Reading his letter brought James to life for Anna. She stiffened as she gazed at her husband and thought of his treasonous deeds. Wordlessly, she handed the letter back.
“I don’t think my mind is ever free from worry over him,” Haverstock said. “And since our marriage I’ve wondered countless times what he would think of you. How you would like him.”
She realized the reason he did not look at her was because he spoke of deeply personal feelings. He even admitted that she occupied his thoughts a great number of times. The admission was something the oh-so-formal marquess never did. And it one again made him dear to her. This time it was she who covered his big hand with her own slender one.
But it was her husband who initiated the intense lovemaking that followed.
NINETEN
SHE HAD ENJOYED this morning’s ride, Anna reflected as she reached for a hot scone. Charles and Lydia had invited her to race them, and although she did not catch up to the superior riders, she had managed to exhaust her thoroughly lathered mare and work up a decidedly healthy appetite herself. After washing and changing clothes and allowing Colette to repair the damage to her hair, she faced her husband across the breakfast table.
He appeared engrossed in perusing the Morning Gazette.
“Does you lordship find my appearance more tolerable than when you last saw me?” Anna asked.
The corner of his mouth lifted to a crooked smile. “I find your appearance last night the most agreeable of all. I like your body bare and your hair down.”
Anna colored and glanced about the room to assure herself they were alone. “A Godiva fetish, I daresay.”
The skin around Haverstock’s eyes crinkled from his broad smile.
“Any news from the Peninsula?” she asked.
“Articles, yes. News, no,” he answered, his glance skipping over the headlines.
In a matter of seconds, his mirth vanished. He stiffened and cried out, frightening Anna.
Her first thought was that something terrible had happened to James. She sprang from her chair and rushed to his side.
“What is it?” she asked. “Is it James?”
He ignored her, his eyes racing over the small print. She followed his gaze and saw that he read an account of a vicious murder in Bloomsbury.
When he finished reading, he flung the paper aside. “No, it’s not James. A friend of mine has been murdered.”
“How dreadful,” she said, gently stroking his shoulder. “Who was it?”
“Pierre Chassay. A true friend to England—as well as to his native France.”
“Does he have a wife and children?”
“No. They, too, were murdered. In the Terror.”
Anna sank in a chair beside her husband in order to read for herself about the unfortunate Mr. Chassay. “Poor man. How was he murdered?”
“A dagger to the heart.”
Anna winced.
Haverstock pushed his food away, got to his feet and curtly took his leave.
Anna picked up the paper and began to read the account of the murder. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw where the “deceased victim of this most heinous crime” resided.
He had lived at Number Twenty-three Tavistock Place.
The swarthy little man!
Her pulse drumming, she read on. The owner of the Boar and Barrel related that the little Frenchman came to his establishment every night. Though he was quiet, Mr. Chassay was well liked by everyone. “The gent couldn’t of ’ad an enemy in the world,” Mr. John Moore said. Mr. Moore went on to say there had been a suspicious man in his establishment the same night as the murder. The man kept his hat on the whole time he imbibed at Mr. Moore’s, and he left as soon as Mr. Chassay did, although they sat on opposite sides of the pub and did not appear to be acquainted.
Mr. Moore described the suspicious man as speaking like a gentleman. He was tall and thin.
Had she driven the dagger into Mr. Chassay herself, Anna could not have felt more responsible for his death.
~ ~ ~
HAVERSTOCK HAD GONE straight to his office and torn through the files. Just as he had known, there was no file on Pierre Chassay. Haverstock had taken care to protect the identity of those who supplied him with information. No one had known of Pierre except for Monsieur Hebert, and those two were life-long friends who would never betray one another.
From behind his broad walnut desk, Haverstock gazed out the window at the passing carts below, their drivers carrying hay and milk and coal throughout the hurried capital. His hollow insides churning, Haverstock keenly felt the demise of the little Frenchman, the patriot who had no one else to mourn him. He pictured Pierre proudly wearing his worn black coat of excellent cut and fabric every time the two men met. Haverstock remembered the wistful expression on Pierre’s face when he spoke of restoring France to days of dazzling glory after the mad Corsican was annihilated.
Though he had died far from his native shores, Pierre would be buried in France, Haverstock vowed. And when the unspeakable horrors of this war were behind them, Haverstock would see to it that Pierre receive recognition from the country for which he gave his life as truly as a soldier on the battlefield.
He also vowed Pierre’s death would not be in vain. If he had to die doing it, he would find the murderer and save England from his vile clutches.
He continued to stare out the window at the evidence of man’s indifference to the life of one immigrant. Life went on though Pierre lay cold. The lad continued to hawk his newspapers, the old woman her posies. The hackney driver raced along with his fare.
As surely as he knew his name, Haverstock knew Pierre had been killed because of him. Someone had learned of their meetings. Someone knew that Pierre passed along valuable information about the French. But how?
God in heaven! Haverstock thought, a stabbing jolt to his already unsettled stomach, someone must have followed him to St. Clement’s. What an utter fool he had been! He had violated one of the first strictures of foreign service agents. Feeling safe on British soil unmarred by war, he had not watched his back.
Never again.
