Fen gritted his teeth and tried to think. He had to get away, and quickly. With Slough still at large, Andromeda was in worse peril than he’d thought.
“As regards the sale of names, we have no proof at all,” the marquis said. “There is nothing in writing, needless to say, and if I were to arrest the Vidame de Laborde, he would certainly implicate Lord Slough. I cannot risk the sort of scandal the government is desperate to avoid. It’s far more practical to kill all the French spies, including Laborde, and leave Slough be.”
“Why not have him killed as well? You were willing to murder Harry.”
The marquis tutted. “Lord Slough will be watched carefully. We hope he will consider himself safe and dabble in treason again, which would prove a useful way to unmask more spies, but we can do nothing more for the present.”
Everything was to be blamed on Harry Wellcome so that Slough would remain unsuspecting. With Harry in more or less permanent exile, Lord Overwood doubtless expected the furniture shop to fail and Fen to return to society.
Fen was damned if he would let his father win, but that was for the future.
“What about Andromeda Gibbons? She heard him plotting. She will testify to that.”
“My dear boy, don’t you understand? We can’t let this become public.”
“Public be damned. Don’t you understand? If Slough gets his hands on her, he’ll kill her.”
“That would indeed be unfortunate, but I don’t think Lord Slough will do anything so hasty. As a matter of fact, he still intends to marry her.”
The coach rumbled over a bumpy stretch of cobblestones, and Fen winced again—this time on purpose. He must convince his father that he was in no shape to put up any resistance. “For God’s sake, why? Not that it matters—she won’t agree to it.”
“Tsk,” his father said. “Of course she will, when the alternative is to be shunned by the whole of society. Her father will order her to wed him, and she will obey.” He paused and asked again, “Where is she?”
Fen’s head already felt better, but he winced again and said “ouch” for good measure. He mustn’t let his father see how frightened he now was for Andromeda’s life. Soon they would reach the outskirts of town. “I don’t know; she left while I was asleep.”
“Couldn’t stomach the environment of trade, I’m sure. I can’t imagine why she chose to run to you.”
“Because it was the last place anyone would expect her to go.” Fen sighed. “Poor Andromeda. She doesn’t want to marry Slough. She’d already decided to jilt him before she overheard him plotting with the spy.”
“Why? She’ll be a countess. What more could she wish for?” He eyed Fen. “I assume you bedded the wench.” Before Fen could decide whether or not to lie, the marquis laughed. “I must say, it would improve Slough’s line immensely if his firstborn son was actually a Trent.”
“Unfortunately, that won’t be the case,” Fen said coldly. The coach jolted, and he feigned another wince.
“I regret that blow to the head, Fen. It is plain to me that you are in considerable pain, but a day or two in bed should mend that.”
“It would help if you allowed me to sit on the bench,” Fen said dryly. “The jolting is far worse on the floor.”
“Of course.” His father put a hand under Fen’s arm and heaved him onto the bench.
Fen braced himself, and with both hands did the unthinkable. He struck his father a stunning blow to the chin.
“L-lord Slough,” Andromeda breathed.
Papa put his arm around her. “My darling girl, whatever has become of you?” He held her away from him, shock taking over after the first burst of relief. “Why are you dressed as a boy? Good God, I can conceive of nothing more improper. Did any of the servants see you?”
“Only Charles,” she said. “I asked him to say nothing for fear Aunt Mattie would have hysterics.” As if that mattered now!
“Rightly so. We’ll have to sneak you to your chamber when no one is about. Think of the gossip—as if it wasn’t already bad enough. I am most upset with you, Andromeda, for running away like that.”
“I’m sorry, Papa,” she mumbled, casting about for something to say. What would Lord Slough do if she accused him here and now?
“Lord Slough has brought me some grave news,” Papa said. “He tells me you ran away to Lord Fenimore Trent. Why you chose him I do not understand.”
Strange that he hadn’t asked why she’d run away—which was all to the good, seeing as she dare not tell the truth with Lord Slough here. “Because I didn’t think anyone would expect me to go there, and of course because I trust him.”
