Live And Let Spy

by Carter, Elizabeth Ellen

  Speaking of which, Adam spied an absurdly expensive silver tea service on the sideboard.

  “Help yourself to tea, Mr. Hardacre,” said Ridgeway without once looking back. “It’s freshly brewed.”

  Adam did so, dropping a couple of lumps of sugar into a rather dainty china cup.

  “Any news from London?” he inquired casually as he poured the amber liquid. It smelled good on an empty stomach.

  “Nothing of interest,” Ridgeway answered, turning back to the room and collapsing the telescope.

  “Then would you mind telling me why I’m here? The suspense has been killing me.”

  Ridgeway picked up on his sardonic tone and answered it with a half-grin.

  “On behalf of His Majesty’s Government, I have been authorized to offer you a secret commission.”

  Adam nearly choked on his tea but mercifully refrained from spilling any on his shirt.

  “I am refused a rightful promotion in front of the Board in London but now you’re willing give me my due – as long as no one knows about it? Is that how things go, Ridgeway?”

  “You forget, the failure to award your promotion to lieutenant was a deliberate one.”

  Adam slammed the teacup down, not caring if it broke or not. “It was a humiliating one.”

  Ridgeway conceded the point with an incline of his head. “I regret the wound to your pride, but the public spectacle was necessary. News of your resignation in high dudgeon has been the talk of the Navy from admiral down to ordinary seaman.”

  “I’m so glad to have provided amusement.”

  Ridgeway gestured to a chair.

  “If you’ve quite finished sparring, we have work to do.”

  Adam remained where he stood for several beats before moving. Whatever Ridgeway and his men thought, he was no one’s lackey to jump when told. Finally, he sat.

  “There is a group within the war office whose remit is to conduct espionage,” Ridgeway began. “We answer directly to the Prime Minister and, occasionally, to the Prince of Wales himself. You will not find us mentioned in dispatches, nor will our work appear in any official war record. There are no glory hunters here, Hardacre.”

  “There’s a war on, obviously.”

  “Before the end of the year, there may be two – Spain is being quite bellicose. Again. But that’s by-the-by. It’s the French we’re concerned about. We’ve received word that the self-styled Emperor Napoleon plans to invade England. We’ve managed to thwart one plot but, according our sources, it is not the only one.”

  “Then we must protect our shores.”

  “That’s why we’re putting Nelson in charge.”

  A shudder went down Adam’s spine. Everyone knew of Lord Horatio Nelson. The man was a war hero, damned near invincible some called him. Very few men carried the injuries he wore and still lived. And yet there was more than just cannon and gun to kill a man – his own grief could do that, too.

  Adam had nothing but the greatest admiration for the admiral but, even so, a man had his limits. “I hear Lord Nelson is ill and heartsick after the death of his child. Are you sure he’s the right man for the job?”

  “He assures us he is and, as you know, there is no better naval tactician and commander in the entire Royal Navy, but let’s not get side tracked. Napoleon has called on all the resources of the state in his effort. Stopping an armada and France’s march into England, let alone across Europe, will be moot if we don’t first get rid of the rats in our own ranks. That’s where you come in.”

  “I’ve been demoted to rat catcher?”

  “More like promoted to Pied Piper.”

  Adam blinked. He had no comeback for that. He wasn’t even sure what it meant. Ridgeway gave him a look.

  “Whether you recognize it or not, a lot of people have had their eye on you. You’re an impressive man, Adam Christopher Hardacre. You’ve risen through the ranks by your own efforts alone.”

  “But not good enough to be awarded a commission,” Adam said bitterly.

  “Then I’ll come to the point,” said Ridgeway. “France is recruiting spies right under our very noses, turning some of our own men into traitors to their country. They’ve been feeding on malcontents.”

  Then all the pieces fell into place. Adam closed his eyes briefly and shook his head.

  “My humiliation was a set up,” he said under his breath.

  Ridgeway picked up his own teacup. “I did say it was deliberate, old man,” he said, the barest hint of regret in his tone. He took a sip and put the cup back down. “Spies are all well and good, Hardacre, but we need counterspies. We need someone to infiltrate their ranks, identify the ringleader, and discover whether France has other secret invasion plans.”

  “And that is my commission.”

  “If you choose to accept it.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “There’s always a choice. And the fact that you’re still sitting here talking to me suggests you’ve already made it.”

  Check and mate. Adam sighed and sank into the chair.

  “Then what’s next?”

  “Your humiliation, as you call it, should prove irresistible. Based on past experience, you’re likely to be contacted by a former associate or acquaintance who will sound you out on your loyalties. Let them cultivate you. Give them as much rope as you think necessary and report developments to either myself or to Bassett.”

  The half-blind shopkeeper raised his head from his work and grinned.

  “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Hardacre. Anything you need, I’m your man – equipment, weapons. Lord Ridgeway here will arrange clearance from the Admiralty for anything else you require.”

  “Bassett here is an excellent forger.”

  “Sentenced for seven years transportation to New South Wales before Lord Ridgeway employed me,” the strange little man boasted.

  Adam struggled to keep up with what just happened.

