The Rogue's Last Scandal: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 3)
Page 24
“Mmmm.”
His fingers drifted over her, and she forced her mind back to her mission.
“Who is the traitor? We never truly got to that question tonight.”
His hand stilled. His whole body tensed.
A tiny flame of irritation sparked in her. She beat it down. “Are you asleep?” She wiggled onto her back, carefully. The lashings were still a bit sensitive, a good reminder of why she needed answers.
While he gazed at her through slitted eyes, she brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead and trailed a finger over his firm jaw, down to the dusting of chest hair. It was strangely darker than the hair on his head. Not burnished by the sun, she supposed. She tried to move her hand further down.
He gripped her wrist. She smiled.
Once he’d plopped her onto the bed, it had been a true wedding night, one without panic, or pain, or bad memories.
And now they must begin the second day of their marriage with more truth-telling.
“Charley, who do you think the traitor is? You must have some idea.”
He dropped her hand and touched her breast. “Oh, I have an idea.”
“I know you do, but, the traitor—”
“You have worn me out.” He rolled to his back.
She curled up next to him and touched him. His shaft sprang to attention. His eyes slammed shut, his lips firmed.
He could not fight this desire, no more than she could, and she rolled atop him.
Mere minutes later, both of them sated, she collapsed onto his broad chest. She found his neck and dropped kisses there, where a scratchy scruff had blossomed, her heart so full she could not contain it. “I do love you, Charley,” she whispered.
Fingers laced through her hair, massaging her scalp. “I knew you had fallen for me.” He grinned at her, his eyes filled with teasing. “I meant what I promised you yesterday afternoon before God and man.”
To have and to hold. Until death did them part.
She’d said the words too, but she’d held a tiny part of herself back. If her father returned...
He pushed a strand of hair away from her face and studied her. “It’s all right, Gracie. We’ll take this one day at a time.”
She was far too transparent.
“Charley, you have distracted me. Who do you think is the traitor?”
He drew in a deep breath and draped an arm over his eyes. “Kingsley.”
She sat up and dragged his arm away. “No. It cannot be my father.”
“Don’t be a nodcock. I’m talking about Lord Kingsley.”
He gave her the slightest of nods. “You asked my opinion.”
“My father would not have left me with him if he was a traitor.”
“Your father didn’t know.”
“But surely—”
“Oh, it’s too early for this.” He patted her bottom. “Get off me. I’ll ring for coffee.”
“Not until you tell me.”
“My guess is your father was working on something else, something to do with the revolution in Mexico, or maybe the Duque’s activities. Something to do with smuggling, or shipping. Spain lost a lot ships and a lot of wealth in that part of the world. Maybe he took a ship full of the Duque’s plunder. Maybe he was looking for a treasure, and he didn’t want what he found to go to the Crown. He wanted it for Mexico. We shall, I hope, find out everything when Kincaid is done with his deciphering.” He nudged her, and she rolled off and stood.
“Stay.” She pulled on a dressing gown. What had Father said, exactly? The words were hard to conjure. She’d been so shocked by his report of her mother’s death, she’d barely understood what he’d said next. She padded to the bell pull, rang, and went to the table.
Charley was waiting there for her, naked as a pearl diver. He grinned crookedly, sending a ripple through her.
He knew what he did to her, but it was a power to be shared. She let her own robe slide from her shoulders, watched his eyes darken and settle on her breasts.
A knock at the door made her pull up the robe and cinch the belt. “Back into bed,” she ordered.
He grinned and plopped into a chair. She shook her head, opened the door a crack and ordered coffee and breakfast, then went back to climb onto his lap.
“We have a few minutes,” she said.
“You are blessedly insatiable.” He pulled her in for a brief kiss. “But you’ve distracted me. I’m anxious to hear Kincaid’s report.”
“You think he’s finished?”
“Perhaps. But we have time to eat.” He nuzzled her neck. “And something else before.”
A note came with the breakfast, saying that Kincaid had not been able to finish his analysis.
It was a reminder that Charley needed to visit Kingsley House today. The second book might be essential to the decoding.
He’d prefer to stay in bed, but Graciela’s protection came first, and finding the truth would be the only way to accomplish that.
“I should leave you to a long bath after breakfast,” he said. “We shall have to knock a whole in the wall so I can take the next chamber.”
She frowned.
“For my dressing room of course. If you can tolerate my snoring we’ll share a bed.”
Something had her preoccupied and frowning, and it had nothing to do with the room arrangements.
“Charley,” she said, between bites of toast, “there is one more thing I want to know.”
His nerves tingled, sounding alarm bells. Her quiet good grace, her delicate tone, her refusal to meet his eyes all signaled something unpleasant. “Only one more?”
“Your mother. What happened?”
An ache started in his head, the familiar sorrow souring his stomach, memories cascading in rapid succession.
Time hadn’t healed, nor had time let him forget.
“Mother died in a carriage accident, along with her maid and her coachman.”
That was the matter-of-fact explanation.
The reality had been something more stark and awful. Her body had shattered on the rocks below the cliff road. Blood smeared the rocks, blood from the horses, the coachman, the maid. Blood from his mother. So much blood. Even now, he had to catch his breath.
