Highlander's Hope

by Cameron, Collette

  Rothingham rose and stretched. He faced Fielding. “What say you and I make our way to Whites?”

  Fielding nodded, then with a terse nod to Yancy and Ewan, followed Rothingham from the room.

  “What’s so pressing, Sethwick, you couldn’t share it with the others?”

  Ewan shrugged. “Not so pressing, but I’m afraid if Fielding opened his mouth again, I’d plant him a facer. By-the-by, a man matching Marquardt’s description was in the Nag’s Head.”

  Sending him a piercing look, Yancy said, “You’re certain?”

  “Aye, beyond a doubt. One of Marquardt’s lackeys, Belvidere, followed Miss Stapleton. Chased her to be precise. I rescued her off the docks.”

  Yancy closed his eyes and shook his head. “The devil take it.”

  Ewan studied him. Yancy knew something. Something, by the haggard look on his face, he was reluctant to share.

  “Sethwick?”

  Rising, Yancy walked to the multi-paned window dominating the wall behind his desk. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said Prinny was livid. He raged, ‘You couldn’t see a snake beneath your nose, Mr. War Secretary!’”

  Sagging against the sash, Yancy stared out the window. “That’s what gave me the idea.”

  He spoke so quietly, Ewan had to strain to hear.

  Yancy swung his jungle gaze around to meet Ewan’s. “I suspect we’ve hunted too far abroad for our spymaster. This last death is too coincidental.”

  The urgent message his stare conveyed caused Ewan to suck in a great gulp of air.

  “Merde!”

  Plopping into a chair opposite Yancy’s desk, Ewan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He furrowed his forehead in worry. “You mean one of us? One of the elite corps— not just a War Office agent?”

  Yancy responded with a curt inclination of his head as he returned to his chair.

  Ewan struggled to control his anger, though he was sure Yancy could see the outrage simmering in his eyes. He could feel it strumming through his veins.

  “The devil you say? It stands to reason, though. That’s why our ringleader has always been one step ahead—how he’s continued to elude us. Why our agents and informants have gone missing. Because, the damn fools trusted him.” Ewan slammed his fist into his palm.

  Yancy nodded his head. “As have we all.” He reclined in his chair and closed his eyes.

  Ewan rose and began pacing the length of the War Office.

  After several moments, Yancy murmured tiredly, “Do stop pacing. You’re wearing a path in my expensive Persian carpet.”

  Ewan waved his hand dismissively. His steps slowed. Facing his friend, he didn’t mince words. “This,” he spread his hands, “stays between us. I don’t need to tell you how dangerous this could be if you’re proven right. If ‘tis one of us, he has access to the same information we do.”

  Hands fisted, Ewan closed his eyes. “We’re all targets. Even the Regent.”

  “Do your suspicions include Clarendon?”

  Exhaling slowly, Ewan opened his eyes and shook his head up and down. “For now, I think we must. Clarendon knows his brother is a spy, and he’s done much to help us. Still—”

  He sat opposite Yancy again. “It could have been a ruse to keep us off his scent. Every member of the corps has access to the War Office. Until we can eliminate any of us as suspects, we must be careful. We don’t know who may be involved.”

  “‘Tis possible, we’re dealing with a powerful government official, Ewan.”

  “Aye,” Ewan rubbed his bruised jaw, “or a peer.” He stood, straightening his jacket. “How could I have been so blind?”

  “You, no more than the rest of us.”

  Ewan eyed Yancy relaxing with his eyes closed against his chair. When was the last time he’d slept?

  “You know, Yancy, Prinny’s to blame really. He’s the one who insisted we bring the others on board. What was it he said?” Ewan scrunched his brow. “Ah, I remember. ‘We must utilize the talents of all during wartime.’”

  Yancy cracked open one eye. “I know, but I don’t dare tell him that. Before the war, when it was the four of us—

  Warrick, Harcourt, you and I—there was no question of a traitor in our midst.”

  “Dammit, we should have brought Marquardt in when we had the chance.” Ewan ran a hand through his hair, then spread his hands wide apart. “Now, when Prinny’s agreed we can arrest him, Marquardt’s nowhere to be found.”

