My Lady, The Spy

by Barbara Devlin

  “Now then. Is my lady in a mood to cooperate, or shall we continue our fun?” He hovered near. “Where is the item Colin stole from General Villatte’s courier?”

  Choking and sputtering, she heaved. “I swear, I do not--”

  The torrential flood recommenced, and Rebecca plummeted into a vortex of terror.

  #

  “Sir Ross Logan to see you, my lord.” Hughes bowed.

  “Come in.” Dalton extended a hand in welcome. “Thank you for answering my summons so quickly.”

  Shielded by an antique Oriental screen, Dirk scrutinized the head of the Corps, as a hastily scripted scene played in his study at Randolph House.

  “I was grateful to receive it.” Sir Ross greeted Admiral Douglas and Lance and then sat in a high back chair. “News of your brother’s demise filled the front page of today’s Times. I am more sorry than I can say. But the article made no mention of Rebecca. How fares my lady spy?”

  “What do you know of Lord Wainsbrough’s death?” Lance lowered his chin and arched a brow.

  “Only what I read.” Sir Ross adjusted his coat and glanced at Dalton, then Lance, and then Admiral Douglas. “That unknown poachers killed Viscount Wainsbrough in an unfortunate accident. Why do you ask?”

  “Sir Ross has not left London,” Lance said to Admiral Douglas. “In fact, his routine remains surprisingly predictable, as he supervises an agency that trades in espionage.”

  “Have I been under surveillance?” The head of the Corps snapped to attention. “Has this something to do with the search for the traitor?”

  “We do not know,” Admiral Douglas replied. “We thought you might enlighten us.”

  “Do you still suspect me?” Sir Ross stood. “Where is Rebecca? I would speak with her.”

  “As to your loyalties, we were unsure, given the elusive nature of our villain, and his uncanny ability to evade us at every turn,” Dalton declared with an air of morbid finality. “And my sister-in-law is missing.”

  That was the pivotal moment for which Dirk had been waiting. He needed to gauge Logan’s reaction to Rebecca’s disappearance. So, despite the urge to throttle the man, Dirk held his tongue and shifted his weight.

  For several minutes, Sir Ross simply gazed at the floor. Then the secret agent conducted himself, as Dirk had not expected. Acting completely out of character, the veteran spy dropped to the chair, slumped forward, rested elbows to knees, and buried his face in his hands.

  “Never should I have allowed her to join the Corps, but she would not be dissuaded, so I trained her, myself. And although our ages did not support such a relationship, I considered her a daughter. When she successfully concluded her first mission, I was very proud.” He sighed. “But, to be honest, I was never so relieved as when she resigned her commission.”

  The spontaneous confession, freely offered, convinced Dirk that his fears regarding Sir Ross were unwarranted, so he carefully strategized his next move.

  “Have you any recent developments in your investigation of the turncoat?” Admiral Douglas inquired softly.

  “One of significance. I enlisted Lord Somerset’s aid, as we served, together, in the Light Dragoons.” Sir Ross sat upright, retrieved a missive from his coat pocket, and surrendered it to Admiral Douglas. “He found a connection, although it is remote, to Clarkson. I had thought to send two agents to reconnoiter.”

  “Cousins?” The admiral passed the correspondence to Lance. “Several times removed, but a relation nonetheless.”

  “Admiral, at the first sign of trouble, why did you not contact me?” Sir Ross asked, with a pained expression.

  “We are contacting you now.” Dirk emerged from his hiding place. “But I needed to know I could trust you.”

  “Hell and the Reaper.” Sir Ross leapt from his chair, and his jaw dropped. “You are alive?”

  In mere minutes, Dirk relayed the events surrounding the attack at Lyvedon, the true extent of his injuries, the ominous return of the riderless mare, and Rebecca’s inexplicable absence.

  “Are you certain she has been abducted?” Sir Ross narrowed his stare. “She could be lying about in the woods, incapacitated and in need of medical attention.”

  “Blake, Damian, and Trevor made a thorough search of the estate,” Dalton explained. “There is no sign of her.”

  “And Poulson insists that more than one person fired upon them.” Lance scratched his cheek. “Damn nasty affair.”

