Regency 01 - The Schoolmistress and the Spy

by Julia Byrne

  “What happened after your father died?”

  “All sorts of people descended on me. I paid what he owed to the traders and merchants, of course. Why should they lose because Papa was improvident? But I didn’t care about the gaming debts. If anyone turned up at the door demanding payment without a signed IOU, I told them Papa hadn’t left anything.”

  “I’m sorry, Emily,” he said, putting his hand over hers.

  She immediately snatched it away. “Now you know. You can go downstairs, pack your things, and leave.”

  “That isn’t going to happen. Apart from the fact that I don’t intend to leave you, I still have a job to finish.”

  “Job?” She stared at him. “You seriously expect me to believe that someone I know is blackmailing people? Its more likely you came here to rob the place, or that you’re in league with one of those men I dismissed—” She stopped on an indrawn breath as acknowledgement flickered in his eyes. “That’s it,” she whispered, and almost cried out when the icy fist tightened its grip on her heart.

  “I paid the last fellow to create a few mishaps before he left so you’d be forced to hire me,” he admitted coolly. Then with sudden urgency, “Emily, I needed to get into your school at all costs. My contact at Whitehall, Gibbs, is convinced it’s you who’s blackmailing people.”

  Her brain reeled. Whitehall? The Government had sent Lucas to spy on her because someone called Gibbs thought she was blackmailing people?

  “Well—” She made her voice as hard as possible. “Who can blame him? After all, I spent years robbing my own father. What’s a spot of blackmail?”

  “Gibbs doesn’t know what you had to do to protect yourself,” Lucas bit out. “Just calm down, damn it, and listen to me.”

  “Again, I have no choice.” Emily wrapped her arms around herself and gave Lucas a stony stare. At least, she hoped it was stony. She was very much afraid the hurt deep inside her would soon be impossible to hide. “Go on. Tell me your reasons for sabotaging my school and spying on me.”

  Luke winced as her words struck home. Emily had every right to be furious. He had done nothing less than what she was charging. He just hoped she would hear him out before throwing him out. Not that he intended to go further than the kitchen, but he didn’t want to drive her so far from him that the hole he’d dug closed over his head.

  He eyed her defiant expression and his heart ached. The truth was going to hurt her, but she had to know everything.

  “You’ll better understand what happened if I go back to the beginning,” he said. “This all started with a man called Fouché.”

  That startled her out of her defiance. “Napoleon’s chief of police?”

  Luke frowned. “You know him?”

  “Papa mentioned him once when we were living in France after Napoleon was deposed. He said Fouché changed sides so many times, it was a wonder he knew who he was working for from one day to the next.”

  “True enough,” he said grimly. “When Louis was put back on the throne, Fouché was passing himself off as a Royalist. However, during his time as Napoleon’s chief of police he compiled dossiers on people regardless of their sympathies. He used that information to force them to become his agents, by threatening them with exposure or death.”

  “He threatened to kill people if they refused to work for him.” She sounded skeptical in the extreme.

  Luke gritted his teeth. “The information in Fouché’s possession was so damning that most complied, even if it meant spying on family or friends.”

  “What could be so damning that they would betray those closest to them?”

  “Misappropriation of public funds, murder, vices of such deviance that, if exposed, the person would be expelled from Society and their families ruined. Just to name a few,” he added, holding her disbelieving gaze.

  She drew in a sharp breath. “I see.”

  “As you can imagine, Whitehall kept a close eye on Fouché. A couple of years ago, one of our agents was watching his private rooms when he saw one of Fouché’s spies come out, tucking some papers into his coat. He followed the man back to his rooms and questioned him. It turned out the French agent had found and copied some of the more damaging files, either to use himself or because he didn’t trust Fouché and wanted insurance. During the interrogation there was a fight. Our fellow killed the Frenchman, but not before he, himself, was fatally wounded. All he could think of was to get to his nearest contact before he died, so the files could be passed to Whitehall in case they wanted them.”

  Luke moved closer to Emily and drew her arms away from her body so he could take her hands in his. “Emily, that contact was your father,” he said as gently as possible.

  She pulled her hands away. “My father was an army officer. Are you saying he was a spy as well?”

  “No. Years earlier, he’d been part of an underground network that got émigrés out of France. Quite a different thing, but during that time he made a lot of contacts. He was an army officer—so was I until a few weeks ago—but one can be seconded at various times to more covert duties.”

  She turned her face away. “Yes, that sounds like him. Like both of you,” she added sadly.

  “That’s not me any more,” he grated.

  “So, my father had the files.” She looked back at him. “I suppose you think he started blackmailing people. And then what? I decided to carry on the family business?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth,” he snapped. “I’ve known you were innocent almost from the start.”

  “Oh, really? Why?”

  “We’ll go into that later. As for your father, he contacted another agent who got a message to London. Given the explosive information in the files, Whitehall didn’t want to touch them and told your father to destroy them.”

  “Which he would have done!” Emily exclaimed. “He might have been a drunkard and a gamester, but he would never have blackmailed people.”