~ ~ ~
AS HE WAITED in front of the Foreign Office building for his mount to be brought around, Haverstock’s gaze swept over the entire area, searching for anyone who looked suspicious. But it was too soon to tell.
Once on his horse, he took a circuitous route to The Strand, glancing over his shoulder as he rounded each corner. At some distance behind, he noted a lean young man on a roan gelding. With each turn, the man stayed behind him, though not close. By the time Haverstock reached The Strand, the gelding was still far behind him. In front of St. Clement’s Haverstock came to a stop, but unlike usual, he did not dismount. He boldly waited until the gelding came near. With his hat shielding his eyes, he watched the gelding come closer, but as it neared St. Clement’s, it turned a block short of the old church.
With an angry flick of his ribbons, Haverstock spurred his mount back over the distance they had just traveled. He turned on to the narrow lane where the young rider on the gelding had turned, and he saw the back of the man astride his now-stationary mount. Haverstock slowed and came to a complete stop beside him.
And he saw the rider was Jimmy.
Anger flared within him like blazing torch. His own groom had betrayed him!
His eyes met Jimmy’s. “So it’s you who’s been following me.”
Jimmy nodded.
“At whose behest?”
Jimmy swallowed. “Lady Haverstock.”
Haverstock felt as if he had been slapped in the face. Unconsciously, he noted the knuckles of Jimmy’s long, slender fingers whitening as he grasped the reins. Haverstock’s eyes traveled over the groom’s sturdy body and wondered why he could not recall watching the lad grow into a man. “Don’t try to tell me she wanted information about me meeting with another woman.”
“I wouldn’t lie to ye. ’er ladyship asked that I ’elp protect ye. She ’as a bee in ’er bonnet that s
omeone means to ’arm ye.”
“And, of course, she wished a full report on anyone I happened to meet under suspicious circumstances.”
Jimmy nodded again.
“You told her about the small man who lived on Tavistock Place?”
“Yes, me lord.”
The simmering anger he had felt over Pierre’s death came to a full boil, and before he realized what he was doing, Haverstock delivered a blow to Jimmy’s freckled face, nearly toppling the youth from his horse.
Shakily bringing himself astride, his back straight and proud, Jimmy said, “Neither me nor ’er ladyship would ever ’urt ye, me lord.” He wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth.
A pity a lifetime of service to the Haverstocks had not warranted what Anna won in a fortnight. Haverstock felt doubly betrayed. “You are to leave my service this day,” Haverstock ordered, swiping the gelding with his crop.
He shook as he watched Jimmy ride off. As mad as he was at the groom, he was angrier at his wife. God in heaven, he had married a French spy! If he had grieved over Pierre’s death, he grieved tenfold over Anna’s deception.
He had been betrayed by the woman he had given his name. And so much more. At the thought, a deep, gnawing feeling unlike anything he had ever experienced seared through him. Was Anna’s deception of recent origin or had the entire marriage been hatched months ago by French conspirators? He groaned aloud. Had all her gentle innocence been feigned?
Had that first card game with Morgie been to gather him—not Morgie—into her vicious net? Morgie had never been her target. Always, he had known, it had been him. Something about the events of that day had long disturbed him, and now he knew why. He had been manipulated by a woman of cunning and skill. And someone of even greater cunning and skill must be manipulating her.
He remembered Monsieur Hebert’s warning. Suddenly all the hazy pieces of the puzzle fit together in startling clarity. Sir Henry Vinson was the traitor. It had been Sir Henry who had introduced Anna to Morgie. Sir Henry who met Anna for a private tete-d-tete in a most public setting. And, most damaging of all, Sir Henry matched the description of the man who had been at the Boar and Barrel, the man who had murdered Pierre.
His heart drummed wildly when he realized Anna, his lovely, lovely wife, had been a party to the murder. He went numb at the memory of last night when his lips hungrily roamed over her extraordinary body. His breath grew short when he remembered her softness enfolded against him as she slept contentedly with her head burrowed into his chest. What an utter fool he had been!
As he began to ride along the narrow streets of The City, he planned how he would confront Anna. In his outrage, he wanted to hurry home and expose her. Send her to the Tower. Watch her head roll. Then his more reasonable, practical side took control and he realized he could use her to implicate Sir Henry and possibly others. As difficult as it would be for him, Haverstock would not reveal to Anna that he had learned the truth about her.
~ ~ ~
DAZED OVER THE MURDER of the Frenchman, Anna was thankful it was Wednesday so she could meet Sir Henry face to face and sever their connection. The description in the newspaper left little doubt that he was Pierre Chassay’s murderer. Would that she had never been spurred by misguided patriotism. She should never have trusted Sir Henry. His information had all seemed so plausible.
But now she did not know what was true or what was fiction. She knew Charles felt genuine remorse over the Frenchman’s demise. He had called him a patriot to England. In his stricken state, he would not have fabricated such a description.
Could it be Sir Henry—not her husband—was the true traitor? Sweet heaven! That had to be nearer the mark. Hadn’t Charles always been a man of honor? He was as dissimilar to his father as fire to ice, as good to evil.