  “We planted the newspaper story to confuse the traitor and buy us the time to act.” Admiral Douglas frowned. “But I believe the situation grievous, thus we haven’t a second to spare.”

  “And there is something I have not shared.” In silence, Dirk prayed his logic was sound, because he was about to show his cards. “Colin gave Rebecca an item, with the expressed intent that it be delivered to me.”

  “You said there was nothing.” Lightning fast, Sir Ross charged Dirk and grasped fistfuls of his shirt. “What have you concealed? Do you realize you may have secured her death sentence?”

  “We kept it from you because Rebecca and I had our suspicions where you were concerned. And it does not meet the traitor’s requirements.” Dirk winced in pain from his shoulder wound. “Hold hard.”

  From his desk he retrieved Colin’s lone personal effect.

  “A necklace?” Sir Ross exclaimed with incredulity. “That is what he gave Rebecca?”

  “Now do you understand why we neglected to mention it?”

  “Sorry, Wainsbrough. I get your meaning, but I would like to examine it.” The head of the Corps fingered the chain and then turned the pendant in his palm. “A shako. Eddington loved the infantry.”

  “There is a mounting plate on the back, presumably to stabilize the medal.” Dirk pointed to the small detail.

  “Had Colin never discussed the necklace with you?” Admiral Douglas queried, as he held a candlestick, while Sir Ross produced a leather pouch from his coat pocket. “Could it be a clue or hint to something of importance?”

  “No.” Dirk compressed his lips. For the umpteenth time, he wracked his brain, pondering the conceivable significance of the military adornment. “I am at a loss.”

  With a magnifying glass from his collection of tools, Sir Ross made a thorough inspection of the medallion. “This is interesting.”

  “What is it?” Dirk peered over Sir Ross’s shoulder. “What have you found?”

  “Why would a mounting plate require a spring and hinge?” Sir Ross splayed his palm. “Lord Wainsbrough, would you be so kind as to hand me the tweezers?”

  “Of course.” Suspense wreaked havoc on his nerves, as Dirk retrieved the requested utensil. “Do you honestly believe something is secreted in that miniscule nook?”

  “A spy knows no boundaries when it comes to smuggling evidence. I once recovered military battle plans, including a map of the grounds and troop placement, from the hollowed tine of a woman’s hair comb.” The veteran agent grew deadly silent. “What have we here?”

  “Out with it, man.”

  “Tell us what you see.”

  “What have you discovered?”

  “Patience, gentlemen.” Sir Ross stood upright and offered Dirk the magnifying glass. “Have a look for yourself.”

  “All right.” Dirk explored the panel of gold welded to the pendant. “What am I missing?”

  “It is the plate that I find rather curious,” Sir Ross replied. “At first blush, it appears to be nothing more than what you suspected--a stabilizer for the shako, to keep it from bending.”

  “And the infinitesimal pin protruding from the corner?”

  “That, Lord Wainsbrough, is the question.” With his thumb, Sir Ross held one side of the medal stationary, while he used the pointed end of the tweezers to depress the small, seemingly inconsequential prong at the top left of the plate.

  The tiny panel popped open, revealing equally diminutive parchment.

  “Sheer genius,” Sir Ross whispered.

  “What a
re they?” Dirk raked his fingers through his hair.

  “Pray, a moment.” Again, Sir Ross employed the magnifying glass, as he carefully collected three dotted squares and set them atop the blotter.

  Rife with tension, Dirk shuffled his feet. Finally, frustration got the best of him. “What is it?”

  “It can’t be.” Sir Ross dissected each individual piece of intelligence and then repeated his perusal. “But it is.”

  Dirk vented a sigh. “Sir Ross, if you do not--”

  “Check for yourself.” Sir Ross handed Dirk the magnifying glass. “It is a marvel.”

  Pausing at each square, Dirk analyzed the script, a haphazard and incoherent gibberish, which meant nothing to him. “Is it fair to assume this is some sort of code?”

  “Aye, it is. But not just any code. It is Le Grand Chiffre,” Sir Ross declared.

  “The Grand Cipher?” Dalton asked.

