing at his beautiful wife who wore the most mysterious smile on her face, he asked, “Where is everyone?”

  “Poppy is out painting, Julia is in her room writing letters, Mavis is in the library scowling at the bookshelves, and Carlotta is out in the garden with Aunt Beatrix.”

  “Oh,” Ian answered and then the impact of her words dawned on him. “Wait. What?”

  “Poppy is–”

  “No, tell me about Beatrix. What Beatrix? Your great-aunt Beatrix?”

  Alicia graced him with another sunny smile. “The very same.”

  “She’s here for a vi
sit?”

  “She’s here for good.”

  “Oh.” Ian blinked at her, unsure of what to say next. Apparently, avoiding one’s wife was a very unwise activity. Additional family members might move in while a man was out riding his horses.

  “That’s fine, isn’t it?”

  “Of… of course,” Ian answered, unable to say anything else when his wife peered up at him from under her long, thick lashes.

  Promising not to touch her had been a particularly poor decision on his part. Just being alone in the hallway with her made him want to press her against the wall and… Ian glanced around the hall in dismay. There would be no pressing of wives against the wall in this hallway.

  Boxes piled upon boxes in waist-high stacks from halfway down the hallway until almost the front door.

  “What happened?” he asked, afraid of the answer. Was she leaving him already?

  “We happened,” she replied with a dainty shrug. “These are wedding gifts.”

  “But there was nobody at our wedding.”

  “Precisely. That’s why they had to be sent afterwards.”

  “I see,” Ian said, although he didn’t see. He crept up to the first box, lifted the lid and peered inside. Handkerchiefs? Some friend or relative of his wife’s thought he might deprive her of handkerchiefs? He slammed the lid shut and raised his eyebrows at Alicia, who just smiled her enigmatic smile and said nothing.

  Ian stared back at her, lost in thought. Despite his ill-advised declaration against making love to her again, she was a woman and he was a man. And they were married. He hadn’t courted her before the wedding, and he doubted he’d been much of a husband ever since. He ought to woo her. Bring her flowers. Stir her passion. Make her love him.

  When Alicia’s expression turned quizzical, Ian snapped himself out of his reverie and continued down the hall, peeking in random boxes as he went.

  On the last box sat two fluted glass vases. In a glance, he recognized them as matching the description of the vases Chadwick had bought back when they still suspected him of trafficking jewels. These vases had all but proved his innocence, since they were not the item at the pawnbroker’s shop with the stolen jewels inside.

  “Did your father send these?” Ian asked, holding one up toward Alicia. He frowned when she rolled her eyes.

  “Hardly. Those are courtesy of my cousin Louis.”

  Ian advanced toward her, holding the vase out between them. “What do you mean, ‘hardly’?”

  “My father thought they were beautiful objets d’Art or somesuch, and bought them for Louis. What a row that was.”

  “What do you mean, ‘a row’?”

  She shrugged a slim shoulder. “Louis wanted some other vase. Or maybe not a vase at all. Although how he’d know what the pawnbroker had in his shop anyway is beyond me, since he hadn’t even bothered to go with Papa on his trip. Besides, beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. And my cousin, I’m ashamed to admit, is a beggar of the worst sort. He’s just greedy.”

  “Your father bought these, but Louis wanted him to buy something else?” Ian repeated, feeling like a parrot.

  Alicia nodded. “That was always the way of it. Papa’s the expert in antiquities, not Louis, so I wasn’t surprised at all to see him mind his own preferences, but you’d have thought he left behind a thousand pounds in gold, the way Louis carried on. He’s always like that, though. He gets the same way when his Waterfall looks more ‘fallen’ than ‘folded,’ and the time I criticized his purple-striped waistcoat – oh! – you wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere near him that day.”

  Ian stared from his wife to the glass vase and back again. Somehow, he managed to close his shocked-open jaw and set the vase back where he found it. Unbelievable.

  “I’ve got to go,” he muttered and took the stairs to his chambers two at a time. Louis Larouche. Who’d have thought it possible? As fast as he could, he dashed off a note to Caspian and gave it to his steward to post.

  Ian rang for overnight baggage to be packed and his carriage to be brought ’round. Within minutes, he’d changed into more comfortable traveling clothes and grabbed both his swordstick and his gun. Louis may be a self-important fribble, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t an armed fribble.

  Castigating himself for his own stupidity, Ian set off down the road on the twelve-hour ride to London.

  ###

  The sun had already risen by the time Ian pulled into London, his legs leaden with exhaustion and his eye twitching with irritation. He considered swinging by his townhouse for a few hours of sleep, but decided to ride straight to Larouche’s residence instead.

  Shaking the last remnants of sleepiness from his head, Ian leapt from the coach and sprinted up the walkway to Larouche’s front door. He picked up the heavy brass knocker and banged several times before stepping back and waiting. After a few moments, Ian grabbed the metal handle and beat the knocker against the door until he thought his arm might fall off.