Papa rubbed a weary hand over his face. He didn’t look at all well. “Andromeda, you couldn’t have done worse. Lord Slough has just informed me that Lord Fenimore is a traitor.”
“What?” she shrieked. She didn’t care; she couldn’t let this travesty happen. “Lord Slough is the traitor!”
There was a hushed silence; then Slough said sadly, “Is that what Lord Fenimore told you?’
“He didn’t have to tell me,” she raged. “I overheard you plotting with a French spy.”
“So you did. I wish you hadn’t, or at the very least, that you had taxed me with it rather than running away. I would have explained.”
“Explained what?” she snapped.
“That I am an agent of the Crown.”
She didn’t believe it.
“That I was on a mission to find the traitor with whom the Vidame de Laborde, the well-known pâtissier, was dealing. In this rather dirty business, sometimes one must pretend to be on the other side, so to speak.”
She still didn’t believe it, but Papa nodded, his lips tight, his demeanor grim. She didn’t know what to think, what to say.
“Lord Fenimore is the traitor, not I,” said Slough.
“That’s not possible! Fen—Lord Fenimore―wouldn’t do such a thing.”
Lord Slough shrugged. “He keeps up appearances, but his shop is not doing well. Many of his most prominent customers haven’t paid their bills, the Regent amongst them.”
This might be true. For many members of the nobility, the only debts that mattered were so-called debts of honor. “Perhaps, but that doesn’t make him a traitor,” she said hotly.
“Andromeda, my dear, you disrespect Lord Slough,” Papa said. “I realize the logic may be lost on the female mind, but pray try to think it through. Why would a prominent nobleman like Lord Slough, whose lineage stretches back centuries, resort to treason? Even if he were of such a mind—which I assure you he is not—he would not be so foolish as to risk title, status, possessions, even his very life.”
She wasn’t a complete idiot. She understood the logic, but that didn’t make it the truth.
“Whereas Lord Fenimore...” Papa tutted sadly, shaking his head.
Lord Slough nodded somberly. “Precisely, Colonel Gibbons. Not only is Lord Fenimore in a precarious position financially, but he and his partner, Mr. Wellcome, associate with known seditionists. Mr. Wellcome is vocal in his mistrust of the ruling classes. I daresay he would be happy to see a bloodbath in England such as devastated France not long since.”
Slough grimaced. “Wellcome’s behavior is hardly surprising, given the pervasive cowardice of the lower orders. He fled the country recently, leaving Lord Fenimore in the lurch—where he most certainly deserves to be.”
“Lord Overwood is devastated, needless to say, but it will all be hushed up,” Papa said. “Such a scandal in one of our most prominent families would be disastrous in wartime.”
“The furniture shop will have to be shut down,” Slough said.
Andromeda looked from one man to the other, to the sadness in Papa’s eyes and the sneer in Lord Slough’s. What if what they said was true, and Fen, her dearest Fen, was a traitor? What if she’d got it all wrong?
“I’m very sorry, Andromeda,” Papa said, “but thankful that you’re home again, as is Lord Slough. We have both been extremely worried ab
out you.”
She glanced at Lord Slough and back at Papa again. And then, once again, at Lord Slough. She dropped her eyes, for what she’d seen in his wasn’t merely the usual sneer—it was malicious satisfaction.
“Whatever Lord Fenimore has become, I’m sure he didn’t harm you,” Papa said, desperate hope in his voice.
“No,” Andromeda said slowly, sinking into a chair as she realized what she had almost done. “He was most kind to me, but I didn’t want you and Aunt Mattie to worry, so I came home.”
Papa was innocent, but Lord Slough wasn’t. She’d seen it in his eyes... but she’d almost believed him. She’d almost believed his accusation of Fen.
Just as Fen had believed Donald Crockett’s lie five years ago.
She had far less excuse, for she already disliked and distrusted Lord Slough, whereas Donald had been Fen’s close friend. Appalled, she covered her face with her hands.
