by Joan Vincent
Gano heard a board squeak and drew an ornate dagger from behind his back. Then he saw who had come and slipped the blade back into its sheath.
Donatien tossed a half filled sack at Gano. He watched the swarthy man paw through it.
“Take this to Paris as soon as possible,” Donatien said as he withdrew an oiled leather wallet from his coat. “Deliver the missive to Petit first.
“Give the other papers to Fouché. Tell him there will be more. Remain in France,” he warned. “Bayard alone is to come to me.”
In the hackney he took to his other hired coach, Donatien grimaced. If Gano is captured he knows me only as Chercheur.
Too bad I had to ease the pressure on that limpet Leonard.
Dear Elminda, his lip curled, will keep me apprised.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jerymn Street October 19 Thursday
Night candle in hand, André followed Hadleigh up the stairs. The pad of their evening slippers on the wood accentuated the tense silence which had settled over them as soon as they had left No. 41 Grosvenor.
“A word,” Hadleigh threw at André when he reached the first floor. He lit the candelabra on the desk, carried it to the mantle, and then faced his friend.
“The night, it is late,” André suggested. “This will be better done in the morn.”
“No,” Hadleigh said. He clasped his hands behind his back, mentally dug in his heels.
André set his night candle on the desk and sauntered to the brandy decanter. He filled two glasses and offered one to Hadleigh. “To family.”
“Always.”
“But?”
“There need be none,” Hadleigh told him. Taking a sip of the brandy, he smiled his appreciation. “A new shipment.”
A slow grin appeared. André sank into one of the leather chairs and motioned him to do likewise. “You always did appreciate fine wine and—”
“Fine women,” Hadleigh finished as he sat.
André cocked his head.
“I choose a very fine one for wife. Sarah, Lady Edgerton.”
Caught in mid-sip, André choked. “You always said we must dance with but not marry the, ah, less blessed. Do you do this out of gratitude?”
A sad smile hovered on Hadleigh’s lips. “What a callow fellow I was to have said such a thing.”
He scooted to the chair’s edge. “No, it is not gratitude. We had our calf-loves, our romps in the hay, and our widows in garish bedchambers. I know the differences between gratitude, lust, and love.” Hadleigh ignored the urge to tease. He could not mention the lust Sarah inspired. “It is love I hold in my heart for Sarah.”
“Love is not blind,” countered André.
“Certainly not,” Hadleigh agreed. Through a flash of a thousand memories, a realization dawned with brilliant clarity. “After what happened this spring, I do not think I could be blind ... even in love. I now have a different sense of the world. I am not the man I was. I do not have the same future.
“In truth, I had no idea what to do with my life at that time. I do now. I comprehend how very foolish it is to waste even one precious moment.”
André ran the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip. “She has accepted you?”
“I have not yet made an offer. I dare to hope I can win her hand.”
“Win her,” scoffed André.
“She has other suitors. But I fear what gossip the Ton will spread if they learn I court her. If she hears it, if she loves me, she will refuse thinking it best for me.”
André shrugged.
“Do you pretend you have not heard what they say about her? About those who court her for her money or her stepdaughter?”
André met his gaze, and then, with an imperceptible wave of his hand, lowered his.
Releasing a long pent-up breath, relief filled Hadleigh.
“Tretain and Tante Juliane?” asked André.
“They will understand and accept Sarah because of their love for me.” He blinked back a sudden dampness. His voice thickened. “As you are trying to do. Take the time to get to know her, scamp. It will not seem such a tragedy then.”
Stung, André said, “But the world—”
“When have you cared for its opinion? Why should I?”
“I only want—”
“You want what you think best.” He saw André’s face grow austere and read the old fear on it. “You will not lose me.”
But I already have, André thought.
“One day you shall know how I feel.”
Rising, André put out a hand. “No more, mon frère,” he importuned. “It is late and—”
He paused, tilted his head toward the door. André flashed a warning with his eyes. “I have a new message to go over. This matter of M. George grows interesting, n’est-ce pas? Tomorrow we shall discuss what we learned this eve.” De la Croix padded to the desk and took up his night candle. He strode to the door and jerked it open.
