Though she could not write to Haverstock, she felt obliged to write to Colette. It pained her that Sir Henry forbid her to bring Colette on the journey. Or to tell anyone good-bye. But she could not just leave Colette. She would take the coward’s way out by writing to Colette instead of speaking to her.
She walked to her desk, sat down, picked up her quill and began to write, in French.
Dearest Colette,
By the time you read this I will be gone. I have gone to Paris with Sir Henry in order to spare my husband from the misdeeds I have orchestrated against him. I am leaving you enough money to get by until I send for you. I hope that shall be very soon, cheri.
She addressed it and propped it on the table beside her bed where Colette would find it when she brought Anna’s morning tea.
Lifting her valise, Anna quietly left the room. It was too early even for the servants, except those below in the kitchen beginning the day’s baking. She tiptoed down the broad staircase, along the marbled foyer and through the towering entry doors.
The quiet street was so dark and foggy she could barely see the nearest lamp pole, much less Sir Henry’s traveling chaise. Not that he would be there yet. She was quite sure she was early. Hugging herself against the chill, she walked to the end of the street and waited.
Within minutes his coach pulled up, and the coachman jumped down from the box, relieved Anna of her case and let down the carriage steps for her. Sir Henry had not moved a muscle. He sat in the middle of his comfortable seat, a rug thrown over his lap. “Let us hope you are as good a traveler as you are with the pasteboards,” he said.
She glared at him, climbed in and sat down opposite him.
“You have the confession?” he asked.
She nodded, took it from her reticule and handed it to him.
He put it inside his coat pocket, yawned and settled back into his soft leather squabs. “May I suggest you try to get some sleep. It’s a long journey ahead for us, my dear.”
TWENTY-SIX
HAVERSTOCK HAD GAINED no advantage in his journey by leaving in the afternoon. Darkness that made the roads untravelable forced him to put up at a posting inn along the way. It was late the following afternoon before he arrived in the busy port city of Dover. How war had changed the sleepy little seaside town from what it was when he had been a child! Now soldiers resplendent in red coats, colorfully plumed ladies of bordellos and legions of injured paraded through the streets.
The waning sun at his back, Haverstock went straight away to book passage on the first packet out, but his luck had failed him again. The last ship of the day had just sailed, and he would not be able to get another until morning.
Another deuced night in a noisy inn. After leaving his mount at the livery stable, he walked the short distance to the Plank and Plow, a three-storied gabled building noted for good food and clean rooms. There, he bespoke a bed for the night only to be told there was not a vacancy in the entire city.
“Damn near entire regiment of the Light landed in town this hour past,” the apologetic innkeeper said. “’Tis sorry I am to refuse you, your lordship.”
His spirits low, his worry over James mounting, Haverstock followed the sound of raucous voices and found himself in the inn’s public rooms that were filled with cheerful soldiers raising mugs of ale and saluting bonny England. He ordered ale from a buxom serving maid who promptly offered to share her bed with him that night. Taking no pleasure in lying with a woman still wet from another man, he kindly declined her generous offer and tossed her a coin.
He was impatient to get to James. He did not even know the extent of his brother’s injuries. The colonel had not said what kind of wounds James had sustained or when they had been incurred. Perhaps one of the soldiers in this very room knew something of the situation. Surely one of them would know of Lieutenant Upton. Haverstock ran his eyes over the mostly youthful faces when his attention was caught by a young blond officer moving into the room. The blond was the very color of James’ hair. Was his imagination playing tricks on him? The man looked remarkably like James. Of course, it had been five years since Haverstock had seen his brother. James’ appearance would be bound to be greatly altered. Especially if he had been wounded.
Haverstock could not remove his eyes from the man, who strode into the room with a commanding presence, a gathering of other young officers around him. Damned but it looked like James. Older, of course. His fair skin now bronzed by Iberian skies. The leanness of youth now banded with sturdy muscles, the hollow planes of his youthful face weighted heavy with command.
God, but it was James! And he was perfectly all right. Haverstock rushed toward his brother.
The blond officer was talking to a man next to him when he looked up and saw Haverstock. “Charles?” he said, his voice tentative.
It was James’ voice! Older, too. Haverstock stopped just short of taking his little brother in his embrace. His eyes traveled the length of James before he met his gaze once more, satisfaction on his face. “I perceive you are unharmed.”
A smile broke across James’ face as he clasped two strong arms around his older brother. “Blasted good it is to see you.”
“But what of the sniper? What of Colonel Cole’s letter?”
“I have not been under Cole’s command these six months past.” Turning back to his companions, James said, “May I present to you my brother, the Marquess of Haverstock.”
Haverstock bought rounds for all.
James took a long drink. “Now, about the sniper.”
Exactly what Haverstock had been wondering. He had obviously been duped. But by whom? And why? It was not a subject he cared to bridge in a public tap room. “I think we need to talk.”
“In my room.” James’ eyes lifted skyward.
“You have a room?”
“Apparently a lieutenant carries more rank around here than a marquess.”
A smile creased Haverstock’s scruffy face. “A hazard of war, I expect.”
