“I agree,” Lord Slough said. “I can’t answer for the consequences of disturbing Colonel Gibbons at cards.”
Aunt Mattie laughed at this witticism; Papa could be a bear when disturbed at whist. Andromeda managed a titter, but were Lord Slough’s words really a jest... or a threat?
If she told Papa, would he go straight to his superiors? Knowing Papa, he would first confront Lord Slough.
And Lord Slough, rather than be unmasked as a traitor, would kill him.
She choked down a little more wine. She mustn’t allow her imagination to run wild. Perhaps Lord Slough hadn’t noticed that someone was behind the curtain. Even if he had, he had no reason to suspect her. She shouldn’t take even one more sip, for wine quickly made her foolish. She turned, thinking to hand the goblet to Lord Slough.
His eyes were on her slippers.
Hurriedly, she tucked them under the hem of her gown. She shivered, and he took her gloved hand in his, chafing it gently. Somehow she managed not to snatch it away. Her other hand trembled, and she almost spilled the wine.
“Are you cold, my dear? I’m not surprised. You shouldn’t have gone out on the terrace.”
She couldn’t deny it; even if he hadn’t seen her, her soiled slippers told their own tale. She gathered herself enough to look up; he frowned down at her, the picture of husbandly concern. “A lady shouldn’t venture out at night alone,” he said. “You shall not do so once we are married.”
She managed a laugh and a wan smile. “Certainly not—only a minute or two out there and my slippers are quite stained.” She should explain. “I wouldn’t have done so tonight, except that it was so dreadfully hot in here, such a crush with all the people and so many candles.” That sounded reasonable, didn’t it? “Fortunately, there was no one else outdoors.”
“Fortunate indeed,” he said, and she had to repress another shudder at his smooth tone. “We should leave now,” he added softly. “There’s no need for your aunt to accompany us.”
Did he know she’d overheard their conversation? She might have merely stepped onto the terrace, just as she’d said, unless... She visualized the small drawing room, the long curtains at the French doors...
Might her slippers have shown beneath the hem of the curtains? Or had she somehow moved the curtain a little, alerting him to her presence?
She shivered again. He had never before suggested anything as improper as accompanying her home alone. She knew with sudden certainty that if the footman hadn’t returned, she would now be dead.
If she left with Lord Slough, he would surely kill her.
“Now, now, my lord.” Aunt Mattie clucked, and her crony tittered. “That wouldn’t be proper.”
Thank God for Aunt Mattie.
Lord Slough laughed. “Come now. So close to the date of our marriage, the proprieties hardly matter.”
Aunt Mattie wagged a finger. “The proprieties always matter.”
Lord Slough huffed his impatience. “Nonsense. I can certainly control my ardor for a few more days.”
“Doubtless that is so, Lord Slough, but nevertheless—”
A vision swept over Andromeda of both herself and Aunt Mattie lying dead in a ditch, the victims, apparently, of footpads. Of more innocent footmen murdered. Of English spies tortured and killed.
She couldn’t let any of that happen. She had to do something and do it now.
“Auntie dear, you mustn’t fuss. I am in good hands with Lord Slough.” Andromeda returned the clasp of her betrothed. “I trust him,” she said, and tipped the rest of the wine down her gown.
Lord Fenimore heard Andromeda’s startled yelp. He glanced across the ballroom. She’d spilt wine on her bodice—unusually clumsy for such a graceful woman.
It was none of his business. He finished his conversation and prepared to leave. Andromeda had disappeared, presumably to find a change of clothing. Lord Slough chatted with the Prime Minister. He had far too many powerful friends, giving him both the perfect opportunity and cover for treason.
Fen left a plate with two cream puffs under a chair for the hobgoblin, then found Harry Welcome in his footman’s disguise at a post near the door. Fen had tried to convince him to stay in hiding, but Harry wasn’t the sort to sit about while others solved his problems for him. It was a good disguise—a wig, spectacles, and darkened skin to cover his freckles—but not enough, in Fen’s opinion.
