by Cara Elliott
Anna bit her lip.
“Why the devil would I want Prince Gunther dead?” added the baron.
Devlin felt a twinge of uncertainty. Anna’s information on the weapons had seemed to confirm McClellan’s guilt. But the man’s reactions had him a little off balance. “Because it would create havoc for England,” he answered slowly.
“I wish I had thought of that,” retorted McClellan. “But I didn’t.”
“Then explain the rifles,” demanded Anna.
The baron was no longer smiling. “It has nothing to do with you or any of the guests here.”
“Forgive me for being skeptical…” Devlin now felt himself back on firmer ground. “But I find it rather hard to take you at your word.”
McClellan cracked his knuckles. “Then I suppose you will have to go ahead and shoot me.”
“Lord McClellan, be assured that none of us want to see blood shed,” interceded Anna. “If you would offer an explanation—”
“Why bother?” The baron’s chair came back to the floor with a thunk. “That spawn from English Hell has already indicated he won’t believe anything I say.”
“Then I shall speak up in your place!”
“Caro!” Anna shot out of her seat as her sister stepped out from the shadows of the corridor.
McClellan let out a heated oath in Gaelic.
Not that he could understand a word, but it certainly sounded like an oath to Devlin.
Caro fixed the baron with a defiant scowl. “I don’t know why I bother defending you, you odious man, but my sense of honor demands that I tell the truth.”
Devlin restrained the urge to take his head in his hands. This was fast descending from drama into farce. “Which is?” he asked, hoping Anna wasn’t making notes of the scene for her next book.
“Lord McClellan met with two of his Scottish revolutionary friends late last night in one of the side parlors. They wished for him to help them raise arms and gunpowder for an ambush of a visiting English military commander.” She darted a sidelong look at the baron, who was staring out the window. “He refused, saying violence was not the way to achieve their goals. When the meeting was over and they took their leave, he followed and saw them stealing weapons from the Gun Room. After trailing the pair into the gardens, he confronted them and demanded that they give the rifles back to him.”
“How do you know all this?” he asked.
Caro blew out her breath. “Because I had been listening at the door, and then crept after them and heard all that was said outside.”
“Ye gods,” exclaimed Anna. “That was foolish beyond belief! What if they had, in fact, been bloodthirsty murderers?”
Caro lips twitched. “I should have run like a banshee I suppose. Or figured out some suitably impressive heroics, just like a storybook heroine.”
McClellan made a rude sound. “Ladies ought not be allowed to read. It addles their wits.”
“On at least one thing we are in agreement,” murmured Devlin.
Anna spared a moment to spear him with a glare before turning back to her sister. “That’s not amusing.”
“Neither is the fact that you have been keeping secrets from me.” Caro’s eyes sparked with indignation. “Talk about dangerous doings! You have been involved in smoking out a dastardly assassin and didn’t think I could be trusted with the information.”
“I…um…” Anna’s voice faltered.
Caro didn’t wait for her to go on. Her ire was now focused on him.
“And you, Lord Davenport, I wouldn’t have thought you to be such a spineless mawworm as to conspire with my sister behind my back.” Setting her hands on her hips, she ended with an oath that made Devlin’s ears turn red.
McClellan was laughing again, though the sound was hardly louder than a zephyr. “You may be a Sassenach lady, but you’ve got the temper of a Highland warrior.”
She whirled on him. “As for you, you big lummox—your brain must be thicker than porridge. Only a bloody sapskull would keep mum about the real reason for the rifles.”
The baron’s mouth thinned to a razored line. “And why—”
Caro cut him off. “Because if my sister and Lord Davenport are busy dealing you, that means the real culprit is free to carry out the nefarious deed.”
Devlin decided to sit. Dealing with not one but two of the Sloane sisters was a little overwhelming.
“An excellent point,” murmured Anna.