She’d accused Fen of not loving her. Of course he loved her, just as she loved him. She tried to force back the tears. Sobs crowded into her throat. Her shoulders shook with the effort to suppress them.
“There, there, my love.” Papa patted her head. “You’re a brave girl, and you’re home safe now. We shall have to make up a story about what happened, but none of that will matter once you are married to Lord Slough.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FEN GLANCED ABOUT him for something, anything with which to cut his bonds. He wouldn’t get far with his hands tied, and his father wouldn’t stay under for long. He bit and tugged at the knots while calling for his weapons, but as expected there was no response—they’d indeed been left at the shop.
He couldn’t bite the blasted knots open fast enough. How he wished men still carried weapons as a matter of course. Lord Thorgraham had brought a battle-ax to a ball not long since, causing quite a commotion. Fen would happily settle for a sword; if they were still in fashion, his father would certainly have worn one. He glanced about the coach, searching, calling for anything metal that might serve.
Something stirred in his pocket. The spy’s folding knife! Come to me, he ordered it, and it stirred again, but although it felt the pull of magic, it wasn’t Fen’s knife or even an English one. It didn’t know his voice, or his language...
He switched to French: “Viens, cher couteau.”
It stirred again, less tentatively this time. He continued in French, calling the knife his darling, urging it to come to his call, saying it belonged to him now, promising it useful work. He stretched his legs, giving it easy egress from the pocket of his breeches, and glanced at his father. The old man took a deep breath but didn’t wake... yet.
The knife still hesitated. It was just a simple penknife, but it belonged to an assassin. Was it tired of mending pens? Did it envy its larger, sharper brothers? Do you yearn for blood?
The knife popped out of his pocket and landed on the bench beside Fen. He pounced on it, pulled it open, and took it in his teeth, soothing it and making promises to it as he sawed at the rope. Cut my bonds quickly and come with me, and I will give you blood aplenty.
Free at last, Fen used the knife to cut his father’s purse free of his fob. He emptied it and took every penny. Then he grabbed his father’s cane and pounded on the carriage roof. The vehicle came to a halt. The marquis’ eyelids fluttered open... and closed again.
Fen opened the door and jumped down. “My father is in need of medical attention,” he told the coachman. “Take him home.”
Andromeda raised her head, unable to believe her ears. Lord Slough still wanted to marry her? Why?
The answer was obvious—because he needed the connection to her father in order to continue his treasonous activities. Which must mean Lord Overwood had refused to believe Donald Crockett, and the remaining French spies were still at large.
Well, she could do nothing about the French spies, but she could definitely cut the connection with Lord Slough. She took the handkerchief Papa held out, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.
She squared her shoulders and called upon the poise she had perfected over the years. “Lord Slough, I regret to inform you that I must break our engagement.”
Slough’s face darkened. “What the devil?”
“I have decided that we are unsuited to one another,” she said. “Therefore, I cannot marry you.”
“Andromeda, my dear, what has come over you?” Papa said “You have no choice but to marry his lordship. Indeed, it is most generous of him to take you under the circumstances.”
“Perhaps, but nevertheless I cannot marry him.”
Lord Slough stood, his eyes narrowed, his face suffused with anger. Papa put up a hand. “Compose yourself, Lord Slough. There may be a good reason for my daughter’s change of sentiment.” He bent a severe gaze on Andromeda. “Lord Fen... Did he violate you, my dearest?”
“Violate me?” Oh, what a horrid expression. “Certainly not!”
“No,” Lord Slough said silkily. “I expect she enjoyed it.”
“How dare you malign my daughter?” Papa cried, but still he turned doubtful eyes on Andromeda. “You’ve always been a truthful girl.”
No, not always, but today the truth wasn’t getting her anywhere, and what she’d done with Fen was none of their business. “My decision has nothing to do with Lord Fenimore. I had decided to call off the engagement before I overheard Lord Slough plotting.”
“Nonsense,” Slough barked. “You were content with our engagement a few days ago. I am sorry if my work for the crown frightens you, but you will become accustomed.”
