by Gaelen Foley
“Why?” he demanded. “What are you going to do?”
Green’s eyes glinted. “I am going to have them arrested the moment they set foot on English soil.”
“For what?”
“Seventy counts of murder. I don’t want to do it, of course, take our heroes into custody,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s the only way we shall be able to satisfy the ire of all these foreign powers. At least your fellow peers will receive the sort of trial they never gave their victims.”
“Victims?” he exclaimed, then he checked himself, striving for patience. “So that’s what you imagine for them. A trial in the House of Lords?”
“Justice demands it.”
“Your pride is what demands it, Mr. Green—no, I will speak!” he shouted when another panel member tried to tell him to sit down. “Public humiliation? Then you don’t know these men! They’d rather die than be dishonored!”
“Oh, I imagine they’ll do both, Lord Beauchamp. Our good English rope is strong enough for noblemen’s nooses as well as commoners’. The only question is, are you going to join them on the gallows?”
“Don’t your kind prefer the guillotine?” he shot back, but Green merely smiled.
“Trust me, we are going to get to the bottom of this, Lord Beauchamp. In the meanwhile, don’t do anything foolish, please. You have cooperated to my satisfaction so far, but if you try to warn your ‘brothers’ of our plans, I promise you will share their fate.” His threat delivered, Green dismissed the panel and marched out of the chamber.
Bloody little martinet.
Beau was trembling with rage. He angrily tugged at his cravat, feeling strangled. If only Virgil were alive to tell him what to do. Surely, the Order’s greatest victory could not come at such a cost. They had always been willing to give their lives, but to be cast as the villains in this final hour was a profound betrayal by the country they had given their all to defend.
As he walked outside, still in a daze, Beau vowed he would not let that happen. Drake and the others had just defeated the last of the Prometheans; now it was up to him to save them. But how?
Think. He felt like the walls were closing in. What would Virgil do? Hat in hand, he leaned his back against the building and stared up at the blue sky far beyond the towers of Westminster, trying to tell himself he was not terrified or completely overwhelmed.
Finally, his pulse began to slow to normal. He strove to clear his mind. Obviously, he had to get a message to Max, warn him not to come back to England yet with his team.
Provided any of them was still alive.
Unfortunately, because of the investigation, Green already knew about most of the communication channels the Order agents used. But, the more he thought on it, he supposed it would not be too great a problem to send a courier to Madame Angelique.
She could put a few scouts along the French coast to watch for Max and his men and give them the message.
Of course, it might already be too late. If that fire in the Alpine cave had happened a few weeks ago, then they’d be reaching the coast any moment now, and from there, it was not a long journey back to England.
He could station men to watch for the returning agents on British shores, as well, even at the various London docks. But Green, no doubt, had also done that. It would simply be a race to warn his brother warriors to stay away until this was resolved, lest Green have them arrested.
His mind still churning, his mood gone dark, Beau was craving Carissa’s presence as he arrived home. He was damned tired, having had almost no sleep last night because of the conditions of their journey. Awful roads and a tossing sea had made sleep elusive, and upon arriving home, instead of resting, he had had to go dashing off to sit through the interrogation.
Now he had visions of his wife sleeping in their bed, catching up on her rest, as well. He couldn’t wait to take off his clothes and join her. Nothing was better than feeling her warm, soft body beside him . . . and if more than sleeping happened, he was perfectly happy to go along with that. Just the sight of her tender smile cheered him. Her soft, steadying touch brought wordless comfort after all that aggravation. The way she looked at him made him feel like he could conquer any challenge. Hell, was it so wrong for a man to have an occasional need for his wife’s affection and support?
He walked in the door, closed it quietly behind him, expecting that the lady of the house was sleeping.
“Lady Beauchamp is upstairs?” he mumbled at his butler as soon as he walked into the entrance hall.
“No, milord. Her Ladyship has gone out,” Vickers replied.
“Out?” he echoed, taken aback. “What do you mean, out?” This was not the answer he wished to hear.
Had he not specifically told her to stay safely inside the house because of the threat from Nick? “Where did she go?”
Before his man could answer, the tinkling chimes of the musical automaton clock went off. Beau gritted his teeth. The dainty tune grated on him at the moment.
“Madam left her itinerary in case you wanted to join her, milord.”
“Itinerary?” he murmured, snatching the note out of Vickers’s hand in annoyance. As his gaze trailed over her note, he could not believe his eyes.
It was a list of art galleries she had apparently gone to visit. In outright defiance of his stated orders.
Damn her, she must have gone snooping for information about that blasted artist!
Why that . . . nosy little baggage! He was outraged. How dare she so flagrantly ignore her lord and husband’s simplest request?
With the latest developments from the panel, the last thing he needed right now was his little gossip of a wife out there sticking her nose in again where it didn’t belong, stirring up trouble, asking suspicious questions around Town. The Order already had enough trouble. It did not need the lady of information complicating things further.
Damn it, this was his fault. He should have taken her in hand well before this. In growing fury, his thoughts returned immediately to her wedding-night deception.