It was already quite dark when they mounted the narrow staircase to James’ second-floor room. A chambermaid who led the way left a single taper on the wooden table beside the turned-down feather bed, curtsied and left the brothers alone.
Haverstock pulled from his pocket the letter from Colonel Cole and handed it to James.
Hunched down within the room’s dormer, James held the letter toward the candlelight and read. When he finished, he turned to his brother. “It appears someone badly wanted you away from London.”
Haverstock nodded grimly. He felt like a fool. Why had he never been suspicious when the letter had been delivered to the Foreign Office instead of to Haverstock House? His work at the Foreign Office was not widely known. All personal correspondence came to his home.
Of course, Sir Henry was the culprit. He easily had access to information about James’ troop movements and commanding officers. And getting the letter put on Haverstock’s desk at the Foreign Office would pose no problem for Sir Henry.
The man was clearly squirming. He must be feeling the noose tightening about his skinny neck.
“I say, are you still rather running the Foreign Office?” James asked.
“Nothing as important as that though I endeavor to assist where I’m needed.”
“That is not the story imparted to me by Wellesley. Treated me as if I were the king himself when he learned I was your brother. Said you’d done more than all the admirals and generals bundled together to win the war.”
“The man is given to exaggeration, I daresay.”
James looked back at the letter again. “You trust those who work with you?”
“Of course not.”
“Now you sound like Papa.”
“It has struck me that the apple does not fall far from the tree.”
“In your case, I’d say a veritable hurricane swept Papa’s seed quite far away.”
“A reassuring thought.”
“You have a very good idea who is behind this—-” James f
lung the letter on the table. “Do you not?”
Haverstock nodded. Thanks to Mr. Cook.
“Then I suggest you and I apprehend the swine.” James cradled his hand over the hilt of his gleaming sword. “It seems my fighting days are not behind me after all.”
“You know I am married.” Haverstock stated it simply. The thought brought pain.
James searched his brother’s face. “She is very beautiful, my sister-in-law, is she not?”
Haverstock swallowed. “Very.”
“And her name?”
“Anna.”
~ ~ ~
THE TWO BROTHERS left Dover before dawn and rode hard all day to make London by nightfall. During the ride, Haverstock revealed to James his suspicions about Sir Henry Vinson. He told him about Pierre’s death and the description of his killer. He disclosed that he had hired Bow Street runners who saw Sir Henry meeting with a French—a French sympathizer.
But he could not bring himself to tell James about Anna’s treachery.
“We will go to Sir Henry’s before you see Mama and the girls,” Haverstock said.
“One wonders why he so desperately wanted you from London,” James mused aloud.
When they arrived at Sir Henry’s house on Curzon Street, not a single light shone from any window. The brothers dismounted, climbed the steps and rapped at the darkened door. But there was no answer. They walked around to the stables and learned Sir Henry had gone away in his travelling coach at dawn for an undisclosed destination.
“He’ll be in France tomorrow,” James said.
“I believe you are right,” Haverstock said grimly.
At Haverstock House, the cool reception James received was somewhat puzzling to the marquess.
His sisters flew into James’ arms, exclaiming boisterously, but their faces were sad, their eyes red. Haverstock himself was the recipient of pitying glances.
With great ceremony, the dowager descended the staircase to welcome home her youngest son. She spread her arms around him and pulled him into her bosom. Their shoulders were of identical height. “It is good to have you home, son,” she said solemnly.
Then, she turned to her eldest son. “Anna is gone.” There was no triumph in her voice.
His mother was not merely mentioning that Anna was from home at present. Her expression conveyed far more than her simple words. Anna had left him.
All at once, Haverstock knew she had run off with Sir Henry Vinson.
TWENTY-SEVEN
ANNA THOUGHT NOTHING could be worse than the stifling carriage ride staring across into the face of the detestable Sir Henry. But the channel crossing in the dark, cramped quarters of the dipping schooner was undoubtedly the most discomfort she had ever endured in her life. She emptied the contents of her stomach many times over in a cracked chamber pot as rivulets of perspiration flowed down her face. She wrenched off her damp pelisse and used it as a pillow between her swimming head and the cabin’s hewn pine wall. If only she could get used to the steady sway beneath her, she kept thinking. Perhaps then her stomach could settle.
But her stomach did not settle, though she became resigned to the sheer physical misery. This she could endure. But what pleasure could life hold without Charles?
Her only consolation lay in the fact her letter would exonerate him. He would be free and could resume the activities which had restored honor to his family. She wondered who would receive her letter. She vividly pictured Sir Henry slipping it inside his coat. Until they got on the ship, Sir Henry had not left her side. He had not posted the letter nor sent it by a messenger. Her heart caught. Sir Henry had no intention of sending the letter.
Her body shaking in rage, she rose to unsteady feet, and gripping hold of the wall, hastened to the door of her cabin. She tried the knob.
The door was locked from the outside.
~ ~ ~
JAMES CAST A DISAPPROVING glance at his brother twenty feet away. Haverstock, his cravat loosened, his face showing signs of needing a shave, sat rather slumped at White’s highest-stakes table, a near-empty bottle of Madeira at his elbow.