Gervase almost tumbled into him. The servant hastily pulled back the candle flame that licked at André’s cravat. “Is there anything you wish, my lord,” he squeaked.
“No, Gervase,” de la Croix told him. “I have what I wish.”
* * *
Later Thursday
Cauley answered the knock on No. 6 Charlotte Street and stepped aside to let Hadleigh enter. Wondering at the other’s unusual happy mien, he asked, “Any news, sir?”
“Nothing of note,” Hadleigh said suppressing a smile. “How are matters here?”
“There’s been the odd moment but things are right and tight. Shall I announce you?”
His inflection paused Hadleigh. “Who is above?”
“Mr. von Willmar and Mr. Leonard.”
“I suppose it was to be expected,” Hadleigh mumbled, then said, “I would rather you did not.”
Hadleigh listened outside the door of the White Salon, then entered. He was taken aback by the instant starkness that crossed Sarah’s features when she saw him. Before he could react, Amabelle took his arm.
“I am so glad you have come. But you have not met Stepmama’s brother,” she said. “Michael, this is Mr. Tarrant.
“Mr. Tarrant, Mr. Leonard.”
Hadleigh noticed the young man’s stiff movement. The surly nod he received surprised him.
“Tarrant. Is the Earl of Tretain a relation?”
Ignoring the indrawn breaths of the three women, Hadleigh bowed. “Yes.”
“I saw the earl at—” Leonard noticed von Willmar move behind the settee. “I forget where.”
Sarah battled the contradictory emotions from last eve and the tension that had sprung up when her brother had arrived. “Michael does very important work.”
“Minor matters only,” Michael murmured.
Hadleigh wondered at the man’s sudden pallor. “Everyone’s effort is important.” He wanted go to Sarah but Amabelle kept him at her side.
“Sit with me,” she said, and took him to chairs to the left of the Prussian and Elminda.
“It was delightful last eve at the Tretain’s,” the elder Miss Edgerton began.
Sarah stood. “I shall see about tea.”
“Nonsense,” Elminda snapped.
Sarah dropped back to her seat. Michael eased his body down beside her.
Hadleigh saw that Leonard’s features wore the marks of dissipation. Like his sister, he had dark half circles beneath his eyes.
“I enjoyed the soiree as much as my evening at Covent Garden. Have you been to the Lyceum, Mr. Tarrant?” Amabelle prattled. “We read a favourable report on Mrs. Edwin’s appearance as the Widow Cheerly in the Soldier’s Daughter. We have never seen her perform.”
“Then I shall learn when next she treads the boards and rent a box for all of us.” He paused when Sarah would not meet his gaze. “Would that meet your approval, Lady Edgerton?”
Sarah looked at a point beyond his right shoulder. “If Amabelle and Elminda wish it.”
“I shall go only if Mr. von Willmar is i
nvited,” Elminda announced.
Hadleigh grit his teeth. “Of course.”
Donatien studied his nails. “Please apprise me of the evening. I am bound to Lade’s prerogatives for the next few days.” He stood, which brought all the gentlemen to their feet.
“I must go.” He dropped a light kiss on Elminda’s fingers. With a click of his heels he bowed to the other ladies. “Lady Edgerton. Miss Amabelle.” Serving the gentleman stiff nods, von Willmar withdrew.
Leonard glared at Tarrant. Realizing he would not get Sarah alone, Michael said, “I’ll be off. Perceval drives everyone mad with his double-checking,” he complained. “New to the position, you know,” he threw at Tarrant.
“Send word about the play,” he told Sarah and limped out of the salon.
“Well,” huffed Elminda, rising. “I shall see to tea.” She brushed aside Sarah’s weak protest and bustled to the door, almost colliding with Crandall as he entered.
Sarah greeted the doctor with profound relief.
The bright spots of colour on her pale cheeks startled the physician. He hurried forward. “Sarah, what is it?”