“Thank you.” Her sister responded with a mock curtsey. “Now that we’ve eliminated Lord McClellan from your list, who is the most likely suspect?”
Anna looked to Devlin.
As did McClellan.
Devlin lifted his gaze to the ceiling, wishing some words of wisdom might be found in the spidery cobwebs clinging to the carved rosettes.
“Ah, well.” He sighed. “The more the merrier.”
Chapter Nineteen
A council of war.” Caro quickly took a seat and propped her elbows on the table. “How exciting.”
“Please try to keep a rein on your exuberance,” murmured Anna. “This isn’t a scene out of a Lord Byron poem.”
“Or a novel,” added Devlin.
How he was feeling about this unexpected turn of events was impossible to tell, she decided. His face was a cipher.
McClellan, like her sister, was far easier to read. At the moment his stormy expression was darker than a North Sea squall. “What in the name of Satan is going on here?” he demanded. “Murder? Mayhem?” Scowling at Devlin, he added, “And am I really supposed to believe that you are involved with the Sassenach government?”
“It’s true,” responded Anna.
“Ha! No wonder Napoleon is riding roughshod over England and her allies.”
“Sarcasm is not helpful, Lord McClellan,” snapped Caro. “If you wish to be part of our efforts to prevent a vile assassination, you must have a more positive attitude. Otherwise, I suggest you leave.”
Anna fully expected the baron to stalk off in a huff. Instead he slouched back in his chair, lips pursed, and appeared to be giving her sister’s challenge serious thought.
Interesting, she mused, before forcing her attention back to the threat facing the prince. The tangle of personal feelings was far too confusing to try to sort out when a murderer was lurking close by.
“It’s not your fight,” observed Devlin. “I don’t expect you to give a rooster’s tailfeather for whether the assassination of an obscure German prince causes trouble for England.”
The room went very still, the only sound the faint scrabbling of a mouse behind the age-dark paneling.
McClellan finally broke his brooding silence. “Bloody hell. You’re right—as far as I am concerned, your Mad King and rakehell Regent can go the Devil, along with your oppressive Parliament and laws. But Prince Gunther is a decent fellow, and assassination is a cowardly act. So I’ll do what I can to help.”
“Thank you,” said Devlin.
Oddly enough, thought Anna, he sounded sincere.
The baron seemed to note the same nuance. Giving a grimace, he muttered, “Ye gods, just don’t expect me to exchange comradely kisses.” There was, however, no edge to his words.
Caro eyed both men but refrained from adding her own comment.
“Excellent,” said Anna quickly. “Now that we’ve agreed to join forces, I’m sure that Dev—that is, Lord Davenport—will share what we’ve discovered so far.”
Devlin fingered the paper on which he had written the puzzling phrase. A brusque flick moved it to the center of the table. “The prime suspects are Lord Verdemont and Lady de Blois. We managed to find some private correspondence hidden in the lady’s rooms—never mind how—and have reason to suspect these phrases might be some sort of code, for they make no sense on their own.”
“Of course, their meaning may only be of a personal nature,” added Anna. “But it certainly does raise suspicions.”
“As Miss Sloane so sagely pointed out to me, if they don’t
bat an eye at the fundamental betrayal of their own sister and wife, then they are likely capable of any evil.”
“Like murder?” murmured Caro. “But why?”
“Money, for one thing,” muttered McClellan. “Its power can corrupt most any conscience.”
“That’s awfully cynical, sir,” replied her sister. “I would rather starve than betray my principles of right and wrong.”
The baron regarded her for a long moment. “Yes, I rather believe you would.” A shrug shifted his gaze. “But be that as it may, it is the French couple that concerns us. And it seems to me that in addition to money, there’s also another powerful force to consider.”
“Passion,” said Devlin, before the baron could go on. “Verdemont has presented himself as an ardent French Royalist, a nobleman who lost his lands and wealth to Napoleon. But there are some of the Old Guard exiles living in England who secretly believe fervently in the revolutionary ideas, and they serve as spies for the current French government.”