“I fear my brother has vastly changed in five years,” James remarked to Morgie. “While I should be the one hell bent on excesses, it seems Charles cannot get too much liquor.”
“Not Haverstock!” Morgie protested. “Why, I’ve never known him to—well, not since Oxford, anyway.”
“Then these changes have not accrued over five years?”
“Two days, more likely,” Morgie said.
James lifted a brow. “This sudden disregard for life must be tied to the actions of his faithless wife.”
Morgie stiffened. “You obviously do not know the marchioness,” he said coolly, his eyes narrowed. “And what do you mean ‘disregard for life’?”
“He damned near got us killed this afternoon with his reckless riding. And he has not stopped drinking since we arrived in London last night, not to mention his losses at the tables!”
“What does his wife say to all this?”
James’ face reddened. “The vixen must be the very cause of it. She left him, you know.”
Morgie’s mouth dropped open. “Davis merely told me that Lady Haverstock was not in yesterday when I called. I had no idea she was gone.”
“Haverstock House is like a tomb. All those normally prattling females, and not a one of them will tell me anything.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Morgie said. “Her ladyship is thoroughly besotted over Haverstock.”
“A wife does not leave a man she is besotted over.”
“Unless…” Morgie spun away from James. “We cannot allow Haverstock to go home like that. He must stay at my place tonight.”
~ ~ ~
MORGIE BARELY LIFTED lifted his aching head from the pillow. “My good man, must you open the draperies? Devilishly bright outside. What hour is it?”
“It is one o’clock, sir, and a lady awaits you downstairs.”
“A lady?” Morgie sat straight up. “For me?”
“Yes, sir.” The valet walked to Morgie’s bedside and assisted his master from the bed.
Placing a hand to his head, Morgie asked, “Pray, who is she?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. She is quality.”
“Tell the lady I will be down presently.”
For a man given to meticulous appearances, presently translated to nearly an hour, after which Morgie—freshly shaven with a newly ironed shirt and a dapper morning ensemble, regally strode into his drawing room to find Lydia sitting stiffly in a French chair, looking quite fetching herself in a soft yellow summer dress.
A troubled look swept over his face. “I say, Lyddie, not at all the thing for you to be here unaccompanied. Where’s your maid?”
“I am thirty years old and engaged to be married. I hardly need worry about propriety.”
“You most certainly do. I will not have your reputation bandied about! You must leave at once.”
“Rubbish!” She got up from the damask chair and walked toward the window. “Everyone knows you’re rather an extension of our family. You don’t count at all as a man.” She saw the hurt look cross his face. Her voice softened and she moved to him. “What I mean is, of course you’re really quite a dashing man and all, but…” She turned away.
“But since your affections are engaged elsewhere, I simply don’t count.”
She gave him a puzzled look, then fingered her gloves, her eyes downcast. “I need your help, Morgie. We must find Anna. I just know something is dreadfully wrong.”
“What does Haverstock say?”
“He won’t discuss it. I’ve never seen him so distraught. He seems to believe Anna has run off with another man—which is preposterous.”
“I should say so! And who is the other man supposed to be?”
“The odious Sir Henry Vinson.”
“The hell you say!” Morgie’s hand flew to his mouth. “Beg your pardon.”
She turned large brown eyes on him and nodded
sadly. “Anna would never willingly leave Charles. She positively adores him. And I don’t believe she cares for Sir Henry.”
“I know for a fact she detests the man,” Morgie grumbled.
“She’s confided in you?”
“Yes, she confided in me. I should have told Haverstock straight away.”
“Told him what, Morgie?”
He refused to meet her gaze. “Cannot tell you, Lyddie.”
“You offend me greatly.”
“I would if I could, really, but it’s a matter of national secrecy and all that, you know.”
A sparkle leaped to her eyes. “You mean you are contributing to the war effort in a clandestine nature, Morgie?”
“Wouldn’t exactly put it that way.”
“Then how would you put it? Pray, tell me what you know about Anna and Sir Henry.”
He shook his head emphatically. “Cannot do it.”
“Cannot do what?” Haverstock asked. He strolled into the sunny room and kissed his sister’s hand.
“Mother is excessively vexed with you, Charles,” Lydia snapped. “Not one night since Anna left have you slept in your own bed. She even went so far as to say you were better off with the daughter of the horrid French woman.”
Morgie cast a warning glance at his friend. “I need to have a word with you, Haverstock. Should have spoken with you two days ago. It’s quite important.”
“You can speak in front of Lydia.”
“Bloody well cannot. She ain’t to know about…about your duties.”
James now strolled into the drawing room. “You mean Charles’s work at the Foreign Office?”
Morgie looked from James to Haverstock to Lydia.
“Oh, I know Charles toils away with cloak and dagger activities all in the name of the crown,” Lydia said.
Morgie plopped into the nearest chair and sighed.
James took a seat near Morgie and poured himself a cup of tea from the tea table. “He’s quite good at it, I am told.”
Haverstock ran his hands through his disheveled hair. “Not so good that I didn’t marry a French spy.”
“That, my dear lord, you did not do,” Morgie snapped. “The wretched Vinson played upon Anna’s patriotism for England to make her think you were the French spy.”
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