He glanced about, but there was no one within earshot. “Damn it,” he muttered, “what if someone takes a good, long look at you?”
“They won’t,” Harry said. “No one bothers to look at servants.” His brow creased. “Stinson’s gone.” A friend of Harry’s, he worked for an agency that hired out temporary servants for functions such as this ball.
“Gone where?” asked Fen.
“Dunno,” said Harry. “He was keeping watch on the terrace. I stuck my head out to question him, but he’s nowhere to be seen.”
“Was there any sign that Lord Slough had met with someone in that little room?”
Harry shrugged. “No one else went in, and when I interrupted him, he was cursing because his candle had gone out. But if Stinson wasn’t on the terrace, someone could have entered from there.”
Fen took his hat from Harry and set it on his head. “I can’t think of any reason for Stinson to leave unless he tailed someone, but I’ll take a look round the terrace and yard.”
“Slough just called for his carriage. I’ll follow him,” Harry said, and moved away to help a gentleman on with his cloak and hat. Fen blew out a breath; Harry could play a convincing upper class servant, but this imposture was madness. Not that he blamed Harry for enjoying the intrigue. He would enjoy it too, if it weren’t for Harry risking his life, and his own father refusing to believe anything he said, and Andromeda... Best not to think about her.
Fen detoured by way of the back door. One advantage of being in trade was that no one would look askance if he sought a word with the butler about delivery of furniture. In any event, he met no one on the back stairs and purloined a lantern from the mudroom. A fat buttery spirit glared down at him from a shelf. Evidently there were excellent pickings in the larder here.
Fen went into the yard. A quick search behind the cistern and chicken coop revealed no one. He set the lantern down and swung himself onto the wall and then the terrace, where a few lanterns still glowed feebly. Again, no one, and it wasn’t until he caught his coat on a projecting bit of stone that he realized that someone else had suffered the same annoyance. A much worse one, though, since a long strip of white linen still adhered to the stone.
Which could mean nothing or a great deal. Fen pocketed the scrap of linen, returned the lantern to the mudroom, and left the house by the front door.
Stinson was a streetwise fellow, but they were up against ruthless people—yet another reason he didn’t like the idea of pampered Andromeda Gibbons in Lord Slough’s power even for a short while. She was part of Slough’s façade of respectability for now, but matters were coming to a head, and anything might happen.
There was nothing to be done about that. Lord Fen put up his collar against the wind and strode rapidly toward home.
Andromeda fended off her aunt and scurried to the ladies’ withdrawing room, where a maid waited to help out in just such a mishap as this. All heads turned to stare at the ruin of Andromeda’s gown.
She ignored the other ladies. “Can you find me something to change into?” she asked the maid, who bobbed a curtsey. “Just something to ride home in.”
“Certainly, miss.” The maid led her out of the withdrawing room and up a flight of stairs to a passageway. “I don’t know that I’ve anything that will fit you well, but with a couple of pins we should be able to make do.” They entered a bedchamber, and while Andromeda prayed for haste, the maid placidly lit a few candles and opened a clothes press. “This is one of the spare rooms. Odd articles of clothing are kept here.”
“Something dark-colored if you have it,” Andromed
a said, practically dancing with impatience. She had to hurry. She stripped off her gloves and tugged at the hooks at the back of her gown, ripping them when they resisted. Why must women’s clothing be so inconvenient to get in and out of? “I don’t want to change my shift and stays—they’re only a little damp. My gown took the brunt of it.”
“Aye, miss, it surely did.” The maid tossed a red woolen cloak onto the bed, and then held up a blue gown with a rather low neckline. “Will this do?”
“Yes, fine.” It was a little too big, but this was no time to be choosy.
“There, there, miss, I’ll take care of that for you.” The maid went to work on the rest of the hooks and ties.
“Thank you. Please hurry.” Andromeda shivered now, not with cold but with fear. She had to get out of the house without being seen. Could she trust this woman to help her?
