by Deb Marlowe
He pulled the map of the walled city close and jabbed a finger at a spot outside the walls. “The marquess has been holed up in a villa well outside the town. He’s got a pretty stone manor centered in the low point of a valley. Crops and vineyards cover the surrounding hillsides. No trees in the sightline of the house. A few wooded areas, but all away from the main house, centered around a few other buildings and the edges of the estate. There’s no cover at all on the road in to the main villa.” Tru caught the warning glance Stoneacre tossed at him. “As I said, there will be no snatch and grab.”
Callie Grant frowned. “It sounds hopeless. How are we to accomplish any of it?”
“With deception,” Stoneacre answered simply.
“Taking a page from Marstoke’s own damned book,” Tru growled.
“Exactly. And I won’t feel a single qualm about it, either,” the earl agreed. Frowning, he pulled a chair up and sat next to the girl. “There are a few added complications. There is news that will force us to make some adjustments.”
Callie Grant radiated the same tension that he felt. Taut, they waited.
“I’ve had word that Marstoke has left St. Malo.”
“What?” Tru stood, denial rumbling like thunder in his gut.
“It’s not the first time, it would seem,” Stoneacre said soothingly. “Our source has scrounged about for information and found that there have been several other trips further into the Breton countryside, and that they seldom last more than a week or so. Gaubert managed to send his boy after Marstoke, to keep track of his movements and find out as much as he can about what he’s about.”
Tru relaxed a little. “If he can send back word, then this might be a good thing.” He leaned on the chair he’d just vacated. “When we arrive I’ll leave you two to your work in the town, and I’ll follow after them. If we’re lucky I can learn a good bit more about what Marstoke’s scheming.”
“I’ll have to turn that around on you, though I know you won’t much care for it.” Stoneacre spoke bluntly. “Gaubert is a valuable resource, but he’s a damned prickly handful, too. It takes experience and a set of kid gloves to handle him. He’s spent the last week setting up our cover, but when we arrive he’ll insist on heading after his boy—and I’ll be the one to go with him.”
Tru’s jaw clenched. The earl nodded to acknowledge his frustration even as he held up a hand. “I’m sorry, he’s too valuable to risk losing. He won’t wish to take someone green. It’s no good anyway, Tru. Marstoke would spot you a mile off. He won’t be looking for me, and in any case, I have experience wearing someone else’s skin.”
Stoneacre left off impaling Tru with his dagger-sharp gaze and sent it shafting toward the girl. “That’s something both of you will have to learn.” Pulling out another closed leather packet, he opened it and tossed the divided contents between the two of them. “Your new identities. Gaubert has found a way into the fabric of the town for you. He’s acted as your man of business and purchased a vacant tavern on the edge of town. He and his boy have labored for days getting it ready for you.”
“For us? A tavern?” Callie Grant stared up at him. “I don’t understand. How will this get me close to Letty?”
“There’s no way for us to insert you into the house at the moment,” Stoneacre explained. “Though we tried. Marstoke brought along a few of his own people, it seems, and the servants attached to the house have their backs up. So there are no openings in the household, but we’ve begun a longer ranging plan.” Tru frowned as the earl’s mouth quirked. “Gaubert has reason to complain this time, I’m afraid. He’s been busy getting the inn and tavern ready for you, and also making Marstoke’s villa as uncomfortable as possible. He’s hooked up with a disgruntled under-butler, who has agreed to trade a bit of sabotage for a position in a nice English household.”
“What sort of sabotage?” Callie sounded fascinated.
Stoneacre shrugged. “It’s all very mysterious. Bedroom fires are smoking. Strange smells have begun to come from behind walls. The cook has had a series of extremely unfortunate incidents in the last few days. Spoiled milk, bad eggs, late deliveries, fires left too hot overnight and cool rooms left open to the heat, that sort of thing. It’s left the staff and the guests at the manor uncomfortable—and uncomfortably hungry. Including, it is to be hoped, Marstoke’s two newest guests.”