“Is that the reason for your change of heart, my dear?” asked Papa.
Slough huffed. “Marriage is a business arrangement, nothing to do with sentiment.”
Papa looked pained—he’d married Mama for love—but still he persisted. “Well, Andromeda?”
She shook her head. “No, that’s not it.”
“Then why?”
“Because—”
“Andromeda?” A trembling female voice sounded outside the room, and Aunt Mattie burst in. She took one look at Andromeda and shrieked, “Oh, heaven help us, whatever will we do? She is utterly ruined; she may as well be dead.”
Papa bustled over. “Now, now, Mattie. Calm yourself. All will be well. Let me take you back to bed.” He guided her toward the door, saying over his shoulder, “Explain yourself to Lord Slough, my dear. I’m sure you can work it out between you.”
He guided Aunt Mattie out and shut the door behind him, leaving Andromeda alone with Lord Slough.
She shivered, all at once very frightened and very alone. She glanced at the fireplace for comfort, but the grate and bricks had been swept clean. She should have noticed earlier; if there had been even a remnant of burning coal, the flames would have flared wildly at her distress.
Slough approached her, malice lingering in his eyes. She backed away, but then stopped. She had nothing to fear. He wouldn’t kill her here and now.
She lifted her chin and finished her sentence. “It’s because I don’t like you,” she said.
“I don’t like you either, my dear, but nevertheless you will marry me.”
“No, I shall not. You are rude, unkind, and full of your own consequence.”
“Ah, I see what it is,” he said. “You liked me well enough until we encountered Lord Fenimore, and I quite rightly put him in his place.”
“No,” she said, “it’s nothing to do with Fen, or at least not really. That incident was merely the last straw. It was bad enough that you treated him with unwarranted condescension—whether or not he’s in trade, he is as well-born as you are—and then, of all stupid things, you implied that he had poor taste in furniture. I realized I couldn’t stomach marrying a man who makes not only unkind but ridiculous remarks in the hope of being seen as clever.”
His face darkened again, and evil intent burned in his eyes. She hurried away from him, wondering if she had gone too far. She glanced at the mantelpiece, at Papa’s dressing table, a
t the table by his bed. There must be a tinder box somewhere. A spark was all she needed.
Better yet, she should just leave the room.
Lord Slough moved between her and the door. “Listen to me, you little trollop.”
“There it is.” She spied the tinder box at last, poking out of the pocket of Papa’s coat.
Slough took her by the arm just before she reached the coat. Terrified, she wrenched away and grasped the little metal box. “I’m cold,” she said, hating the quaver in her voice. “I’m going to start the fire.”
He grabbed her arm again, and this time he squeezed hard, his fingers digging into her through the fabric of her coat and shirt. She dropped the tinder box. “Stop that! You’re hurting me.”
“You will marry me,” he said. “Or else.”
She stood utterly still, waiting for him to continue. Perhaps if she acted quiescent, he would let go. He had no reason to prevent her from starting a fire.
He squeezed harder. “Why not pose the question you’re burning to ask?”
She was so intent on setting a fire that it took a long, painful moment to understand what he meant. “Or else what?” she whispered, barely muffling a whimper.
His grip relaxed slightly. “Or else I shall publicly denounce Lord Fenimore. Instead of a tolerable life in his father’s care, he will be hanged as a traitor.”
“How could you?” she cried, hot with fury. “Lord Overwood is your friend.”
“How incredibly naïve you are,” he said.
“Perhaps I am, but I don’t believe you’re more powerful than Lord Overwood. He will denounce you right back.”
She should have bit her tongue, for he squeezed again. “Do you really think so? He may find it a convenient way to rid himself of an embarrassment—for that is all Lord Fenimore is to him.”
She didn’t quite believe this, for a traitor in the family was far worse than a mere embarrassment. This time she held her peace.
“Not quite convinced?” Slough relaxed his grip again. “Then let me tell you what else I will do. I will accuse your father of selling secrets to France.”
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