Perhaps, but if Lord Slough questioned the maid, she was better off knowing nothing. When Andromeda was finally dressed again—it seemed to take forever—she dug into her reticule and pressed a coin into the woman’s hand. “The neckline is too low, so I’ll take that cloak, too.” A pity the cloak was such a bright red, but she didn’t have time to wait for something better. She swept the cloak off the bed and gave the woman another coin. “You may keep my gown—perhaps something of it can be salvaged.” She thanked her and left the room almost at a run, closing the door behind her.
Instead of returning the way they had come, she continued along the corridor. Almost immediately she realized she’d forgotten her gloves, but she dare not return for them. A lady never went out in public without gloves...
What a stupid thing to concern oneself with under such circumstances!
There was bound to be a flight of service stairs leading into a yard. Fortunately, the wall sconces gave enough light to show the way. She pushed open the door at the end and made her way down a dark staircase, guided by the light at the bottom. To one side a door led to the brightly lit kitchens; to the other, what might be the housekeeper’s room. Straight ahead was a mudroom with a deal table to one side, which, judging by the smell and the dull gleam of a knife, was used for cleaning and eviscerating fowl. Past the mudroom, just as she’d hoped, a door led into the yard.
A sudden light in the yard made her gasp and shrink back. Someone was out there with a lantern shuttered on three sides. The beam moved slowly about the yard, revealing a cistern, a chicken coop, and the garden walls. The man—for that figure was definitely male—cast its beam behind the coop and cistern, then set the lantern down and disappeared. She waited a breathless minute or two, wondering where he’d gone, and was about to venture toward the door when the man reappeared and approached the door.
Andromeda snatched the poultry knife and scuttled under the deal table, gathering the cloak about her. She found herself grasping the golden locket again and let it go. How stupid that after so many years she still sought comfort from a mere piece of jewelry. The knife would be much more useful if she had to defend herself.
The door swung slowly open with a faint creak. Andromeda held her breath, but she couldn’t help but tremble, and the knife seemed to quiver along with her. The flame in the lantern flared erratically. The man blew it out and set the lantern on a shelf. He passed through the mudroom and on down a corridor toward the front of the house.
After his footsteps died away, Andromeda crept out from under the table. She stowed the knife in the pocket of her cloak and ducked quickly out the back door. Thank God she’d once been a tomboy and had climbed many a wall in the days when she and Fen were childhood friends.
She mustn’t think about him. She clambered onto the coop as the easiest way over the wall. The chickens, disturbed in their slumbers, clucked and fussed. She paused, cursing her lack of foresight, willing them to be quiet, but she couldn’t wait and hope no one had heard. She had to keep moving, to get away. She pulled herself up from the coop onto the wall and lowered herself into the garden next door.
If only no servants were awake, if only no one had a watchdog... She picked her way across the garden. She stubbed her toe on something sharp, suppressed a yelp, and got over the next wall by way of a cistern. Only two or three more houses to go, and she would reach a street... which street? And where would she go?
Not home; Lord Slough would surely look for her there. Poor Aunt Mattie and Papa would be out of their minds with worry, wondering what had happened to her. She thought of several members of the government whom she might approach, but most of them were Lord Slough’s cronies and would think she’d run mad. Between the great Lord Slough and an apparently hysterical female, the choice would be obvious. She needed to find someone who would take her seriously.
She crept through two more gardens and pulled herself over the next wall, scraping her arms on the brick and pricking herself accidentally with the knife, which poked through a hole in the cloak pocket. She had just jumped down the other side when a door opened not ten feet away. She froze, huddled in the shadows, and fumbled for the knife.
A servant grumbled, “Make up your mind, do!” and a cat sidled out the door. The servant shut the door firmly behind it. The cat trotted over to Andromeda and rubbed itself against her leg, purring loudly. Andromeda stifled a hysterical giggle, reminded of a time when she and Fen had hidden together in an orchard where they’d been stealing apples. The owner had almost caught them, thanks to a too-friendly cat.
Red Lion Street, Holborn.
Not so very far away—something over a mile, two at the most.