“Father doesn’t talk about it.”
She looked at him, eyes wide and solemn. “It wasn’t really an accident?”
He closed his eyes against the memory of his panic. A rider had come to Cransdall Hall with an urgent message for Lord Bakeley. Only, Bakeley had been away, ferrying some horses he’d just purchased, and Perry was off visiting friends.
Father, of course, was out of the country, exactly where, no one knew.
Charley had tossed the message aside and ridden hell bent for the coast, to a cottage he’d never known existed, arriving first, while the locals were still pondering how to remove the shattered bodies.
He set down his fork carefully. “The axle of the carriage was tampered with. Just enough so that the weight of the cases and people on board, and the roughness of the road would break it in two when she reached the narrowest part of the road on the sea cliff. They plunged to the rocks below.”
Or so they had surmised, but it was anyone’s guess if that was the truth. The axle might well have broken in two when the carriage toppled down the cliff side.
She rose and came around the table to him, her soft arms circling his shoulders, her breasts pressing against him.
“You are looking for her killer,” she said.
He sighed. “Yes.”
He’d been looking for years, trying to piece together the truth. Father wouldn’t speak of it, Bakeley had shared the little he knew years ago. Only the Duquesa had provided new facts.
She took in a sharp breath. “Your father was the intended victim maybe. Was he supposed to travel with her?”
“We don’t know.”
“The men after Paulette and Lady Sirena—”
“Were not the right ones. Traitors, they were, though. For every ten s
oldiers trudging across the Continent and Peninsula, there was one man selling secrets, or shorting supplies, or stealing powder to sell to the enemy.”
Fingers slid up and laced through his hair, easing the ache.
“And how does Lord Kingsley fit in?”
He sighed, bringing his thoughts back into order. “In the Lords, he had an interest in the Admiralty. And there’s his wife. When you trace down her family, you find a network of smugglers that go back three generations.”
Her hand stilled. “Like Gregory Carvelle.”
“Yes.”
“Your mother was killed on the coast? Is that where your country estate is?”
“No. She had a cottage on the coast where she went to meet with my father, when he could come back. We think she had just left from meeting with him, after...” He looked up at her, his eyes burning.
Graciela watched the tension rise in him again. He’d had as chaotic a childhood as herself, and he’d lost a mother in the same horrific way, the sins of the husband visited upon the wife.
Had the children been threatened also? It would explain the fortress mentality of the household.
The thought of someone going after Charley sent chills through her.
Charley’s gaze narrowed. “What I’m about to tell you, the others don’t know, well perhaps Bakeley knows, but not Perry. Will you promise me you won’t share this with them?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Before my parents’ last meeting, Father had just escaped from the French. He’d been taken prisoner.”
A pain whipped through her. “And tortured?”
“No. At least, not much. He was treated relatively well by his captor. He was in Spain, near the border.”
“Pamplona,” she said. That’s what he had meant.
“Yes. His captor was a nobleman who wanted a painting as ransom.”
“A painting?”
“Yes.”
“Not money.”
“No.”
“But that makes no sense. What was this painting? Some valuable masterpiece?”
“I suppose it had value, though I always found it dark and depressing. My father had given it to Mother early in their marriage. Where the devil he got it, I don’t know, but I’m making guesses. In any event, his captor had learned the painting was in my mother’s sitting room at our country estate, Cransdall.”
The private fortress of the Shaldons had been invaded by a spy. “A servant betrayed you.”
“No. Or, rather, likely not. An exuberant friend of my mother’s got wind, and it was mentioned in a news sheet.”
“Who is the nobleman?”
Charley’s frown deepened.
“Dios. The Duque de San Sebastiano,” she whispered. “But no, he was in Mexico terrorizing the people there.”
His hand clamped over hers and he turned in his chair. “Was he there ten years ago, Gracie?”
Ten years ago, she’d been but a child. “I don’t know. I could believe him capable of holding an English earl for a ransom of pride, but I would expect your father to have killed him by now.”
He nodded. “Father plays a long game.”
She knelt beside him. “I think my father must do so, also.” There was so much left unsaid. And nothing made sense. Who would demand a mere painting for a man’s life, in the middle of a war? “What was this painting, Charley?”
He grimaced. “The martyrdom of Saints Perpetua and Felicity.”
“What?”
“Where do you suppose my sister got her name?”
“Where do any of us get our names? I’d never thought about it.”
“Mother’s name was Felicity. She was a Papist, like her mother.”
“A Catholic?” She’d never thought to ask about their faith, assuming that they were like the Kingsleys, who’d insisted she must leave her Catholic faith behind. “And you, Charley?”
“We are all Anglican. Bakeley must be to take his seat in Lords when he inherits. For the rest of us, she said we must decide for ourselves when we are old enough.” He stroked a finger down her cheek. “Should you like to say our vows in front of a priest? I will change my faith for you.”
She blinked back sudden tears. “You would do that for me?”
It was what Papa had done out of love for her mother.