“Precisely.” McClellan tapped his fingertips together. “Passion can be a dangerous thing.”
Danger. Like a sinuous serpent, the word seemed intent on slithering over her skin and capturing her in its coils. Repressing a small shiver, Anna shook off the sensation.
A frown seemed to flit over Devlin’s face. Had he sensed her reaction? If so, he let it pass unremarked.
“Any thoughts on what this blasted phrase might mean?” he asked the others.
Caro’s face was a mask of concentration, while McClellan leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “Have no fears—at the sign of the Witch, the double-faced eagle’s feathers will turn to dust,” he recited. “I assume you tried a simple Caesar shift on the letters?”
“What’s that?” asked Caro.
“A way of encrypting a message,” answered Anna. “It involves shifting the letters of the alphabet—but that usually results in gibberish. And besides, the message was originally written in French, so that rules out the possibility.”
“True,” said McClellan, and then quickly added, “By the by, how do you know so much about codes?”
“I read a great deal,” she replied blandly.
Devlin swallowed a snort before voicing his own observation. “It seems fairly clear to me that it’s referring to the next attempt on the prince’s life. The coat of arms of Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt contains a double-headed eagle.”
“Drat, how could I have missed such an obvious clue?” murmured Anna.
He flashed her a private grin that made her insides give a lopsided lurch. “I have a bit more experience in clandestine missions than you do.” His lips, however, quickly thinned to a grim line. “But I confess, I haven’t a clue as to what the first part of the message means.”
“I wonder, are they expecting another conspirator?” mused Caro.
“That’s a very good point,” said Devlin. “McClellan, can you make inquiries about whether any stranger has been spotted in the area?”
“Aye,” answered the baron.
“Perhaps it’s Polianov,” said Anna “His government has reason to covet Prince Gunther’s land, and he’s been acting very suspiciously of late. For one thing, he’s developed a sudden interest in me, which is a little alarming. I fear he may have seen me moving around the castle at night.”
“Forget Polianov,” replied Devlin. “I searched his quarters quite thoroughly the other night and found a letter he had just written to one of his comrades in London. I regret to say that his interest in you is purely monetary. Lady Dunbar mentioned to him that you are an heiress, and apparently he’s decided you are the answer to his prayers for a life of indolence, now that his family coffers are nearly bled dry.”
“I see.”
“Don’t look so stricken,” he murmured softly. “You’ve plenty of genuine admirers.”
Flustered, she turned slightly, hiding her face in shadow. To her relief, Caro provided a distraction, by clearing her throat. “I have been thinking…”
Devlin signaled for her to go on.
“We also ought to consider whether ‘witch’ has some other meaning. After all, Shakespeare made Scotland rather famous for witches. Perhaps it’s a metaphor.”
Anna wasn’t quite sure what McClellan’s low grunt signified, but she herself was exceedingly impressed with her sister’s thinking. “I think that’s a splendid idea. Shall we fetch a copy of Macbeth? It may be that one of the scenes with the witches will provide the key.”
Devlin nodded thoughtfully.
“Or,” said McClellan suddenly, “it may not be a metaphor but rather an actual physical place or landmark.”
“Yes, yes, that makes sense.” Caro’s voice thrummed with rising excitement. “And since you suggested it, I assume you have an idea of what that place might be,”
“Aye. There is a set of wind-carved stones on the moors that resemble three figures leaning together in close conversation. The locals call the knoll ‘the Witch Coven.’ And in discussing the best hunting beats in this area with the prince and his party, I’ve made mention several times that I intend to lead our party to that spot tomorrow. The ghillies have scouted the hills there and report the grouse are quite plentiful.”
“Would Verdemont know this?” asked Devlin.
McClellan looked faintly amused. “All of the hunting party does. Had you bothered to listen to my lectures during our breaks for food and drinks while shooting, you would, too. But no, you found wandering off to inspect the rocks and lichens infinitely more interesting.”