  Nothing.

  Ian frowned. It was one thing for Larouche to be out somewhere, and quite another for his staff to not answer the door in order to turn away visitors. Surely Larouche employed a man for just such purposes? Or even a humble maid-of-all-work. Or hell, a cook would do. Couldn’t someone, anyone, answer the door?

  Before he began to annoy the neighbors with his incessant knocking, Ian stalked back to his coach and rode off a short distance before circling around on foot to the rear of the row houses. After ascertaining which belonged to Larouche, he made use of the windows and found his way inside.

  All was silent and dark.

  “Anyone home?” Ian called, neither expecting nor receiving a response.

  He yanked open the curtains, letting sunlight filter through the dirty glass, and stared in disbelief. It seemed he stood in some sort of drawing room; that is, one that had been misfortunate enough to have a tornado tear through it.

  Chairs lay on their sides, shelves stood stripped of their possessions, and rubbish littered the floor. The hearth was cold and uninviting. Ian passed from room to room, throwing open the curtains for light and discovering each area to be in equal or worse condition than the last.

  Either Larouche didn’t bother to employ any staff, or his household had quite the shoddiest service Ian had ever seen.

  “Damn it,” he muttered and jumped when someone’s heavy hand thumped at the rear door. Before Ian had a chance to move elsewhere, wood cracked and splintered and the door flew inward, swinging on its hinges and banging against the wall.

  Two large, burly men darkened the doorway, their faces in a scowl and their fists at the ready. From behind them stepped a small, slender man, dressed in natty garb and carrying a small pistol.

  “Mr. Morrissey,” drawled a low, careless voice.

  “Mr. Porter,” acknowledged Ian, hoping his abject idiocy didn’t show on his face. He’d pitied Porter for getting trapped in Larouche’s company at parties. Either he’d come to put a permanent end to Larouche’s painful prattling, or Ian had been an even bigger fool than he’d supposed. He should never have dismissed the vicious little fribble based on his repulsive sense of style and regrettable tendency to flit from place to place on the tips of his toes.

  “I can only assume you’re here for the same reason I am.” Porter gestured with his pistol. “Where might I find my ridiculous protégé?”

  “Gone,” Ian answered. “I suspect he’s fled for good.”

  “Damn. That’s the first sign of intelligence he’s shown since I met him.”

  “Maybe ’e knew we was gonna break more than ’is legs this time, boss.”

  “I was gonna break ’is whole head,” agreed the other thug, cracking his knuckles for emphasis.

  “Quiet, fools,” snapped Porter, rolling his eyes at Ian as if to say, “See what nonsense I must endure?”

  “Might I ask why you’re here?” Ian ventured.

  Porter cast a weary look about the townhouse and put his pistol back in his pocket. “I�
��ve just come to have a bit of a chat with the fellow about some debts I’d hoped he’d settle today. And you?”

  Ian schooled his features into a bland expression and replied, “Oh, I came for a certain set of jewels he claimed to have.”

  “The devil you did!” exclaimed Porter, color infusing his pale face. “The little bastard!”

  “Hey… I thought them jewels was for you, boss.”

  “And I thought I told you to shut your cakehole,” Porter responded, his hands twitching at his sides.

  Ian lounged against one wall, one leg bent at the knee and his boot flush with the wooden paneling. “I don’t suppose he owes you a bit of blunt for gaming, does he?”

  “You don’t suppose he–” Porter goggled at him. “Good God, man, who doesn’t he owe?”

  “Reputable gaming clubs,” Ian answered. He’d checked every legitimate betting book within the city limits for anyone with suspicious wins or losses.

  “His debts aren’t written anywhere but the vowels I hold in my pocket.”

  “And he was supposed to repay them with some stolen jewelry?”

  One of the ruffians chuckled. “That or his cousin’s dowry. ’Course, I’d be just as happy for a minute or two with that bit of fluff. That yellow hair and them big–”

  Porter slanted Ian an apologetic grimace before whirling on his men. “For the love of God. Keep your traps shut, or I will shut them myself.”

  Both swarthy cutthroats crossed their thick arms across their barrel chests and glared sullenly. After a moment, Porter nodded and turned back to Ian.

  “What good would come of Larouche marrying her?”

  “Are you kidding, man? She was good for at least eight thousand up front and an annual income besides. And once she inherits…”

  “Even if he married her, she wouldn’t inherit until her father died.”

  “Be that as may be,” replied Porter with a smile cold enough to make hairs rise on the back of Ian’s arms.

  Christ. Larouche planned to marry one cousin and kill the other just to repay some gambling debts? Chadwick was worse than innocent – he’d been badly used and might be in danger even now.