Tru’s head shot up. “Penrith and Rackham, you mean?”
“The very same. Younger sons they may be, but they are used to a certain level of comfort. Certainly they will not be used to going days without a decent meal.”
Understanding dawned in Callie Grant’s face, although Tru still didn’t see how all of this connected to Letty Robbins. “You are diabolically clever, Lord Stoneacre,” she said with a shake of her head. “They do say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” She looked up. “So we’re supposed to tempt those two young men to become comfortable in ‘our’ tavern?”
“That’s well under way, if everything goes according to plan. They left a day before we did and had no need of a stop in Calais. With luck they have begun to hang about the taproom now, enjoying free samples of some very fine French brandy and hearing Gaubert sing the praises of your hearty roasts and rich sauces.”
“I’m surprised we cannot hear their stomachs growling now,” she laughed.
“As I said, with luck you’ll be asked to feed them before long.”
“And we are to make them comfortable enough—or drunk enough—to talk of what is going on in Marstoke’s household?” Tru asked doubtfully.
“I doubt Marstoke is recruiting men so foolish. No, we’ll play a little deeper than that.” Stoneacre pulled out a sheet of paper from the small stack before the girl. “You’ll be Chloe Chaput. It’s close enough to Callie.” Stoneacre’s slight grin grew wider as he met Tru’s gaze. “I’d meant to pass the two of you off as brother and sister.” He raised a brow. “I’ve had to rethink that, however.”
Sliding papers in Tru’s direction, he continued. “You are the husband, Tousseau Chaput.”
Charged silence fell over the room.
The earl continued, his smile gone now. “If someone slips and calls you Tru,” he glanced significantly in Callie Grant’s direction, “then it will sound similar enough. But there can be no ‘my lording.’ The two of you will have to practice your new identities.”
He tapped the sheaf of paper. “We’ll need a bit of a disguise for you, though, Tru. That scar is too distinctive. We’ll have to cover it up.” He smiled. “I meant to fashion you a padded waist, but you’ll likely be doing some physical work. And in any case, I want you able to move quickly if the need arises.”
He tapped the city map. “The story that Gaubert has spread is this: Tousseau Chaput is experienced, having run his family’s inn in Franche-Comté. Unfortunately, he had to turn it over to his elder brother when that prodigal returned from the wars. His wife is widely noted for her cooking, and is accounted responsible for much of his success.” The earl leaned closer to Miss Grant. “I hope Hestia was correct about your abilities, for we need you to win these two over fairly quickly—for once you’ve established your prowess, and have them eating from the palm of your hand, the villa is going to become even more uncomfortable.”
She frowned. “You will not put Letty in danger?”
“Of course not. But we’ll make sure the house is uninhabitable for a few days.”
She looked up and Tru could see the pieces connecting behind that lovely, dark gaze. “And they’ll wish to come and stay with us? Including Letty.”
“That is the plan.” Stoneacre sat back.
“This all sounds a heavy burden for Miss Grant.” Tru said, straightening. “Not that I doubt for a second that you could handle it,” he told the girl. No one who spent any time with her could doubt her extreme competency. He eyed the earl. “And you’ll be busy enough tracking Marstoke. But my role in this scenario sounds damned insubstantial.”
“O
n the contrary,” Stoneacre disagreed. “I need you to lend Miss Grant authenticity, and provide for her safety.”
Tru started to interrupt, but the earl held up a hand. “We’ll have to work a bit on your appearance. I know you’ve never run in the same circles as they have, but it wouldn’t do for those two young miscreants to recognize you. You’ll be responsible for maintaining your disguises and new identities. You’ll have to help manipulate those young bloods and help plant the seed of the idea, welcome them to your establishment. But most importantly, you’ll need to do a good bit of scouting, discovering the lay of the land and searching out a safe hiding spot and a feasible escape route, should things go wrong.”