“A megrim,” she said. “From the late night.”
“Then why have you not taken a tisane?” he chided. Crandall took her hands and helped her stand. “Excuse yourself. Tarrant here will not be offended.”
Damning the doctor and questioning his avowal of disinterest, Hadleigh added his agreement. He clenched his jaw when the physician put an arm about Sarah’s waist as he escorted her into the hall.
“Has she had this megrim long, Amabelle?”
“She complained of it last eve,” the young woman answered and walked toward the door.
Crandall returned and halted Amabelle. “Where are you going?”
“To—”
“Sarah will do better alone,” the doctor assured her. “You cannot desert your guests,” he teased.
Hadleigh stared at the door, his demeanour brooding. “I do not recall Sarah ever having a megrim at Edgerton Manor,” he noted to no one in particular. “Are they a usual occurrence since you came to London?” he asked Amabelle.
“No, Stepmama is not prone to headaches. But come,” she motioned toward the table. “Shall we play piquet?”
Foiled from speaking with Sarah, Hadleigh shook his head. “I have business to attend,” he said. He nodded at the physician and left.
Amabelle watched him go. “I suppose you must go too,” Amabelle grumped to Crandall.
“By no means,” he told her. “Last eve Sarah explained that you have assisted her in treating the soldiers.” He cocked his head. “Perhaps I erred when I commented upon your apparent lack of the humane weakness?”
An avenging gleam sparkled in Amabelle’s eyes. “I will tell what I do while we play piquet.”
* * *
Thursday Evening
Broyal and Danbury took their seats at the large circular table in the side room on the first floor of Whites shortly before ten o’clock. The viscount poured ruby port into two of the glasses and gave one to his companion.
Danbury traced the rim of his glass. “You mentioned Jenks was with one of de la Croix’s friends. To what purpose?”
“Two,” Broyal answered. “Jenks insisted on doing something. And I, on the odd chance that this émigré Pascual stumbles across something, thought Jenks’ presence best. A foreigner risks interference.”
“You do not believe they will discover this Gano?”
“It is unlikely.”
De la Croix strolled into the room. “What is unlikely?”
“Getting our hands on Gano,” Quentin said as he poured a glass for the baron.
“With Pascual,” André noted, “there is always a chance.”
“Who is Pascual?” Lord Blake asked and saw the baron glance at Broyal. When that pensive gaze moved to him, he turned a hand over in an unassuming gesture. “If you permit me to ask?”
André sipped the port, then set his glass down. “Pardon my hesitation,” he apologized. “I have grown, ah, cautious, since Hadleigh’s difficulty.” He shrugged aside Danbury’s nod.
“Pascual is a distant cousin whose flight from France gave him an unusual understanding of how to ferret out certain information.”
It was eleven o’clock when Captain Merristorm and Lieutenant Goodchurch joined them.
With an unpleasant chuckle, Merristorm removed an arm from Goodchurch’s shoulders. He dropped into a chair beside Danbury.
With a frown, Goodchurch hunkered into a seat to Broyal’s right. “Sorry we are late, sir—my lord.”
“Met a friend below stairs,” Merristorm said. “This nodcock would not come up without me.”
Goodchurch threw a fulminating look at the captain.
“Haunting me is a dammed waste of time,” Merristorm said. “Just like this dammed picket duty.” He frowned at Broyal. “How much longer do you mean to keep it up?”
“It’s a game of cat and mouse,” Lord Blake answered for the viscount. “I suggest the guards be moved inside and that the ladies have a guard disguised as a footman wherever they go during the day.”
Merristorm drained his glass. “Can’t guard against a bloody shadow. A spy can’t be about his own petty affairs.”
Broyal pulled on his ear. “It is my hope he will be forced to act. De la Croix, is there any news from Perceval?”
André took a small sheet of paper from his pocket. He pushed it toward the viscount. “A list of fifteen men, most in minor posts with low pay. The last six transcribe dispatches to and from the Peninsula.”
