“From whom?” Cora asked, incredulous. “Latymer?”
Helsford shrugged. “Perhaps he suffered a bout of conscience.”
“He has none.”
“The child is unharmed, I hope,” Somerton said, covering the awkward silence that followed Cora’s vehement remark.
Sydney nodded. “We gave the nurse and child a ride partway home. She insisted on strolling him the rest of the distance for fear of drawing unwanted attention. From the sound of it, she met William—or Lord Latymer—yesterday and he coaxed her to return this morning.”
“Well,” Somerton said, “all turned out well, thanks to—”
“Mac,” Sydney said, filling in the blank. “He works for me. As does his brother.”
After a contemplative silence, Cora ventured, “Miss Hunt, I understand you have an interest in Abbingale, as we do.”
“Oh?” Sydney sent Ethan a hard look. “How’s that?”
“I mentioned to them that I could not have identified Giles Clarke without your assistance yesterday.” Ethan had learned so much more about her since their temporary partnership at Abbingale and his subsequent discussion with Cora and the others yesterday.
“Ethan also told us that you were investigating allegations of abuse at the Home, in the guise of a rich benefactress,” Cora added.
This time it was Ethan’s turn to glare. Cora could have left out that particular detail. Why was his sister purposefully putting him and Sydney in conflict with each other?
Sydney appeared ill at ease with the conversation. “That’s correct.”
“I recall Ethan also mentioning a client of yours leaving Abbingale after she witnessed some disturbing sights,” Cora said. “Do I have the right of it?”
Mrs. Cartwright sent Sydney a curious look.
“Yes, Miss deBeau.”
“Did you take the servant’s story to the authorities?”
“No.”
“Might I ask why?”
“Cora,” Ethan interrupted. “I thought you invited Miss Hunt here to dine with us, not to suffer an interrogation.”
“My apologies, Miss Hunt,” Cora said. “I did not mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Your story is fascinating and more than a little heroic.”
The explanation Cora provided eased the tension sharpening Sydney’s shoulders into perfect squares.
“Hardly heroic, Miss deBeau,” Sydney said. “I found nothing that would support the maid’s allegations.”
“But your instincts warned otherwise,” Ethan said.
She leaned more fully back into her chair. “My instincts accounted for nothing in this situation.”
“Perhaps not the abuse itself,” Ethan conceded, “but you suspected that a few of the staff were not as they appeared.”
“Although our promise extended only to retrieving young Giles Clarke,” Somerton said, “I should like to know what caliber of people we’re leaving the rest of the boys with.”
The former chief’s comment gave her a start. Ethan couldn’t determine if it was the content of his question that had alarmed her or if it was the messenger himself that caused her body to jolt.
“Mrs. Drummond’s dour attitude and suspicious nature seemed disproportionate for the occasion, and Monsieur LaRouche, the schoolmaster.” She paused, searching for the right words. “With one long examination the schoolmaster managed to see through my pretense. And the children clearly fear them both.” She gave herself a shake as if shrugging off an unpleasant memory. “No matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, I cannot feel right about their presence at Abbingale.”
“Sometimes we have nothing more than our gut to guide us,” Helsford said.
She nodded. “Indeed, my lord.”
“I couldn’t help but notice your footman outside,” Somerton said to Sydney. “Catherine mentioned to me before she left that he has a twin.”
Sydney sank deeper into the cushion of her chair, and Mrs. Cartwright perched straighter in her seat. “Mrs. Ashcroft is correct, my lord. As I mentioned earlier, both brothers work for me. What do my footmen have to do with the nature of our current discussion?”
Ethan wondered the same thing. He moved closer to Sydney’s chair.
Catherine reentered the drawing room. “Mother is entertaining Sophie until we’re ready to eat.” She moved to Somerton’s side, twining her arm around his.
Resting his long fingers over Catherine’s, Somerton refocused on Sydney. “Not long ago, an attempt was made to take Sophie from us.”
Sydney’s eyes flared briefly, and Ethan’s insides contracted against the first pang of understanding.
“At a most crucial moment,” Somerton continued, “a stranger in a black-hooded cloak, accompanied by two identical-looking men, intervened and helped us avert the kidnapping.”
“H-how—” Sydney stopped to clear her throat. “How fortuitous, my lord. I am happy to hear the villains were thwarted.”
“We were quite fortunate to have garnered such a friend, though we have not been afforded an opportunity to express our appreciation.”
The moment Ethan had discerned Somerton’s intentions, a knot formed at the base of his stomach and had grown to such a degree that he now found it difficult to breathe. He peered at Helsford to see if his friend was following where Somerton led. The normally unflappable cryptographer was staring at Sydney with wide, disbelieving eyes. Ethan almost felt sorry for the man. After two years, he’d finally come face-to-face with his informant. Specter.
Cora seemed less surprised than her betrothed. Given her line of questioning, she must have suspected there was much more to Sydney and had determined to ferret it out. Well, she had.
Only one question remained now—who would break their silence first?