The Kingsleys had dragged her off for services at their church, but she had not been to a proper Mass since her mother was alive. But, surely, they had made their vows before the same God.
She did not think her mother would mind.
She shook her head. “Perhaps later.”
“And Reina?” he asked.
Reina. The sun was higher now. Her daughter was no doubt awake and having her breakfast. Graciela stood. “The padre in the village baptized her. She is Catholic. We shall decide this later, but for now,” she kissed him, “if Kincaid is not done, I shall dress and go and see her. Thank you for telling me what you have told me. It helps me to understand.”
His gaze was unreadable, but he rose, gathered his things, and kissed her back. “Later then.”
And then he was gone, and she wondered why he had not offered to come to the nursery with her.
Chapter 29
The Kingsley townhouse was located in an area of London rapidly becoming unfashionable, though their street had held up better than others, and Kingsley House, with recent improvements made possible by Graciela’s trust, was the handsomest building on the street.
A startled maid opened the door to Charley’s knock, and before she could find words, he stepped into the hall.
Trunks were piled in the entry way, with two footmen carrying down more. Lady Kingsley herself was directing the consignments.
Her shocked gaze greeted him, but she drew herself up. “Mr. Everly. We are not receiving visitors, as you see.”
“Good day, my lady. Luckily, this is not a social call. I’m here to speak to Lord Kingsley.”
“He is not at home.”
One footman glanced at the other, and he knew she was lying. “Where may I find him? It is imperative that I speak with him today, and may I add, in his best interests.”
“How dare you come calling. He is not—”
“Never mind.” The low growl came from the corridor that led to the back of the house. Lord Kingsley stepped out of the shadows, bringing the darkness with him. His complexion had gone a mottled shade of red and his thinning hair drooped. With a terse nod, he directed Charley to an open doorway.
He closed the door on his wife.
The drawing room curtains were shut tight and Holland cloths draped the furniture. Charley went to the window and pulled open the curtains. If Kingsley decided to seek revenge for his violent removal from Shaldon House, he’d best have some light to deal with the man.
“I’ve come for my wife’s things,” Charley said.
“Her things?” Kingsley asked.
“When you visited my father, he told you to send her things over.”
“I did.”
“You sent over the dresses she arrived with. She needs the rest of her wardrobe. The new things she purchased with her money from her trust.”
“You’ve come about her wardrobe? That’s imperative?”
“Yes, and whatever other personal items she may have left, brushes and combs, and she also mentioned two books that belonged to her mother.”
He waited for Kingsley’s reaction.
“Two books?” A shadow crossed Kingsley’s eyes and they narrowed. “Two? There was but one, some Spanish Papist twaddle.”
“There were two. And you did not find the other one, a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets?”
“There was only one.”
“Yes, well, I’ll have it then, along with her gowns. I’ll wait while you have a servant pack them.”
“You’ll have nothing. The gowns are gone. My lady has taken them—”
“A first season girl’s wardrobe?” Charley laughed. “On an elderly matron?”
“I see.” Wouldn’t the scandal sheets like to have that piece of news? “And what of the other personal items?”
“Whatever she had was given to the servants.”
“And her jewelry?”
“That went missing with her as you well know. Now leave.”
“Not without that book of her mother’s, the one with the Spanish twaddle. If you permit me, I’ll have a look at her bedchamber. The shabby one you moved her into after your wife took the one Farnsworth remodeled.”
“Farnsworth?”
“Or should I say, Mr. Cooper. A pity the King needed him elsewhere. It might have spared all of us this trouble. Now, I’ll just have a look—”
“You’ll do no such thing. Leave. Now.”
“Not without the book.”
“I burned the bloody book,” he shouted.
Accompanied by that much emotion, it was the truth, Charley decided.
“Both of them?” he asked.
Kingsley’s gaze narrowed, shifted, and came back to rest on Charley. “Yes. Now, get out.”
“Indeed.” He laughed. “I’ll leave you to manage your retreat from the scandal sheets.” At the door, he turned. “And you’d best hope you can run far enough, fast enough, before Captain Kingsley returns to the living.”
“He is dead.”
“Ah then, until he speaks to you from the dead.”
When he opened the door, Lady Kingsley jumped back. He smiled at her. “You’ll look lovely in Graciela’s white damask and pink ribbons, milady. The matron of the season, a regular diamond of the first water.” He dodged around her and out the door.
“Kingsley, what book was he talking—” The door shut on Lady Kingsley’s voice.
On the pavement, he signaled his carriage and climbed in.
At the next corner, they stopped and one of Kincaid’s men, a tall Scotsman, entered the coach, a package under his arms.
“Well?”
“Stripped bare of clothing and such.”
“You had the right room?”
“Aye. As Juan directed. Left a bloody mess—blood staining the floor an’ all, I mean. An’ I found this in the hearth.” He unwrapped the bundle, revealing the charred remains of a large book. Truly, it would have weighed Gracie down had she tried to balance three stories up with it. The leather bindings were singed, as well as some of the pages. The core of the book was intact. Whether it contained secret messages didn’t matter. Kingsley would look for it and find it gone.