He had given her a fortnight now to come forward, he had been nothing but kind to her in the meanwhile, and she still had not owned up to anything. He saw he had made a mistake. He should have confronted her right away, the next morning, for she clearly thought she had got away with her game. Well, he had allowed this, and now he was paying the price. She must see him as a fool.
If she could so blithely flout his specific instructions, then it was obvious his gentleness and patience with her had been interpreted as weakness.
A mistake he would immediately correct.
Beau glanced at the first place on the list, and with a growl under his breath, stalked out the door.
It was time to bring his good lady wife to heel.
Chapter 19
Carissa was tired, too, but she did not allow herself the luxury of sleep. If Beau had to suffer, she’d suffer with him. She vowed he would not go through this alone.
Still, either fatigue or all these spy intrigues must be getting to her, she thought as she walked through the art gallery, for she could have sworn she was being followed.
Surely it was just her weary mind or imagination playing tricks on her. After all, Beau was right—she wasn’t an agent, she was just a neophyte, jumpy with the quest she had undertaken.
Nevertheless, she was determined to help him. She might be just a gossip, but she knew how to collect information on someone, what sorts of questions to ask—and how to ask them without being too obvious.
Presently, she was working her feminine wiles on the curator of the third art gallery she had visited so far today, while Beau was detained, being grilled and berated once again by the panel. Poor darling. She saw no reason why she should not get started in the meanwhile since there was no time to lose if they were going to figure out who had hired Nick and hopefully stop him from shooting whoever he’d come to London to kill.
Of course, she realized that Beau might be a little cross at first when she to
ld him how she had spent her day. But in the end, she was sure he’d appreciate her efforts—although, to be truthful, her quest hadn’t yielded much in the way of answers yet.
No matter. She was not going home empty-handed. She had to find something about the artist Madame Angelique had described. It was the perfect way to prove her mettle to her husband, for she was determined to make her oh-so-capable spy husband take her as seriously as he did Madame Angelique.
Indeed, she had settled into the decision that she didn’t just want his affection, she wanted his respect.
Oddly enough, her conscience was not satisfied with this.
How can you demand his respect when you haven’t really earned it? You haven’t even told him the truth!
But I will, she insisted. I’ll tell him everything, just as soon as I’m sure it won’t destroy our marriage.
Not telling him the truth is what could destroy your marriage, you henwit, it berated her.
But I can’t take that chance. I can’t bear to lose him. Then she shook her head, trying to brush off her misgivings. I must be as mad as half these artists, talking to myself.
The most uncomfortable feeling of all was her suspicion that it was not Beau’s respect she was truly after but her own.
There could be something to that, she admitted. To be sure, the fact that she had believed Roger Benton’s lies, that she had fallen for that, had thrown herself away on a man who never loved her, that she had been that desperate for love in the first place to willingly deceive herself about his sincerity—for, of course, deep down, she had known he was a bounder—but she had ignored that knowledge, needing to believe.
That foolish self-deception had cost her much of her self-respect. She had never really forgiven herself for it.
And if it cost her Beau as well, she never would.
No, it wasn’t worth it, she thought with a shudder.
Finally, after being orphaned, passed from home to home, seduced and betrayed, finally, she had found love. If she had to lie to keep it, then so be it.
Maybe it was best if he never found out.
“So, how can I help you today, Lady Beauchamp?” the curator asked, quite at her service after she had had her maid hand him her calling card.
It still made her giggle inwardly how having a title changed things, when, really, after all, she was still the same inside.
In quite a contrast to the clerk at that bookshop in Russell Square, the tidy little art dealer had dropped everything to wait upon Her Ladyship.
“I am interested in looking at works by English artists who’ve dealt with the French Revolution as their subject,” she told him.
He lifted his eyebrows. “A curious subject, if I may say so.”
“Oh, I know!” she answered gaily, playing the blithe ton lady once again, assuming that he kept an eye on the Society column in the Post, considering he made his living selling art to the aristocracy. Paintings were always needed for country estates and Town mansions. They made nice wedding gifts for highborn newlyweds, as well. “You might have seen the notice in the paper about the grand soiree my aunt, the Comtesse d’Arras, threw for me and my new husband.”
“I did hear something about that,” he admitted with a smile. “My humble congratulations to both you and Lord Beauchamp, my lady.”
“Thank you. How kind! In any case, I wanted to thank my aunt by giving her a painting. She was married to a French count, you see. She’s still got property there, and I know so much French artwork made its way to England for safekeeping during the war.”
“That is correct, my lady. Many of the French nobles had to sell their collections to pay their way out of France in order to survive. Very sad. Art and jewelry were the easiest valuables to move to safety while so much of their property was being confiscated by the Revolution.”
She shook her head. “It’s hard to imagine how they simply took people’s homes away from them, where their families had lived for generations, and just handed over the estates and everything to their own supporters.”
“Jacobins,” the little man spat while her thoughts harkened back to Professor Culvert’s speech touching upon such subjects.