“Tramping the hills is not my favorite activity. It’s far too exhausting,” drawled Devlin. “I was actually stealing a nap while you prosed on about the ideal habitats for the local flora and fauna.”
“Let us not stray from the point, gentlemen,” chided Anna. “It now seems inarguable that Verdemont and Lady de Blois are the villains—”
“I trust you will concede that confiding your secret to me and Lord McClellan was a wise move,” interrupted Caro. “Despite your misgivings—all of your misgivings—I’ll have you know that I can be trusted to act with sense and caution.”
McClellan opened his mouth to speak and then appeared to think better of it.
Wise man, mused Anna, understanding all too well her sister’s feelings. It was not easy being the youngest, especially with two strong-willed older siblings. All too often, Caro had been told she was not yet mature enough to be treated as an equal. And while her emotions still got the better of her at times…
“I’ll concede that, and more,” murmured Anna. “If at times I seem unwilling to tell you certain things, it’s because I am trying to protect you. Mama’s concerns are quite limited, so I suppose that I have felt that I must play mother hen.” She sighed. “I apologize if that is condescending.”
Caro’s cheeks flushed with color.
“But that does not mean I will stop.”
Her sister smiled. “Fair enough. However—”
“Ladies, forgive me for interrupting this touching scene,” growled McClellan. “But we have a murder to prevent.”
“Have you no particle of romance in your soul?” murmured Devlin.
“That,” jeered the baron, “is rather like the pot calling the kettle black.”
“No one would ever accuse either of us of being knights in shining armor,” he replied. “Nevertheless, we do need to crack off a bit of the coal dust and attempt to do a good deed.”
“Though you haven’t mentioned it, I assume you have some other government contact nearby,” said Anna. “The Home Office cannot have expected you to deal with an assassin—or assassins—without reinforcements.”
“Correct,” responded Devlin.
“Then cannot you have them swoop in and arrest the villains and be done with the threat?”
“I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple. First of all, while we have strong evidence as to who the culprits are, it’s not absolute proof.”
“But—” began Caro.
“And I would rather not make a mistake,” went on Devlin.
That silenced her sister.
“Secondly, the government would prefer to handle this very discreetly. The best scenario would be if I could contrive to, shall we say, confine the villains in some secure location, so the government operative could remove them with no one being the wiser as to the real reason. An excuse can be made that an emergency required their immediate departure for England.”
“Which would be the truth,” mused Anna.
“I see your point,” said McClellan. “So what is your plan?”
Rather than answer, Devlin rose and went to look out the window. Anna could almost hear the tiny gears and levers whirring inside his head. Though in truth, she added to herself, the marquess’s mental workings were infinitely more complex and complicated than his clever automata. She wished that she had an inkling of what he was thinking…
He turned, his mouth pursing in a wry grimace. “Haven’t a clue yet. For the moment, I ask that the rest of you do nothing. I need to ponder the options. And I do that best alone.”
McClellan rose and cast a sharp glance at Caro, who reluctantly followed his lead. “Then we shall leave you to your work.”
“Anna,” began her sister.
“I shall be along in a moment, just as soon as I have had a private word with Davenport.”
Devlin waited until the retreating steps faded away into silence. “There’s really nothing more to say, Anna. I need to mull over these new facts before I can decide on a next move.”
“Truly?”
“You don’t trust me?”
A laugh, low and soft, and yet it seemed to tease its way beneath his shirt and prickle against his bare skin. “Don’t try to distract me, Devlin. I’ve learned your little tricks for changing the subject.”
Distraction. He wrenched his gaze away from her upturned lips and retreated a step. “In this case, I am telling the truth.”
Anna narrowed the distance between them. The gleam in her eye was pure Emmalina. “You wouldn’t dream of coming up with a new strategy and putting it into action without telling me?”