  Ewan couldn’t contain his frustration. Marquardt had been within his grasp more than once, and each time, he’d been forced to let the cur slip away.

  “I agree, but again, Prinny wanted the spymaster. It’s a pride thing with him you know.” Yancy arched his brows in mockery. “He can’t stand the thought that someone outsmarted him. In any event, his refusal to let us arrest Marquardt has cost us eight good men.”

  Ewan shook his head in disgust. “I thought to have ousted our spy by now. I’m a fool for not considering it might be someone in the corps.”

  “Nobody has the ability to unearth a war criminal any better than you. You brought in dozens during the war.”

  “Yes, and blister it, one blasted man continues to elude me.”

  Stretching his arms overhead, Ewan heaved a hefty sigh, then relaxed against his chair, resting both hands on the arms. “I had another purpose for calling. I shall be out of Town for several days, perhaps a fortnight or more.”

  He chuckled softly. “Warrick had an unfortunate encounter with his new stallion which has made riding impossible. He asked me to escort Miss Stapleton to Somersfield in his stead.”

  Yancy’s lips curved into a rakish smile. “An assignment, I assume you’re not distressed to be burdened with? You’re social life has been rather restricted due to the Regent’s constant demands.”

  “Most assuredly, my old friend, it will not be a burden. As for my social life, you know I prefer the company of the highlanders over that of the Haute Ton.”

  “Indeed.” Yancy yawned behind his hand. “What of Marquardt?”

  Yes, what of Marquardt? Someone had given him the documents he’d smuggled to the French. Until the man was caught, Yancy wasn’t about to accept Ewan’s resignation. The Regent wouldn’t allow it, and as long as Ewan remained tied to the War Office, he wouldn’t be free to marry. None of the specialized agents were married. Prinny claimed it would be a distraction and forbid it.

  Ewan scowled. This from a man whose hedonistic activities left him minimal time to rule effectively.

  “I say, Ewan, did you hear me?”

  Ewan nodded. “I’ll not use Miss Stapleton as an enticement, if that’s what you’re asking.” Not if he could help it, leastways. The option existed though.

  Yancy’s face darkened. “You insult me.”

  Ewan frowned, and cupped the nape of his neck with one hand. “Aye, my friend, and I do apologize. I meant no offense.” He extended his hand, which Yancy immediately grasped.

  No indeed, reflected Ewan as he stepped onto the bustling Horse Guards Avenue and put on his hat. A week in Miss Stapleton’s company would not be a burden. In fact, he quite looked forward to it. His agent in Boston, as well as Warrick and Vangie, had kept him abreast of her goings on. Ewan felt he knew her, he’d heard so much about her.

  She’d been cavorting about in his mind for two years. It would be most interesting to see how the flesh and blood woman compared to what he’d been told of her.

  At any rate, he was sick of the War Office and everything it represented. A break from intelligence work was overdue, as was a visit to Scotland. He hadn’t seen his family in five months—hadn’t played the bagpipes in that time either.

  He grinned. His keep overflowed with kin. Three younger sisters and a brother, cousins,
two uncles, an aunt, his mother and stepfather, and a passel of dogs.

  Yes, a visit home was in order.

  It was time he took his dual seats. One on the Dais at Craiglocky Keep, and the other in the House of Lords, though truthfully, he much preferred the Highlands over parliament.

  Mayhap it was also time to pursue other areas of interest. Namely a golden-haired, sapphire-eyed, freckle nosed, ungraceful heiress.

  He shook his head. Stop it, old chap. Duty first. He daren’t think along those lines until the traitor was caught. That effort might cost him his life.

  Besides, Miss Stapleton was the last woman he should be thinking of in those terms. His fascination with her didn’t trump his need to exploit her connection to Marquardt. Though loath to admit it to Yancy, Ewan had nearly exhausted his other options.

  Chapter 4

  Yvette rested her head against the worn, cracked hackney seat. The stale air trapped inside the vehicle was intolerable. She tried taking small breaths but only succeeded in becoming light-headed. Or mayhap, her faintness was due to hunger.