Even a Society miss knew that the Home Office was terrified of underground Jacobin sympathizers in England. Such groups were known to exist. The government was always trying to root them out before they tried to start all the guillotine-Revolution mischief here.
“Well, thank goodness for Wellington,” she murmured.
“Indeed,” he answered heartily. “So, could you tell me, Lady Beauchamp, more about what sort of painting you were looking for? We have quite a number of military portraits and a few battle scenes.” He gestured to the wall, where a few of them were hung.
“Do you have anything a bit earlier? Paris street scenes from perhaps the 1790s?”
He considered her request. “I may have something in the back. Let me go and look. May I offer you a chair while you wait, my lady?” He gestured to the elegant seating group in the front corner of the shop, near the sunny bay window.
She smiled at him. “That looks pleasant. Thank you.”
He bowed. “I won’t be long.” He retreated into the back, and Carissa went and made herself comfortable on a Chippendale chair upholstered in pastel blue striped satin.
Margaret followed, but Carissa pointed out the window at the bakery across the street. Even from here, the delicious smells made her mouth water. “Would you go across the street and buy a few muffins for us, Margaret? It’s been quite an undertaking this morning, and I find myself rather peckish. Get some for yourself, as well,” she added, handing her a few coins from her reticule.
Her maid smiled and bobbed a curtsy, then hurried off on her mission. The little bell above the shop door jangled when she left.
Carissa rested her elbow on the chair arm, propped her chin on her fist, and closed her eyes, hoping that a bite to eat would help her stay awake. With the spring sunshine streaming through the window, she could have drifted off, contented as a cat.
When the bell jangled again a moment later, she was too tired to acknowledge the arriving customer. She heard the door close, then a few footsteps as the person drifted into the shop.
“So, I see you are now a patroness of the arts, Lady Beauchamp,” a voice said. “How very aristocratic. I’m impressed.”
At the sound of that voice, she drew in her breath and flicked her eyes wide open, sitting up straight in her chair. Staring at the man with dark, tousled curls and flamboyant, if rather rumpled clothes, she shook herself. Surely she had nodded off, and this was but a nightmare.
Roger Benton sauntered closer with a sly smile.
“If you want to pay tribute to the muses, my lady, I can think of better ways to do it than squandering your new husband’s money on overpriced paintings.”
Her mouth went dry as he approached, bracing his hands on the back of the chair across from her. His gaze trailed over her. “Marriage must agree with you. You look spectacular, Carissa.”
“Oh, shut up,” she hissed, her heart pounding. “Stay away from me.”
“What, no time for an old friend now that you’re a viscountess?”
She was nonplussed, nearly too shocked to speak. How dare he approach her this way! Aunt Jo had warned he might try something, but she hadn’t expected it so soon.
“I always knew you’d land on your feet,” he said as he flicked out his dark plum coattails and took a seat across from her with the practiced ease of a dandy. He struck an elegant pose, crossing his legs, propping his patrician chin on his knuckles. He gave her another forced smile, but she could not miss the change in his appearance.
Dissipation had sent his good looks downhill. He had lost a good deal of weight, she could see. His color was poor, he had dark circles under his eyes, and the puffy lips that had enchanted her were very chapped and irritated, as if he’d had a cold for several weeks.
But it was the glazed look in his eyes that was the biggest chang
e. His eyes glittered with desperation. What has he done to himself? she wondered, startled to feel a small measure of pity amid her hatred and revulsion.
“Were you following me?”
“Only in hopes of finally getting my chance to wish you much happiness. You know, I’ve been reminiscing on the times we shared—”
“Stop it, you vulture,” she cut him off in a low tone. “You know I don’t want to see your face.”
“Oh, that’s sad. Well, I’m afraid it’s going to cost you for me to go away.”
Heart pounding, she glanced one way, then the other, making sure that neither Margaret nor the art dealer were in sight. Then she looked at him again.
“I am sorry,” he said politely. “I never thought it would come to this. But the poet’s path is not an easy one.”
“You’re no poet,” she whispered.
“Yes, I am. I even wrote a poem for you, my dear. A limerick. Would you like to hear it? There once was a lady in Brighton, a redhead whom little could frighten, till her aunt’s disapproval brought on her removal by an uncle whose fortune was titan.”
She scoffed and strove for patience, then she shook her head. “Do you know what my husband would do to you if he found out about this?”
“The question is, what would he do to you?”
She stared coldly at him. “How much do you want?”
“Two thousand pounds,” he answered evenly. “I think that’s fair, don’t you?”
She flinched. “That’s more than last time.”
“The stakes have gone up.”
The pity she had felt dissolved. No, she realized, he was a disgusting human being. How could she ever have thought otherwise? “That’s a lot of money. It’s going to take me some time. I only have five hundred in my personal account.”
“Well, I’ll take the five hundred now, and I’ll give you two days’ time to bring me a draft for the rest.”
“Very generous of you,” she murmured coldly. “You do know that I wish with all my heart I had never laid eyes on you. Don’t you?”