Twenty-five
Every fine hair on Sydney’s back and arms rose to attention. Lord Somerton knew—or at least strongly suspected—that it was she who had helped them save Sophie. How? How was it possible that he had linked the O’Donnell brothers to the aborted kidnapping? Among other things, the evening sky had been overcast, painting the countryside in an even, thick stroke of impenetrable black.
Then she recalled how the clouds had parted and Somerton and the others had burst upon the volatile scene. Somerton had been in front of the pack, the perfect position to catch a glimpse of the O’Donnells before they slipped from sight.
She couldn’t dispute Somerton’s subtle claim, for Ethan would recognize the lie. Disappointing any of these people was the last thing she wanted to do, but she had no idea how to talk about Specter. A secret she had guarded for so long—and for good reason.
She glanced around the room and found everyone’s gaze on her. They did not try to hide their admiration, and the realization caused an insistent prickle behind her eyes. She was about to break down in front of all these incredibly strong, gifted people whom she admired. Panic set in.
Amelia stood abruptly. “My stomach has taken a turn,” she announced. “I’m sorry, but I fear I must decline your invitation for luncheon.”
Catherine rushed forward. “May we offer you a place to rest or call for a physician?”
Grateful for Amelia’s quick thinking, Sydney rose. “Thank you, Mrs. Ashcroft,” she said in a low, hoarse voice. “You are most kind, but perhaps it is best if I escorted Mrs. Cartwright home.”
“I hate the thought of you being jounced around while struggling with a putrid stomach.”
“Rigby will drive slowly.” Sydney hated the subterfuge, especially since she was certain everyone—even Catherine, though she was new to the Nexus and far more merciful—saw through Amelia’s thin veil of pretense. Sydney hardened her heart against the guilt. Everything was crumbling around her, and she had no notion of how to stop it.
“Of course.” Catherine touched her sleeve, and Sydney caught the sparkle of
tears in the other woman’s eyes. “Please, let us try again. Dinner, perhaps.”
“You are too kind, Mrs. Ashcroft.” Sydney made to leave and came face-to-face with a large male chest. Tilting her head back, she peered into the black, penetrating eyes of Lord Helsford.
“The same stranger who helped rescue Sophie also helped save my betrothed and my closest friend,” Helsford said, protecting her informant status. “As Somerton said, we have a deep and profound wish to thank our cloaked defender. We will forever be in our new friend’s debt.”
Then, to Sydney’s amazement and horror, Lord Helsford lifted her hand to his mouth and gallantly kissed her knuckles. Stepping back, he handed her off to Ethan, who silently guided her from the room. The door closed behind them, and the sob she had been battling to quash broke free.
Ethan’s comforting arms wrapped around her and held tight. “We’ll be there in a moment, Mrs. Cartwright.”
Sydney heard the soft patter of Amelia’s retreating feet and the quiet click of the entry door. Her tears would not stop. Over and over, her mind relived the scene in the drawing room. People she had admired for so long thanking her for the small part she had played in foiling the scheming French. She had done so little, and yet they treated her like a war hero. Like one of them.
“Sydney. Sweet Sydney.” Ethan kissed her forehead. “Please don’t cry.” He kneaded her neck and rubbed gentle circles on her back.
“I’m s-sorry,” she whispered. “What they said,” she sniffed, “I don’t deserve—”
“Shhh. Let me take you away from here. Some place where we may talk in private.”
At that moment, Sydney would have consented to anything. All she wanted was to curl up in a tight ball and hide from the world. If Ethan happened to be holding her at the same time, all the better.
“Yes, please,” she said.
He handed her a handkerchief and gave her a moment to repair some of the damage. Once she nodded her readiness, he whisked her out of the house, to his waiting carriage.
Mac surged forward to stop him, but Amelia stepped into his path. “Let her go.” He made to cut around her, and she boldly placed her hand in the center of his chest. “She will be safe with him, Mac. I swear it.”
Sydney sent her bodyguard a reassuring smile and then a grateful one to Amelia before entering Ethan’s carriage.
“Danforth,” Mac called, his voice low and urgent.
At the door, Ethan slashed a level look at the footman.
“If she rings the bell, you had bloody well better stop.”
Mortification heated Sydney’s cheeks. “Oh, dear God.”
Instead of taking offense to Mac’s demanding tone, Ethan said, “You have my word.” With that, he jumped into the carriage and signaled for his driver to move on. The moment they were under way, he drew her against his chest and pressed his lips to her hair.
“Where are we going?” she asked after several minutes of silence.
“Home.” He tipped his head to the side to look at her face. “Unless you would rather go somewhere else.”
“Home—I mean—your home is fine. As long as my presence won’t scandalize Tanner too badly.”
“Tanner cannot be scandalized. I’ve dedicated years to the task and have finally given up.”
Despite the emotional turmoil battering at her, she smiled at his attempt at levity. “I have no doubt.” She thought back to the exchange in the drawing room. “Why would Latymer attempt to kidnap Melville’s grandson?”
“What is the one and only thing standing in the way of Bonaparte invading England’s shores?”
“The Nexus?”
A slow smile curled his lips, and his arm around her waist tightened, drawing her close. Until then, she hadn’t realized how much she’d needed to be in his arms.