Tru held in an instinctive protest and pressed his lips together. The mission—that’s what mattered. Marstoke’s capture, not his own burning desire to put his hands around the man’s neck. The mission, he repeated to himself. The world’s view of him as a fool and a traitor must rate a distant second—even if he sometimes believed it too.
“You’ve done so much work already, Lord Stoneacre,” Callie Grant said haltingly. “And yet . . . I worry if what you ask can be done. There is so much to be accomplished, so many things that could go wrong.” For perhaps the first time, Tru heard the tenor of doubt in her voice.
Perversely, her uncertainty strengthened Tru’s resolve. “It won’t be easy, but we’ll manage it.” He stepped close and laid a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to reassure them both.
It didn’t. Instead it sent a bolt of fire up his arm and brought a rush of heat to her cheeks. She caught her breath and he felt the lack of air in his own lungs. At the curved base of her lovely nape, her pulse began to visibly dance.
He took his hand from her, stepped away again. “We’ll manage,” he said again, and ignored the sudden rough rasp in his tone. Taking up the map of the walled city again, he sat at the far corner of the table and hoped like hell that he was right.
***
The seas grew steadily rougher the next morning as Callie scrunched in her bunk, trying to both write legibly and balance an inkwell between the wall and a brace of books. Memories swamped her as the stack of her mother’s recipes steadily grew at her side.
A woman of few words, her mother, but many skills. All the best moments of her childhood had taken place at her mother’s side, often early in the morning, while the house was quiet.
The stillroom had been a sanctuary. Together they had worked, barely speaking at times, to mix the simple medicines every household needed, and also the sweet smelling soaps, waxes and cleansers that her mother insisted her staff use to keep his grace’s home immaculate. But the kitchen had been their special retreat, where they would take a corner out of the cook’s way and Callie would help as her mother prepared moist, delicious Gallettes de Sarrasin, or the Breton butter cake that her father loved, or even one of the many savory seafood dishes of her mother’s lost homeland.
She sighed. She’d always meant to make a pilgrimage to the place her mother had left. She’d heard so many stories, and had often thought she would find her there, experience some sort of connection again to her strong, stubborn spirit.
She’d certainly never expected the trip to take place under such circumstances as this. Though her mother would absolutely approve of her mission to haul Letty out of trouble . . . again.
A knock on the door interrupted her downward spiraling thoughts. She should be grateful, perhaps, but felt only a sudden, sharp irritation. “Yes?”
“Miss Grant?”
Lord Truitt. Or Tousseau Chaput, rather. Her husband. She stiffened as her pulse jumped into a gallop. “Yes?”
“Are you well?”
“Of course I am,” she snapped. Why did he always make her feel so . . . She bit her lip. The real problem, she suspected, was that he made her feel.
“May I come in?”
He didn’t wait for her refusal. The door opened and he quick-stepped through on the momentum of a sudden swell. He did stop short just past the threshold, but in the tiny cabin that put him right at the end of her bunk. The frown he wore, the one that always bisected that crescent scar with a crease, turned to an expression of surprise as he took in the sight of her unusual position.
“What is it?” Perhaps that came out a bit too testily, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. He brought something out in her, some competitive spirit that had to best him, that couldn’t let him get away with anything.
Or perhaps, just didn’t wish him to get away.
“I thought perhaps you weren’t feeling well, what with the heavier seas.” He pointed a finger. “But you are working.”
It was an accusation.
She bristled. “Well, perhaps you are not the only one who likes progress and forward motion.”
“Clearly not.” Unfazed, he motioned toward her stack of papers. “What has you so busy?”
She took a breath. They were going to be in proximity to each other for some time. She needed to learn how to deal with the thrum of charged tension and the shivery promise that gripped her when he came close.