Taking the list, Danbury glanced at it. “One is Marchand’s youngest. He wouldn’t be up to anything havy-cavy.
“Let’s divide the lot between us.”
With an apologetic grimace, Hadleigh sat beside André. “Got detained at Sackville. Sinclair had a bee in his bonnet about another enclosure act.” He accepted a glass of port from André. “What have I missed?”
“We are moving the guards inside and will see that the ladies are always escorted,” Quentin reprised.
André motioned to Danbury to pass the list. “I have a list of employees at the War Office to investigate.”
Hadleigh glanced at it.
“Everyone should look it over,” André said, motioning Hadleigh to pass it to Goodchurch.
“Are all of these men suspect?” inquired Hadleigh.
“They are in a position to see and hear information which could prove harmful in the wrong hands,” André replied.
Scanning the list, Goodchurch murmured a name aloud. “Leonard? A Leonard called on Lady Edgerton today.”
“Do you know all of her callers?” asked Hadleigh.
“No, but this afternoon when that stiff-backed blond man left No. 6 he lit a cigarillo and walked toward the end of the block. Then a heavier young gentleman came out and hailed him.
“I couldn’t hear what was said but don’t think they were pleased with each other. Donavon passed them when he came on duty. He said the older man called the other Leonard.”
“Why remember such an occurrence?”
“He becometh poor that dealeth with a slack hand,” quoted Goodchurch and grinned sheepishly. “It had been a dead bore of a morn.”
Merristorm snorted. “Who is the stiff bloke, Tarrant?”
“Berthold von Willmar, formerly of the Prussian army. He calls on Lady Edgerton’s sister-in-law.” He shrugged away his distaste for the man. “He is from Germany and stays with Lade.”
Goodchurch leaned forward. “The Earl of Lade?”
“Yes. Elminda, Miss Edgerton, said von Willmar’s father was a friend of the late earl and that he had cause to be grateful to Lade for his hospitality.”
“As to Leonard,” Hadleigh recalled Amabelle’s hints and the look of the man. “He may have a problem with gaming.”
“I shall take him,” Merristorm grunted. “I know just the sort of places that feed on such fools,” he half snarled. “With any luck I shall
not encounter my pater,” he muttered.
After the others had left, André watched Hadleigh stare at the port in his glass. “It is still rather early,” he commented. “Shall we go to the Conrady’s affair? Tretain and the ladies will be there.” He waited for a moment and then tapped Hadleigh’s arm. “What is amiss?”
“Nothing,” Tarrant answered, but his frown deepened.
“Problems with the Board of Agriculture?”
“Board of?” Hadleigh gave a weary half-chuckle. “No, I am troubled by enclosures of a different sort.”
“Wish to speak of it?”
Hadleigh set aside his glass and again frowned. “Sarah is unhappy, troubled about something.” He dared not say aloud that Sarah might have decided Hale was the better choice.
“You were unable to be private with her?”
“The world was there. Von Willmar is always underfoot but Sarah wants the elder Miss Edgerton to have a chance at him. Miss Elminda does not seem at all his sort.”
“Judge not, mon frère.”
Oblivious of his meaning, Hadleigh continued, “There was something odd about Leonard.” He stood. “Any news from Pascual?”
“Non.”
Hadleigh paused. “Shall we go to the Conradys?”
André smiled sardonically. “An excellent suggestion.”
“Aunt may have procured an invitation for the Edgertons.”
Shaking his head André followed him from the room. Torn between disgust and pity, he thought, I must, indeed, become better acquainted with Sarah Edgerton.
Chapter Twenty-Two
London October 20 Friday
“Are you certain you do not recall that Mr. Crandall ever mentioned playing piquet?” Amabelle quizzed her stepmother. She rolled a length of lint. “I do not know how he won the last two sets.”
Sarah pressed a hand to her aching forehead. “What?”
“Do you still have the headache, Stepmama? Perhaps an infusion of Bishop’s wort would help?” When Sarah blanched, Amabelle went to her. “You should lie down.”