He kissed her temple. “Besides the Nexus.”
With his masculine scent filling her nose, she found it hard to focus on his question. Finally, she ventured, “His Majesty’s Navy.”
He gave her a gentle squeeze. “Precisely.”
“You think taking the child would force the First Lord of the Admiralty to do their bidding?”
“The French did it before. With Lydia Clarke and her son Giles.”
“Dear Lord.”
They said no more, each contemplating the significance of the French scheme. Sydney soon found herself in his study, wrapped in a burgundy throw and tucked in the corner of the sofa. Though tension pulsed inside her every nerve and muscle, his tender care made her feel precious and loved. Not since Philip had she felt this way, and she missed the craving warmth that only a man’s attention could engender.
He settled on the sofa, bare inches away, angling his big body toward her. “Are you certain I can’t offer you some refreshment—tea, biscuits, sandwiches, anything?”
The mere thought of food did nasty things to her stomach. “No, thank you. I’m quite content as I am.”
“No food, no drink.” He studied her face as if he were gazing upon a piece of treasured artwork. “We are left with only two other choices with which to occupy ourselves.”
“Only two?” The query came out far more breathlessly than she had intended.
He nodded. “The most obvious option,” his gaze flicked down to her mouth and lingered there for a heart-stuttering moment, “is a rousing game of chess.”
“Chess?”
“With the right opponent, the game can be quite invigorating.”
The tension gripping her body eased its hold. “Since I have never played the game, the only person who would be invigorated by the experience would be you.”
He grinned. “I do enjoy delivering a sound trouncing from time to time.”
“Somehow that fact does not shock me.”
“If you will not allow me to trounce you in chess,” he covered her hand with his, “we are left with only one other option.”
She had not realized how cold her fingers were until his warm palm penetrated the icy layer. “What might that be?”
“Conversation, of course.”
Conversation. The very last thing she wanted to do, though she knew when she had agreed to escape with him this moment would arrive. Terror, regret, and an odd kind of embarrassment filled her heart. Over the last several years, her life had settled into a comfortable, fulfilling routine. She found good situations for her service clients and dependable staff for her hiring clients. On occasion, she assisted other servants who had been wronged by their employers and left to fend for themselves. She had also provided valuable information to a group of spies charged with safeguarding her country.
What would her life look like after she spewed everything she held precious to this man? For the first time ever, she had no clear vision of the consequences of her actions. And that unwelcome realization paralyzed her tongue and scrambled all logical thought.
After giving her fingers an encouraging squeeze, he placed her hand on his leg and smoothed her fingers flat. Angled toward her as he was, her hand rested on the inside of his thigh, just above the back of his knee. The location was both comforting and highly intimate. Her fingers were no longer cold.
“Shall I go first?” he asked.
“Please do.”
“Complete honesty?”
Sydney glanced down at their clasped hands, at the unspoken promise in their touch. Nodding, she added, “Without judgment or interference?”
Leaning close, he spoke near her ear. “The former I can promise.” He pressed his lips to her cheek and pulled in a long breath. “The interference I cannot.”
She had closed her eyes while he spoke, absorbing his soft baritone like one does a long-anticipated summer breeze. When she finally raised her lids, he was studying her again. This time, his look did not cherish her; it devoured her. No woman, young or old, innocent or well-trod,
could mistake the sensual hunger pulsing off him.
“Ethan?”
“Yes?”
“Can we talk later?” she asked on an unsteady breath. “I should like to hear about number three.”
“Three?” No sooner than he asked the question, the lines on his forehead melted away and a deep, sultry smile appeared. “You wish to hear more rules for the bedchamber?”
“How many Instinct Rules do you have?”
“Enough to keep you occupied for a while.” He flipped the burgundy throw off her legs. “What of your injury?”
She edged forward, bracing her hand against the back of the sofa. Where she got the courage to do and say what she did next, she would never know. But she would come to cherish the memory forever.
Using her free hand, she feathered her fingers up his arm, along his shoulder, and over the folds of his neckcloth until she cupped his strong, square jaw. “There is one way to spare my leg from overexertion.” She caressed his lower lip with the pad of her thumb.
He parted his lips and slowly, carefully drew her thumb inside the warm, moist cavern of his mouth. His tongue played against the soft flesh before sliding away to make way for the raw scrape of his teeth. The shock of the dueling sensations left her reeling for air.
Covering her hand with his, he released her thumb. “Number three: Never, ever sup from your lover’s hand; utensils are infinitely safer.”
Sydney stared at her glistening thumb, aching for something she couldn’t put into words. “And infinitely more boring.”
“Indeed.” His smile faded. “Tell me how to spare your leg.” His voice was rough, no longer playful.
She inhaled a bracing breath. “I know I am much larger than your other women—”
“Stop.” He tilted her chin up. “Never speak of them, because I will never think of them.”
“How is that possible?” she asked. “You’ve known so many.”
“Do you want the honest answer, Sydney?”
“Of course.” Though his fierce expression made her question the veracity of her reply.
“I stopped thinking of them the moment I left their bed.”
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