“My mother taught me some regional Breton dishes. I’m trying to remember as many as I can—both to cement our aliases and to tempt our targets. Lord Stoneacre wishes me to begin in the kitchens straightaway once we arrive.” She shot him a look of apology. “I’m afraid that you will be left alone to see to the taproom and the rented rooms, at least at first.”
“I’ll handle it.” He waved a dismissive hand. “But right now, I thought you’d like to take the chance to get on deck for some fresh air.”
She would love to leave the cabin. And the thought of doing so at his side set her pulse to thumping again. Which was why she had to refuse. “Thank you, but I really must finish while I can.”
But instead of taking her hint and taking his leave, the irritating man threw himself down on the foot of her bed. “Moules Marinières,” he said, picking up the topmost sheet. “Sounds delicious.” He leaned back against the wall and looked her over benignly. “You continue to surprise me.”
“Because I know how to work?” she asked, snatching the paper back.
“Because you know so very many things, actually.”
“For a woman?” She lifted her chin.
“For anyone,” he said, deliberately mild. Frowning, he sat up. “I’m no misogynist, Miss Grant. I’m not sure where you might have picked up such an idea.”
Her temper flared higher at the challenge. “I—” She paused. She didn’t hold that opinion, not really. It was just reflex for her to bristle up and push a man away, especially a nobleman. Perhaps most especially, this nobleman. She swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
He lifted a shoulder in absolution. “In any case, my dear Chloe, I don’t know how any man could hold you in disregard.”
Her head swam with the sound of her new name—and with all the implications that went with it. All the treacherous, intoxicating possibilities from which she’d been trying to hide.
He cocked his head. “On the other hand, a weaker man might feel inadequate in your presence. You are quite intimidating.”
She laughed. Or perhaps her reaction might be more accurately described as an inelegant snort.
“Is it so funny?”
“It is when I think of all the things I have been called. Interfering. Busybody. Whore.” She raised a brow. “But never intimidating.”
“Well, I’ll add hardworking, to help balance that dreadful list—and then I’ll ruin it by inviting you once again to take a turn on deck. It may be your last chance for a while, and you might wish to see the why of it.”
She eyed him, at a loss. Usually she was excellently skilled at rebuffing a man’s attention, driving him away. But this one—he wouldn’t be rebuffed. He wasn’t looking at her with irritation and exasperation any longer. Instead, he insisted on being . . . friendly. Interesting. Almost charming.
Damn him.
She bit her lip, thinking. It had been reflex, her bid to push
him away, but perhaps a bit of self-preservation too. And now she must decide. Did she really wish to act this way? Did she only mean to show him her prickly, defensive side?
It sounded exhausting, in all honesty. And lonely. But prickly was also safe.
“Oh, very well,” she grumped, shifting to the side of the bed. She stacked her papers, stowed her inkwell and shook out her skirts. “Let’s see what there is to be seen.”
And try to find a balance between abrasive and safe.
Chapter Six
Blood and pain. So much of both. I’d endured such horrors at the hands of Lord M--- and only just escaped. Why had fate decided to torture me further?
—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
She’d forgotten her hat, Tru noticed, as soon as her head emerged from the passageway below. He bent to assist her to the deck. Yesterday the sea breeze had toyed with her curls. Today, a great deal more aggressive, the wind tussled with her very proper coiffure, attempting to tug her dark locks free.
He felt entirely sympathetic with the wind’s designs.
She didn’t appear to notice, however. Neither did she take note of the approaching storm. It had grown a little closer while he was below, no longer a dark smudge on the horizon but a bank of immense clouds swallowing one corner of the horizon off the Spanish Lady’s port side.
Impossible to miss—unless one’s attention remained fixed upon a smaller space and closer area. Before she’d even fully gained purchase on the deck she’d cast her gaze about, pinpointing the location of every man amidships.
His hackles rose. Suspicion had earlier stirred in his gut, the idea that someone on board had bothered her. Her caution now served as confirmation. Instinctive anger rose up, demanded that he step close and glare a warning at every male in the vicinity.