  Her last meal had been supper last eve, and it was late afternoon now. Her stomach rumbled in protest. The light biscuits and tea Mr. Dehring had provided did little to curb the gnawing in her belly.

  Mr. Dehring had assured her he’d have funds available for her tomorrow. He’d paid for this hackney and loaned her a few crowns to hold her over until then. The inn she was staying at was paid for in advance, thank goodness.

  Yvette had been most careful to keep her travel plans a secret after Edgar’s first abduction attempt. True, he knew she was planning on returning to England, but he didn’t know where she intended to reside, or precisely when she was sailing.

  A great deal of monies had exchanged hands to keep that information confidential. Yvette had purchased every available passage on ships sailing for England in April just to ensure Edgar was unable to acquire a ticket and wouldn’t know which ship she sailed on.

  She knew the minute word was out she’d sailed, the other captains would pad their pockets by collecting a second passage, so Fairchild had contrived a plan to make it appear she was still within the mansion hoping to keep Edgar off her trail for a few days. They would follow her to England when the wounded staff had recovered.

  Instead of opening up the manor in Berkley Square, where Edgar was sure to seek her out, Yvette had written Vangie and asked her to make lodging arrangements at an inn for her and Pippa until Ian arrived to escort them to Somersfield. Given the unpredictability of traveling by ship, Yvette had prudently asked that a room be reserved from the middle of June to the middle of July.

  She frowned. Drat. Pippa’s absence complicated matters. It was most improper for Yvette to stay at the inn without a female companion. But what else was she to do?

  Vangie and Ian knew about Edgar’s first attack on her. They’d no idea of the second. There had been no time to get word to them about the assault or that Pippa had remained behind in Boston. Yvette fiddled with the hackney window in a futile attempt to open it. It seemed to be sealed shut.

  Even without her maid, it was still far safer for her, as well as her staff, if she stayed at the inn.

  Her last letter from Vangie had said Ian would travel to Town toward the end of June. Mr. Dehring had already dispatched a messenger to Somersfield in the event Ian hadn’t, as yet, left for London.

  Yvette wiped drops of perspiration off her forehead with her handkerchief. She had never been this hungry, sweaty, and tired in her whole life. Stifling a yawn, she fanned her flushed face with her ungloved hand. In her haste to leave Boston, she’d not packed a fan, an oversight she now dearly regretted. She closed her eyes feeling the twinge of a headache. A hearty meal, other than ship’s fair, and a lengthy soak in a tub would be wonderful.

  “Tonight, I shall have a room to myself,” she declared aloud. “No snoring or wheezing. No listening to Mrs. Pettigrove babble on in her sleep about her husband’s bedroom skills.”

  Last week, Yvette awoke to moaning and feared the matron was ill. Until Mrs. Pettigrove had groaned, “Willard, oh, yes, yes, you’re such a stallion.”

  Inside the scorching cab, Yvette’s face reddened even further. She might be naive but she had a strong notion what Mrs. Pettigrove was carrying-on about.

  She waved her hand even faster.

  The hired cab slowed and lurched to a bumpy stop. The lanky driver jumped from the box and opened the door. She stuffed her gloves and handkerchief into her reticule, then hopped from the hackney.

  “Thank you.” Accepting her valise, she smiled and passed him a crown.

  Toting her bulging satchel, Yvette climbed the time-worn steps to the inn’s entrance, and shoved open the heavy door. The inside of the foyer appeared quite dark after the bright sunlight outdoors. She blinked several times before her eyes adjusted to the dimmer interior. There was a busy common room to the right, and what appeared to be private dining compartments to the left of a narrow corridor leading to a stairway at the rear of the building.

  “May I help you?” A woman spoke behind Yvette.

  Swinging her gaze from the hallway, she saw an attractive middle-aged woman with a spotless apron tied at her waist. The woman offered a kind smile in greeting.

  Yvette smiled in return. “Yes, please. I’m Yvette Stapleton. A room’s been arranged for me.”