  Sir Ross dipped his chin. “Belonging to the man himself--General Bonaparte. It is his personal code, worth an untold fortune, and something for which they would be willing to kill to keep from us.”

  “How do you know it is Napoleon’s code?” Puzzled, Dirk scratched his temple. “It could be a decoy to mislead you.”

  “The primer in the top right corner of the first parchment is Zeus,” Sir Ross explained. “Every general in the French military has a code name, as do we in the Corps. They assume personas of the Greek gods. For instance, Soult uses Adonis, supposedly because he has a way with women. Bony is Zeus.”

  “Colin must have stumbled upon a communiqué intended for Bonaparte,” Dirk surmised. “He was a master of decryption.”

  “No small wonder they want it back.” Admiral Douglas shook his head. “This could change the war.”

  Lance frowned. “And they believe Rebecca is in possession of such?”

  “So it seems.” Sir Ross folded his arms in front of himself. “Which means the threat to her safety is worse than I thought.”

  “When you searched Clarkson’s residence, you uncovered evidence that he was in league with the French,” Dalton stated. “Do you suspect Denis is involved in this affair?”

  “I think it a sure wager,” replied Logan.

  “And Denis uses primitive methods--torture,” stated Dirk.

  “Conjure your most heinous fear, and then double it.” Sir Ross nodded once. “That is Denis.”

  “Gentlemen, we must away.” Dirk shuddered as he considered the obvious. In the navy, he had faced death on occasions too numerous to count, including the infamous Battle of Trafalgar. Rebecca’s death he could not fathom, at all. “The lives of my wife and child are at stake.”

  “What is our destination?”

  “Our reconnaissance suggests he is at his estate in Hampshire, south of Portsmouth.”

  “I would caution you, Lord Wainsbrough.” Sir Ross adjusted his cravat. “My lead is, at best, a long shot. You must prepare yourself. We could be riding into a dead end.”

  “I do not care.” Dirk clenched his jaw. “I want to leave immediately.”

  In his haste to reveal the necklace, and the subsequent developments, Dirk realized he had not viewed the missive Sir Ross provided.

  “And what of this mysterious relative?” Dirk accepted the note from his brother and scanned the contents. As he read and reread the correspondence, and digested its significance, cold dread settled in his marrow. He stared at Sir Ross. “Bloody hell, she knows him.”

  The head of the Corps nodded. “And if he is our traitor, he cannot risk discovery.”

  Dirk swallowed hard. “Should he reveal his identity, he cannot set her free.”

  “Which means--”

  “He must kill her.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Cold water splashed her face, and Rebecca came fully alert in an instant. When her vision cleared, she discovered she had again been relocated, and her new quarters were not much of an improvement on the last. With braziers mounted at equal distances on the stone walls, the room was quite large. Antiquated but sturdy racks of wood and iron occupied half the chamber and gave it a decidedly medieval, somewhat barbaric, aura. Pegs embedded in the rock sported a nasty collection of chains and manacles, all manner of confining devices.

  Iron restraints suspended from the ceiling shackled her wrists, and her toes barely touched the floor. If she relaxed her feet, her wrists bore the entirety of her weight, and excruciating agony ravaged her arms and shoulders.

  Just to her left sat a table bearing a dubious array of bladed and pointed instruments, lethal in their appearance. Though she summoned courage, Rebecca could not stop the tremors investing her body, as memories of the vicious water torture she had suffered at the hands of her captor flooded her consciousness. And once again she prayed for the strength to endure the impending hardship.

  The leather-masked executioner approached.

  “So glad to see you could join me, Lady Wainsbrough. Must confess you have presented quite a conundrum, as you are the first woman to grace my house of horrors, and you have proven an unexpected delight.” Denis stepped into view, clutching an object she could not discern, at first, until he let go the leather thongs and repeatedly slapped the cat o’ nine tails to his thigh. “Bigger men have fallen with less inducement, but you remain defiant. I had hoped to spare you the usual, brutal motivation I favor; else I will spoil your pretty face, but there may be no avoiding it. Now, whatever am I to do with you?”