Lord Fenimore didn’t love her anymore—didn’t even like her. She cringed at the thought of approaching him, but her own fears mattered not at all when the fate of England was at stake. Not only that, Fen was the logical person to go to, since his father, Lord Overwood, worked in the Home Office. Perhaps Fen lived above his shop, as many merchants did—and if not, he or someone who worked for him would get there bright and early.
All she had to do was get from here to there. She tiptoed across the garden, hefted herself over the last wall, glanced to right and left, and lowered herself into the street.
CHAPTER FOUR
ANDROMEDA HAD NEVER gone out at night alone. She hadn’t even walked alone in London in the daytime. She’d always had a footman or a maid to accompany her, and then only in the safest areas of town.
Nothing felt safe at night.
She stowed her reticule—an obvious enticement to thieves—into the top of her stays and clasped the cloak tightly about herself. The summer night wasn’t chilly, but the low bodice didn’t fit her and tended to gape. She hurried along the street, not east as she wished to go, but north, both away from Brook Street and in the opposite direction from home. Where else might Lord Slough expect her to go? She considered the houses of various friends, but all were in Mayfair and too close to home. Getting past servants she’d seldom or never met at three o’clock in the morning was well-nigh impossible. If Lord Slough had the streets in that area patrolled, he might easily catch her helpless on someone’s doorstep. She had chosen the best course.
But men strolled in the streets even at this hour, and further east one ran quickly into unsavory parts of town. She’d seen prostitutes at Covent Garden after the theatre; she couldn’t risk being taken for one of those. She headed north a while longer before turning to the east. Maidservants sometimes sneaked out at night and returned safely. She should pretend to herself that she had gone to meet a lover—she would have blushed at the thought if she hadn’t been so afraid—and was now scurrying home before her mistress found out and dismissed her. She would walk with a sense of purpose but try not to draw attention to herself...
Three men sauntered down the pavement toward her, jesting and laughing. Head down, she rushed onward, trying to feel invisible. It wasn’t easy in a red cloak.
One of the men stepped in front of her. “Hello there, darling. Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
Andromeda kept her head averted and dodged around him. “I’m go
ing home.”
He followed, putting an arm around her. “Come on, sweetheart, give us a kiss.”
“Leave me be!” she cried. “I’m late. I have to go.”
“Now, now,” he said. “The night is young.” He leaned in, trying to kiss her.
Ugh! “Let me go!” She jabbed him with her elbow.
“Damnable little bitch,” the man said, and Andromeda picked up her skirts, stumbled a little, and ran.
“Leave her, Johnny,” one of his friends said.
“Lots of friendly wenches about,” the other said. “Who needs that one?”
At last she reached the corner and was out of their sight. She slowed a little, knowing that running would only draw attention, clutching her cloak tight again with one hand and grasping the knife in the other.
Left, past two streets, and right again—
A watchman strolled toward her, lamp and staff in hand. She retraced her steps in a hurry, continued to the next street and turned right again. Here there were fewer streetlamps, so it was horridly dark. She was perilously close to areas she should avoid. She hastened onward, skirting a cart that, judging by the ghastly smell, belonged to the night soil men. The driver, hunched over the reins, eyed her and spat, then faced forward again.
She hastened eastward once more. Her feet ached with every step. Her slippers were torn, the cobblestones cold and damp, and she kept slipping on horse droppings and other disgusting muck. How did the barefoot urchins who swept the crossings bear it?
A market cart, lit by a single lantern, lumbered into view. It must be headed toward Covent Garden, and daylight couldn’t be far away. Andromeda glanced at the wagon, at its load of cabbages, at the man driving it and the woman beside him, feeling safer now. More carts would come, people would appear, and she wouldn’t be so alone. She pressed on; it couldn’t be more than another quarter mile or so...
“Well now, what do we have here?”
Brawny arms surrounded her, lifting her off the ground; she shrieked, kicking and thrashing. The man guffawed and hugged her tighter. His hot breath laved her ear. She screamed for help, but raucous laughter joined in with the man’s guffaws. Terror threatened to overwhelm her.
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