  “All right,” Luke said carefully. “A few weeks after Louis was back on his throne, a couple of wealthy émigrés who’d returned to France with the King received notes demanding money. If they didn’t pay up their old crimes would be exposed. It didn’t stop there. Royalists who had secretly supported Bonaparte were also threatened with exposure. Louis was trying to restore the royal exchequer. Those people would have been heavily fined if their true sympathies were made known. The blackmailer was clever enough to ask for sums that would be less expensive than a likely fine.”

  “What does that prove?”

  “Nothing on its own, but you and your father were living in Paris at the time.”

  “So were a lot of English people. Half of Polite Society flocked to Paris. Besides, Papa was ill by then. Well—” She raised her head, as though pride made her scorn the polite euphemism. “To be perfectly honest, he was drinking himself to death. He wasn’t even gambling as much. I suppose you think that’s because he’d found another source of income, but there were no files among his papers like the ones you’re describing. He must have destroyed them.”

  “That’s what Whitehall thought, too. No one even knew about the earlier threats until the blackmail notes came to Gibbs’s attention. But a few weeks ago, when Napoleon landed in France and several émigrés fled back to England, the notes started again. At least three or four people have received threatening demands for money.”

  “How did Mr. Gibbs discover that?”

  Luke let himself relax for the first time since Emily had woken. Her question was grudging, but at least she’d asked it. At least she was listening.

  “One of the victims is friendly with a bigwig at Whitehall. He went to him with the note and begged for help.”

  “I take it his crime wasn’t so dreadful that the friend at Whitehall refused,” she said tartly.

  “Let’s just say they have unusual tastes in common,” Luke muttered. “However, this particular fellow was threatened in France last year and paid up. Not only did he recognize the style of the note, the con
tents made it clear the information is from Fouché’s files.”

  “Then it’s probably Fouché who is the blackmailer. Or another of his agents.”

  “Emily, those files were so secret the French spy only stumbled on them while he was searching Fouché’s residence, not his office. Clearly, Fouché’s spy had turned against him. As for Fouché, himself, he’s in Paris, having been reinstated as Napoleon’s chief of police. He doesn’t need to blackmail anyone. Even if he did, why go to the trouble of targeting people in England when he has scores of potential victims closer to hand in France?”

  She just stared at him, her eyes huge in her pale face.

  “The only other people to see those files,” he continued, “were the French spy, our agent, and your father, and they’re all dead.”

  “So naturally you thought it had to be me.”

  “No,” Luke said with deliberate patience. “Gibbs thought it had to be you. Look at it from his viewpoint. Your father was the last person in possession of those papers. You and he were in France when the first threats were made. Here you are in England, having inherited your father’s effects, and the threats have started again. And instead of accepting your grandparents’ offer of a home and a London Season—which any other girl in your position would do—you bought this house and turned it into a school, all without apparent means of support.”

  “I told you how I managed that.”

  “I believe you. So will Gibbs, once it’s explained to him. But that still leaves the question of who is blackmailing people.”

  She looked startled, as if she’d been so focused on the accusations against her father and herself, that she’d forgotten a blackmailer was out there. Then she went very still.

  “That’s why you asked all those questions,” she said softly. “About the school, about my grandparents…” An unsteady breath shuddered through her. “They were just part of the job, weren’t they.”

  “I already knew most of the facts about your past,” he said. “I asked those questions because I wanted to know about you, about how you felt, what you thought, what makes you happy, or sad.”

  Emily turned her face away, afraid she wouldn’t be able to stop the tears stinging her eyes. Anger was starting to disintegrate under a torrent of pain. “You didn’t have to take it so far,” she whispered. “You didn’t have to pretend…yesterday.”

  “Emily, look at me.”

  “But I suppose any assumptions I made are my own fault,” she continued, gripping her hands together.

  “What assumptions?”

  “I foolishly thought that you really wanted…that you felt…” She gestured slightly, she simply couldn’t go on. “It doesn’t matter. I was wrong.”

  “You weren’t wrong, damn it! If a quick tumble on this bed was all I’d wanted yesterday, I could have had it.”

  She flinched at the brutal statement, but lifted her chin. “Yes.”

  “Emily, you know I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Yesterday I didn’t make love to you fully because you don’t know everything about me. You don’t even know my full name.”

  “Even your name is false?” A wave of anger came to her rescue. She turned blazing eyes on him. “Was anything you told me the truth?”

  His hand fisted on the bedspread. “Lucas is my name, my first name. I’m Luke Bannister. I was an officer in the 95th Foot, but I was also one of Wellington’s agents. Sometimes that entailed taking on other employment.”

  “Which involved telling a lot of lies.”

  “If it saved men’s lives, yes, and I’d do it again. But, Emily, I’ve never lied to you. I may not have told you the whole truth, but—”

  “It sounds as if your whole life is a lie,” she cried. “How can I believe anything you say now?”

  “You can,” he said. “I promise you. That’s a line I never cross. It may be a fine one at times, but it’s there. If I make a promise I keep it. I swear I will never lie to you. Nor will I keep any part of the truth from you again.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe that?” she asked wearily. Anger drained away as swiftly as it had risen. She slumped back against the pillows, feeling cold and empty.