  “Please, I am innocent.” The drugs having long since worn off, Rebecca girded herself with the staunch belief that her husband would come for her and the babe. She had only to survive. “Colin gave me nothing. Had I anything that met your requirements, you would have it.”

  “Why am I not convinced?” He chuckled malevolently. “Perhaps because you have told me naught. But I have a bit of enticement that just might suit our purpose.”

  From the pocket of his leather apron her tormentor produced a newspaper. He unfolded the section and smoothed the wrinkles before holding it for her to read. The Times headline snared her attention in an instant.

  Viscount Wainsbrough Killed In Tragic Accident

  “No,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Your husband succumbed to his injuries.” Denis tossed the paper to the ground and grabbed her chin, bringing her gaze to his. “You were not hoping for a rescue, were you?”

  Speechless, Rebecca’s imagination ran riot as she revisited the last day at Lyvedon Hall.

  The red riding habit. The rapid gunfire. The blood oozing from Dirk’s shoulder. The eerie calm of his expression after he fell from his horse. It was just like Colin.

  “No.”

  “Wrong answer, my dear.”

  When the crude whip rent the air, she braced for the first strike--and screamed as the leather thongs sliced her flesh.

  “What did Colin tell you of the code?”

  Rebecca whimpered.

  Again he flogged her, and again she wailed.

  “Where did he hide it?”

  She could only moan in response.

  Denis flayed her repeatedly and then stopped.

  “Help yourself, my dear.” He grabbed a fistful of her hair, wrenched hard, and pressed his lips to the crest of her ear. “Give me what I seek, and you shall have a quick death. Toy with me, and I can promise you a long, arduous end. Would you not rather enjoy a hasty reunion with your husband and child?”

  Husband and child?

  Slowly, his words penetrated the dark recesses of her brain still capable of coherent thought. The cramps. The blood. Now it made sense. All her training, all her experience could not have prepared her for the loss of her babe. Immeasurable grief enveloped her, and incomprehensible pain feasted on her insides. Rebecca blinked and flinched but could not speak.

  “At last, the lady stumbles. In our earlier conversations, you were not very forthcoming.” Twirling the whip, Denis prowled in a wide circle about her. “I hope for your sake, you are prepared to be more c
ooperative.”

  Choking on anguish mixed with fear, Rebecca could not form a response. One by one, with each successive beating, she shed the hopes and dreams that had sustained her, as autumn leaves fall from trees, until nothing remained except desolation and despair. Heedless of the shackles biting her flesh, she collapsed, dangling as a rag doll from the ceiling. Blood trailed her arms as tears streamed her face, and how she sobbed.

  She had lost everything.

  Her parents, her husband Dirk, her unborn child, and her partner Colin were gone. Yes, she had Lucien, but he had the navy. In that moment, Rebecca broke.

  With her stare fixed on the wall, she asked in a small voice, “What do you want to know?”

  “That is much better.” Still masked, Denis cupped her chin and tilted her head. “Tell me of the code.”

  “I know not of any code,” she responded in an emotionless monotone.

  “With whom did Colin work?”

  “We worked alone.”

  “Who is the spy called L’araignee?”

  Through the misery, the solution to her problem rang clear. Salvation resided in the answer to his question. She need only divulge that secret to ensure her death, whereupon she would reunite with her family. Rebecca licked her lips and swallowed hard. Though her mind screamed defiance, her heart shattered, and she bared her soul.

  “I am L’araignee.”

  Aware that she had just sealed her fate, she succumbed to hysterical laughter.

  “I am L’araignee.”

  Her body shook with unhinged mirth.

  “I am L’araignee.”

  “Lady Wainsbrough fancies herself a spy? A novel concept--absurd but novel. The British Army would never hire a woman to do a man’s work.” Denis snorted with disgust. “It seems I have pushed you too far, and now you are useless to me.” To one of the jailers, he said, “Take her down.”

  Two accomplices appeared at either side, and Rebecca collapsed.

  “So, how does one dispatch a member of the peerage, and a female, at that?” Denis strolled to the table, lifted a thick volume, and flipped through page after page. “Ah, here is a method I have been saving for a special occasion such as this.”