  “Lieutenant Hardacre?” Adam had to admit he rather like the sound of that said aloud.

  “It was the rank you applied for and giving it to you keeps the clerks in the Exchequer happy. Your wages will be two hundred pounds a year plus reasonable expenses which you’ll run through Bassett here.”

  “When I do begin?”

  Lord Ridgeway rose to his feet and extended his hand.

  “My dear chap, you’ve already begun. The Andromeda will remain in Falmouth for another six weeks. Stay in touch with your former crewmates. You have ties in the area, don’t you?”

  “I used to. All of my family are dead.”

  “Surely there’s some old sweetheart you can be down here to see.”

  Adam entertained the idea of calling on Constance for exactly half a second. He shook his head.

  “In that case, since you’ve ‘resigned’, look as though you’re planning to settle down. You come from a line of carpenters, don’t you?”

  “My father had the mill in Ponsnowyth.”

  “Perfect – right in the center. Nine miles from Truro, and five miles from Falmouth, make sure you’re seen about the place. Any questions?”

  Adam started to shake his head then stopped. “A disaffected bosun and a convicted forger – it’s a hell of an operation you’re running Ridgeway. Is this how you recruit all your spies?”

  The man grinned once more. “That’s nothing. Remind me to tell you one day how I came to meet my wife.”

  *

  “Is anything amiss, my dear?”

  Olivia started and the ledger in front of her sharpened back into focus. She glanced up at Fitzgerald’s mildly concerned face.

  “My apologies, Mr. Fitzgerald,” she answered. “I’m afraid to say I slept poorly last night and I’m more tired than I had realized. Where were we?”

  “There’s not so much to do – certainly not as much as I feared, and in light of your fatigue, I think we should finish our work tomorrow. Or perhaps, it is being cooped up in this room all day which is the cause. Would you like to accompany m
e back to Truro? I can attend to some neglected work at my office while you indulge yourself at the shops, then we might have supper and I can escort you back home.”

  “That’s extraordinarily kind of you, sir, but I must decline. While a ride out sounds wonderful, I would be much better served by retiring early. Perhaps another time.”

  Olivia wondered whether the solicitor would press the matter but he did not.

  He rose to his feet and took his hat from the coat rack. She followed him outside and held his russet horse still, stroking its neck absently while he harnessed the gig.

  “You do ride?”

  “A little. I would accompany Miss Lydia from time to time.”

  “Then you must ride with me before the weather turns. I see two of Beaufort’s horses at the pasture. Horses need be ridden.”

  “Then you’re very kind to offer to accompany me,” she responded.

  “It is you who does me the honor.”

  Fitzgerald reached out his hand. Olivia accepted it, expecting just a handshake. Instead, she felt a tug at her hand to draw her closer. There was a look in Fitzgerald’s eyes that made her think he wanted to kiss her hand.

  She withdrew it, masking her intent by stroking the horse’s muzzle once more. She wondered whether she had been successful. Mr. Fitzgerald kept his expression closed.

  “Until tomorrow, Miss Collins,” he said, climbing up into the gig.

  She stepped away from the horse and waved him away, glad for the solitude that was hers. It allowed her to indulge the subject which had genuinely occupied her thoughts.

  Oh, poor Constance.

  The poor woman – girl – Olivia reminded herself, she lived only long enough to mark her twentieth birthday. She would be thirty-eight if she had lived – the same age as her father’s second bride. She turned away from the drive and began to walk through the gardens toward the edge of the estate that overlooked Ponsnowyth.

  She had read all the letters and the diary last night. Sleep had claimed her only after the sky had turned grey in the pre-dawn light. Even so, Olivia had risen early when she remembered Peter Fitzgerald’s impending arrival.

  Perhaps it was her exhaustion as much as her own fanciful imagination, but she was struck by a sensation, an awareness of Constance Denton. How had she never recognized it in all the years she lived at Kenstec? But now, having read the young woman’s diary, she now saw her presence everywhere.

  She stopped and turned back to look at Kenstec. Her description of the house, of dinner parties in the dining room, the dances in the entrance hall were brought vividly to life in the long forgotten pages of the girl’s journal.

  Now, the permanent pall which seemed to inhabit the place finally had a cause.

  She continued her walk through the grounds, deep in thought.

  The diary told of a very shy and lonely young girl, intimidated by her father – terrified of him, in fact. She would only have one debut season, and that proved to be less than successful. The only offer made for her hand came from a rather odious toad whose lascivious intent made itself known on more than one occasion.

  Constance found a small wellspring of courage and refused the match. She was sent home alone in disgrace and her misery was complete, banished for the summer alone at Kenstec House while her father found his own amusement in Truro.

  Little by little, page by page, the diary revealed the beginning of a friendship with a boy from the village named Adam. He was young, handsome, and treated her like a princess. His kind attentions were just the balm needed to soothe a wounded spirit. They met nearly daily by the old priory ruins at the edge of the estate.

  Olivia felt the urge to go there keenly, as though Constance’s spirit, rather than Olivia’s own natural curiosity, drove her. She followed the path to the right, past the kitchen gardens which were already beginning to show signs of neglect following the departure of the household staff.