  He reached out and wrapped his hands around her arms, startling her into looking up at him. The expression in his eyes stunned her. Anger, fierce but controlled, a hard, relentless will, and behind both, the shadows she had seen before, seething, darkening the gold in his eyes until, shaken, she had to look away.

  “I’m desperate for you to believe it,” he said, his voice suddenly ragged. “Emily, why do you think I’m still here? My orders were to find evidence of blackmail and leave. But I’m not leaving you at all, let alone to a pack of bungling Whitehall bureaucrats. Gibbs has them on a short leash for now, but God knows how long that will last.”

  “What?” She shook her head, let it fall forward, scarcely noticing that her brow came to rest on Lucas’s shoulder. This whole situation was some sort of nightmare. And Lucas was at the center of it.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he murmured.

  She felt him move closer so he could put his arms around her, and stiffened in resistance. “Please let me go,” she said very quietly.

  He hesitated, then released her and stood up. As he did so the muted clatter of china came from somewhere near the servants’ stairs. The maids were bringing up the hot water jugs.

  “Damn it.” Lucas glanced toward the door. “People are beginning to stir.”

  “Tibby and Charlotte will be taking the girls to church,” she said tonelessly. “It’s Sunday.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “I’d better get out of here before someone comes in to ask how you are. I’ll be back later to carry you downstairs. We can talk then.”

  When she just stared at him, he added, “There’s still a blackmailer to uncover, and those papers must be found and destroyed.”

  Emily didn’t answer. Her gaze fell to her hands, still gripped tightly together in her lap. She didn’t look up again until she heard the door close quietly behind Lucas. Then she bent forward and covered her face with her hands. She thought she might cry, but the tears that had threatened only a moment ago didn’t come. Instead, she felt frozen, numb. Even her nerves were still, as though joyful anticipation had been brutally shattered and now lay in motionless shards at her feet.

  Perhaps that was what happened when you discovered that you loved a man, just as he threatened to tear apart the world you were trying to create for yourself.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Miss Tibberton knocked on the door and peeped around the edge a mere five minutes after Lucas left.

  “Good morning, Emily,” she said, tripping into the room. “How do you feel? Charlotte has been telling me you called in Dr. McAllister last night.”

  Emily dredged up a smile. “Good morning, Tibby. I’m much better, thank you.”

  “Hmm. I don’t think so.” Tibby cast a shrewd eye over her. “Is your knee troubling you?”

  “No.” Emily contemplated her former governess for a moment. Tibby had been like a mother to her in the early years. It was Tibby who had gently explained the changes in her body as she’d matured. Tibby who had helped her hide money away, who had dried her tears when she’d finally accepted that the relationship she’d hoped for with her father was never going to happen.

  “Oh, Tibby,” she said, holding out a hand. “I’ve done the stupidest thing.”

  “I can’t believe that, dear.” Tibby sat down on the bed and took Emily’s hand in hers. “What is the problem?”

  “I’m very much afraid that I’ve fallen in love with Lucas.”

  Tibby smiled. “I would hardly call that stupid, Emily. Lucas is a very compelling man.”

  Emily blinked at her.

  “I may be past fifty,” Tibby informed her, “but I’m not blind.”

  “Well, of course not, Tibby.” Emily surprised herself with a laugh. It was a small, rather wobbly laugh, but it jolted her out of he
r misery. It was no use sitting here feeling sorry for herself. If Lucas intended to turn her school upside down in his search for a blackmailer, he could do it at her direction.

  “Does Lucas return your feelings?” Tibby asked.

  “I doubt it. Why should he?”

  “Well—” Tibby pursed her lips in thought. “During this past week I’ve sometimes suspected he harbors some of the softer emotions for you.”

  “That sounds very romantic, Tibby, but I regret to say that Lucas is not exactly what he seems.”

  “Oh, I know that, dear,” Tibby said placidly.

  Emily’s jaw unhinged.

  “Lucas bears a very close resemblance to a family I met many years ago,” Tibby explained. “When I visited my uncle and aunt in Dorset.”

  “Good heavens! Which family?”

  “Why, the Bannisters, dear. Quite a large clan. If I’m correct, Lucas has several cousins. The two nearest him in age are the Earl of Danebridge and Viscount Rotherham.”

  Emily fell back against her pillows. “An earl and a viscount?”

  “We attended some sort of garden party and I remember being struck by the likeness between the boys, as they were then, of course.”

  “Of course,” Emily echoed faintly.

  “Perhaps Lucas saw you during the fortnight we spent with your grandparents, before we came here, and he fell in love with you, but someone told him about your aversion to Polite Society, and there he is with an earl and a viscount in the family. What else could he do but come here under false pretences? No doubt he will tell you the truth sooner or later. I mean, he will have to, won’t he, or he won’t be able to continue his courtship?”

  Emily felt her eyes open wider and wider as this improbable flight of imagination unfolded. When it stopped, she shook her head and fixed her former preceptress with a disapproving frown. “Tibby, are you sure you didn’t sneak off to the theater while we were in London, and watch one of those dreadfully melodramatic plays?”