Amidst such tumultuous thoughts, she donned her pelisse and bonnet and readied for the trip to the book store. She must wipe Sir Henry from her life.
She went early to Hookam’s, as did Sir Henry. He stood in the Latin section examining a book, his eyes on her as she walked toward him. A quick glance assuring her no one else was near, Anna whispered, “I shall have nothing more to do with you. I would never have helped had I known you would murder the poor man.”
His eyes went cold. “I won’t deny it, Anna. I would do it again to save the lives of our men. Pierre Chassay was Haverstock’s messenger to the French.”
She had no idea whom to trust, but she knew without doubt which man was more honorable. “I can help you no longer,” she repeated in a clear voice.
“You have to. We must have the identity of the man Haverstock met in France.”
She lifted a book and studied the meaningless title, her insides quaking, her mind numbed with confusion. “Perhaps you did not hear me. I said I can no longer work with you.” She put the book back and swept from the store.
~ ~ ~
DRENCHED FROM THE RAIN he had been oblivious to during his meandering ride through the old town, Haverstock entered his home, shedding his wet garments, and was immediately assaulted by the females who lived there.
“Charles! James is on his way home!” Lydia announced with delight.
“Squire Ainsley awaits you in the drawing room,” Kate added.
“The head groom informs me you dismissed Jimmy,” Anna said angrily. “How could you? He’s been in your service his entire life.”
“From whom did you receive the information about James?” Haverstock inquired of Lydia as he began to mount the stairs, divesting himself of his wet jacket.
Hurrying after her husband, Anna nearly slipped on water that puddled behind him.
“His entire regiment is coming home,” Lydia said.
“Isn’t it too, too wonderful!” Kate exclaimed.
Anna reached for the wet coat. “You will surely take lung fever, Charles,” she chided.
Ignoring her, he asked, “Squire Ainsley is here?”
“Indeed he is,” Kate said. “He is acting most peculiarly. I believe he would like to speak to you privately.”
“I daresay he’s still grieving over Mary,” Lydia said.
“Tell him I shall be down as soon as I change into dry clothes.”
Midway up the stairs, he turned to Anna, who was by now beside him. “I will not speak to you of Jimmy, my lady. He displeased me excessively, and you cannot change my mind about sacking him.”
Anna remained quiet, following her husband to his dressing room where Manors awaited. “Please close the window, Manors,” Anna instructed. “I do not want his lordship to take a chill—if he hasn’t already.” She gave every indication of staying while Haverstock changed.
“Oblige me by leaving the room, Anna,” he said sternly.
TWENTY
HIS HAIR STILL WET but displaying no signs of receiving the contents of a rain cloud, Haverstock strolled into the library.
Its lone occupant, Squire Ainsley, rose and bowed.
“How good it is to see you are no longer in mourning,” Haverstock greeted.
Though a widower might be expected to take on a solemn look and bow his head gravely at the mention of his deceased wife, Ainsley did not. He smiled at his old neighbor, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “As Mary always said, ‘Life goes on.’”
Haverstock poured port for each of them, and both men sat down in broad, comfortable chairs.
Having known Ainsley all his life—though the squire was eight years his senior—Haverstock knew the man felt his wife’s loss keenly. However, Ainsley’s face wore a perpetual smile. Were he to be the bearer of tragic news, Ainsley would likely grin as he conveyed the morbid details.
“Your children are well?” Haverstock inquired.
“Quite well, thank you, though the girls sorely need a mother’s guidance.”
It suddenly occurred to Haverstock that Ainsley had traveled to London to seek Kate or Cynthia or Charlotte for a bride. “I forget now. How many children have you?”
“Six. Meg, the oldest, is twelve.�
�
“All are girls, are they not?”
“Actually, the babe Mary lost her life bearing was a boy. Little John’s a year old now.”
“And I thought I was cursed to have five younger sisters.”
Ainsley began to laugh hardily. “I am given to understand your home has added yet another female, my lord.”
Haverstock’s eyes narrowed. “Ah yes. Lady Haverstock.”
“My felicitations. I look forward to meeting her ladyship.”
“You must dine with us tonight.”
“Oh, I couldn’t impose on your hospitality.”
“It would be a pleasure, not an imposition.”
Still smiling, Ainsley looked nervous. “I have come to London, Haverstock, because I particularly wanted to speak with you.”
So he was right, Haverstock thought. The man wanted to offer for one of the girls. It was really too bad for the poor fellow that all three of them had engaged their affections elsewhere. He truly needed a wife. But, then, his sisters would poorly fit into Mary Ainsley’s broad shoes. Haverstock thought of the plump matron who had totally dominated her small, cowering, doting husband. Haverstock raised a brow.
“I beg permission to call upon Lady Lydia with serious intentions.”
Lydia! Her astonished brother reeled from the shock. Why, the man could not seriously want to claim Lydia for his wife. No man had ever courted her. But as he thought on it, Haverstock realized she was imminently qualified to preside over Greenley Manor. Add to that her love of children and her life-long friendship with John Ainsley, and there was really no surprise at all. Except that the decision to offer for Lydia seemed too wise to have been hatched by the agreeable squire, who held few thoughts in his head that had not been put there by someone else.
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