  A large beech tree overhung the track that led into the woods. The heavy weight of still ripening beechnuts obscured the way forward, but Olivia knew the path well. She pulled some of the newest leaves from the tree and chewed on its cabbage-like texture to satiate a noon hunger. She would not go back to the house, not now as Constance called her forward.

  Besides, the dappled shade of the woods was pleasant in contrast to the beating heat of a sun which had not yet passed its zenith.

  Constance had such a lovely way with words. In her diary, she described the gorse and the colorful meadow flowers of whites, yellows, pinks, and blues that raised their heads above the leaf litter to turn their faces to the sun. The stream that would eventually make its way to the Carrick was still a ways ahead and the old priory another one hundred and fifty yards beyond that.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Olivia spotted a wagtail, its vivid yellow breast glinting in the sunlight as it darted in and out of the leaves, hunting for insects. Overhead, somewhere beyond the canopy, she heard the petrels calling.

  Nothing would have changed since the days Constance walked in these woods some twenty years ago; an enchanted wood where she found love for such a short time.

  Olivia imagined herself in Constance’s shoes for a moment. What must the first flush of love feel like? To look into the eyes of another and see admiration and desire reflected back in equal measure? To be held and caressed with tenderness?

  Constance had described all of those feelings and more for someone who was no more than a youth and she not much older.

  Snap!

  The distinct sound of a twig breaking underfoot pulled Olivia from her daydreaming.

  Someone else was here! No one should be in the woods.

  She ran toward the ruins of the old stone monastery and had just managed to hide herself when she spotted the man. She peered through the windowless aperture of one of the standing end walls.

  Whoever he was, he was a working man. A poacher? He carried no gun. He didn’t have any traps or snares with him either. A thief? If so, then why would he linger here in the ruins and not reconnoiter the house?

  The man was tall with fair hair cut neat. His clothes were not expensive, but they seemed new. Brown breeches tucked into black boots; a cream shirt worn without a jacket in deference to the warm summer’s day; sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The forearms below them were tanned.

  Olivia glanced through the woods toward the house. Should she break cover and make a dash back to the house? She glanced back at the man who had stopped at the edge of the stream. Curse her luck. He seemed to be in no hurry to move.

  He just stood there.

  Then he turned her way.

  Chapter Six

  Adam felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.

  He was not alone.

  Whoever watched did not want to make themselves known. He turned slowly, looking in the shadows for a telltale figure. Nothing made itself obvious to him. The stream bubbled along merrily as it had always done; the old priory was still there. He’d played in the ruin as a child and later became a man there, in deed if not in years. In fact, it looked as though not another stone had tumbled since he first saw it. It made him feel like he was ten years old once more.

  Surmising that whoever watched had slipped away, more cautious of him than he was of them, Adam started whistling a familiar tune, one they used to keep time as they brought in the halyards. He approached the standing end wall where an old window opening would have once have contained stained glass, the sill at waist height. Adam placed a palm flat on the wall to the left of the opening and closed his eyes, feeling the rough texture of stone weathered for centuries but still solid – a mute sentinel which had stood watch while two young people cautiously and tentatively explored the act of love together.

  Sweet Constance.

  Kenstec House was only just through the trees. Perhaps it wouldn’t do any harm to venture as far as the edge of the lawns. He doubted anyone would recognize him. Squire Denton would be in his seventies now, if he lived.

  Eve
n if his presence was questioned, he could always say he was a rambler who had lost his way.

  Adam took a deep breath, bringing with it the nostalgic scent of honeysuckle. It was a perfume Constance favored, and it was strong here, as though her presence lingered still. And yet…

  He furrowed a brow. There was no honeysuckle covering the ruins, so where had it come from?

  He opened his eyes and was face to face with a woman through the opening in the wall.

  “Constance?”

  The woman looked as shocked as he did.

  Before he had time to compose himself, the woman fled, disappearing into the thick of the trees.

  “Constance!”

  He called out her name once more but had gone no further than a few steps in pursuit before his rational mind could alert him to the differences between the two women.

  Constance would be nearly forty now. That woman was at least ten years younger. This woman’s hair was much darker. But it was the eyes he remembered. Constance’s eyes were the lightest shade of blue. His wood sprite had brown eyes – as big and as frightened as a doe’s.

  Adam chuckled to himself. He’d frightened a maid from Kenstec House. Or perhaps, it was she who startled him.

  Either way, it wasn’t an auspicious return to Ponsnowyth.

  He left the woods by the same path he’d entered, one that would take him out to the main road down into the village. He had made his lodgings at the local inn owned by the Trellows and given his name to the young man behind the bar, but nothing out of the ordinary registered on his face.

  It would appear the name of Hardacre in these parts died along with his father ten years ago. And he himself had been gone for twenty…perhaps Ridgeway had miscalculated. Why would anyone particularly care about him? And yet his lordship seemed certain enough.

  Walking the road, he reached the entrance to the formal drive to Kenstec House and leaned against a stone pillar to relace his boot. Framed in the line of trees was the figure of the young woman in green he’d startled. Now, she made a less hurried pace back to the house.