  The woman’s face beamed brighter. “Oh yes, Miss Stapleton. We wondered how soon you’d be arriving. We expected you when the Peaceful Wind docked two days ago.”

  Yvette stood rooted in astonishment. Sweet Lord above.

  She was supposed to have sailed on the Peaceful Wind, but after Edgar’s second attack, she’d fled Boston in the middle of the night aboard the Atlantic Star with only an overstuffed satchel and the clothes she was wearing. The ship had encountered a storm at sea, and although the gale hadn’t been overly fierce, the squall combined with a persistent headwind had extended the voyage nearly a week.

  Why hadn’t it occurred to her that the Peaceful Wind, scheduled to sail a week later, might arrive in port before the Atlantic Star?

  Thank God, her travel arrangements had been kept secret. Only Fairchild and Pippa knew where she was staying. But then again, tomorrow it might be wise to seek lodging elsewhere. She shifted her valise, feeling the comforting weight of her gun within.

  She’d consult Mr. Dehring first thing in the morning and ask for his advice. He was already alerting the authorities about Edgar, though since his abduction attempts had taken place in America, there wasn’t much to be done in England in the way of punishment.

  Yvette inhaled a deep, calming breath. Schooling her face, she approached the desk with hesitant steps. “The Peaceful Wind made port two days ago?”

  “Why yes. Your trunks arrived yesterday. Myles put them in your room.” She added, “I’m Abigail Quimby. My husband, Myles, and I own the Banbury.”

  Yvette fought waves of panic. What if Edgar had sailed aboard the Peaceful Wind? There’d been no passages available on the ship, but Edgar was devious and resourceful. When he didn’t find her at the Berkley Street manor, he was sure to start making inquiries.

  Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. Forcing an expression of calmness onto her face, she prayed her alarm didn’t carry to her voice. “Has anyone inquired about my arrival?”

  Glancing up from the ledger, Mrs. Quimby responded, “Why no, other than the seaman whom delivered your trunks. Should we expect someone else? Your companion perhaps?”

  The question hung in the air awkwardly, until Yvette remembered Vangie had arranged for both she and Pippa to stay at the inn.

  “Circumstances required me to sail on another ship, and unfortunately, my lady’s maid wasn’t able to accompany me. I arrived in port this morning. She must have arranged for my trunks to be shipped
on the Peaceful Wind after I left.”

  Mrs. Quimby continued to stare at her. Yvette’s mind raced. What had she forgotten? “I am expecting my cousin’s husband, Viscount Warrick, however. He’ll be my escort.”

  That seemed to satisfy her. Mrs. Quimby nodded. “Yes, her ladyship’s letter requesting your accommodations said he would be meeting you.”

  “Did Lady Warrick say when Lord Warrick would be arriving?” Would she have to wait long for Ian’s arrival? The notion was disturbing, given Edgar might be lurking about already.

  At least she had her pistol and dagger. Papa had insisted she and Vangie be trained in weaponry, though Yvette’s skills weren’t what they once were. Truth to tell, Vangie’s talent with a blade—and her gift for healing—were the result of time spent with her Romani family and not Papa’s instruction.

  “No,” said Mrs. Quimby, “only that he’d be here near the end of the month.”

  Her gaze swept Yvette’s valise. “You sailed on a different ship? Have you other baggage with you then?”

  “No. Only my . . .”

  “Miss Stapleton!”

  The piercing voice of Mrs. Pettigrove raked across Yvette’s already brittle nerves. Slowly she swiveled halfway around, blinking in disbelief. Mrs. Pettigrove materialized from the common room, huffing and puffing as she trundled her way to her side.

  “My dear, Miss Stapleton, imagine my surprise at seeing you again so soon.”

  Yvette’s dazed mind balked, refusing to comprehend what her eyes were seeing. She’s here? Was this some kind of cruel joke, Lord? Why was she scowling at Mrs. Quimby?

  “I’m afraid you’ll find yourself inconvenienced if you think to acquire a room at this establishment.” Mrs. Pettigrove raised her hooked nose into the air, her chins jiggling with the emphatic statement.