Nothing But Deception

by Allegra Gray

  She found her breath. They weren’t going to kill her. But if they didn’t come back…

  The third man jerked his head. “All right, my pretty pet. Time to go.”

  Charity remembered her act and fought to buy herself more time. “Oh, yes—but wait! I seem to have misplaced my pink hair ribbon.” She patted her head and scanned the floor. “I simply couldn’t leave without it.”

  “You’re concerned about a hair ribbon?” The disbelief in his tone made it clear he thought Charity had her priorities askew.

  Which, of course, she had—sort of. She widened her eyes. “Why, yes. It was rather dear. And my mother taught me to look after my belongings.” As she rummaged about, she managed to knock her handkerchief, which had been among the contents of her reticule, underneath the table. When her family came looking, the scrap of cloth couldn’t tell them how to find her, but it was the best she could do.

  She straightened. “Where are we going?”

  He folded his arms. “A place where, if I wring your pretty little neck, there will be no one to hear you scream.”

  Charity swallowed thickly. She was getting to him. But the pecking order was clear—and Cigar man had directed him to let her live.

  “Jasper,” the leader barked. “Maintenant. Now.”

  She dared not push too far. But at least she’d learned his name. “Dear me, I don’t see it anywhere. I suppose I’m ready, then.” Though as she moved toward the door, she couldn’t resist adding, “Terrible shame, though, Mr. Jasper. Such a lovely shade of pink.”

  He rolled his eyes and gave her a push out the door. Charity gulped and abandoned her act. She needed all her wits now to look for a possible escape route.

  This time, Bea did not have long to wait before hearing from Viscount Castlereagh—his response arrived the very next morning. Indeed, given the time for his messenger to travel to and from Montgrave, he must have composed the newest letter in the middle of the night, and sent his man out on dark roads to deliver it.

  That same urgency was reflected in the terse words of his message:

  Thank you for your response. Very helpful observations. The news that your first letter never reached me is greatly disturbing. Though we may hope the explanation is innocent, we must assume it is not. In all likelihood, our adversaries now not only know the contents of that letter; they know that you wrote it. My lady, I must advise you to return to London. As our situation develops, your assistance may again be needed, and the country, while lovely, is an ineffective location from which to operate. Additionally, my people can offer you greater protection if you are in town.

  Respectfully,

  R.S.

  Bea read it once, then reread, noticing there was no mention of any specifics—the French spies were not named, not even their country. Nor was Montgrave mentioned, though clearly the Foreign Secretary knew she was there. His initials were the closest thing to an identifying factor in the note.

  Bea frowned. Her suspicions had been high since the last word she’d had from the Foreign Secretary. To date, Mr. Reilly, her first messenger, had not been found. The Montgrave butler assured her Reilly had no history of abdicating his duties, leaving her with only one reasonable conclusion—and a heap of guilt for whatever fate had befallen the poor man.

  “How do I know this is truly from him?” Bea asked. If either of her notes—though most likely the first—had fallen into the wrong hands, the response before her now could easily have been forged.

  Evans shook his head. “An astute question, but one for which I have no answer—save that I am the same man who was sent to you before. I know where my loyalties lie, and they are with Britain. But I have no method of proving that to you at this moment.”

  She resisted the unladylike urge to pace the room. Instead, she scanned the note once more. “My people can offer you greater protection if you are in town.” She swallowed. “Does Lord Castlereagh believe I am in danger?”

  “I am very sorry, my lady. I cannot speak for his lordship. But I can tell you he does not mince words. If his letter leads you to believe you are in danger, it is most certain that you are.”

  Bea pressed her fingers to her lips and gazed out the window. A soft rain fell. Under the gray sky, the woods looked dark and menacing—the sort of place an enemy might lurk. Yet therein lay the rose garden, where she’d naively dreamt that art and passion might flourish untouched by the cares of the outside world. Bea clasped her hands to still their trembling. Her haven existed no longer.

  Not long after the Foreign Secretary’s messenger left, bearing Bea’s promise to think through the best course of action and act accordingly, Alex Bainbridge arrived. He bore news far worse than his predecessor.

  Bea had retreated to her rooms, the weather preventing she and Philippe from their usual artistic pursuits, and so she did not see his carriage arrive. She had not yet come to a decision on whether, or when, to follow the Foreign Secretary’s advice and return to town, when a maid knocked lightly on her door and informed her that the duke awaited her in the study.

  Alex wasted no time. He did not even invite her to sit before he spoke.

  “An important set of British papers has gone missing.” He closed his eyes. “So has Charity.”

  Chapter 14

  “What?” Bea’s insides went hollow. She felt for the chair behind her.

  The duke rubbed a hand across his forehead and strode toward the liquor cabinet.

  The decanter on top was empty, so he selected a bottle from within. Bea shook her head when he waved the bottle her direction, offering some, then watched him pour himself a generous amount. A few drops splashed over the edge—clearly his mind was more consumed with his sister-in-law’s disappearance than the contents of his glass.

  “Could she have…do you think there is any chance she ran off with a beau?” What had the world come to that Bea was actually hoping the answer to her question was “yes”?

  “No.”

  In spite of her hopes, it was the answer she’d expected. “They don’t—they don’t think she stole the papers, do they?”

  “No, no. We believe whoever took the war plans took Charity as well.”

  Bea bent forward, fighting a wave of dizziness and fear. “When did she disappear?”

  “Yesterday.”

  Alex tipped his glass to his lips, his eyes still on Bea—that is, until the liquid reached his tongue and sent him sputtering. “What the devil—” he caught himself, glanced at Bea. “My apologies.”

  He lifted the glass, studied the remarkably clear liquid, and shook his head in disgust. “Water. When I get a hold of the staff…”

  Sudden realization struck Bea. “Uh, actually, I don’t believe you’ll find the culprit among your servants. But—and I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so—perhaps among your relatives.”

  The duke raised his brows. “Ah. I see. An interesting time you have had with your companion here?”

  “She’s very pleasant.”

  He waved a hand. “It hardly matters, especially now. Bea, we need your help. Charity disappeared from the Wilbournes’ house. We think she’s been taken by those bloody villains the two of you uncovered, and when the Wilbournes’ staff was questioned, one of their footmen was missing. You know more about these criminals than I do.”

  “I know precious little, Your Grace, but I am utterly at your service. What else have you learned?”

  Alex shook his head. “I can tell you more on the journey to London. The grooms are changing out my team of horses as we speak. Can you leave immediately?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What do you mean, you must return to London?” Philippe made no attempt to mask his surprise; Bea’s proclamation, made only moments after exiting the study where Alex Bainbridge remained, was absurd. “Your portrait is only just begun.”

  Bea held out her hands, pleading. “Please understand—it is a matter of great importance to the duke, though I cannot explain in detail.”

>   This made no sense. Men, especially stuffy Englishmen, did not include women in matters of business. Yet in their short stay at Montgrave, Beatrice had received multiple callers, all male. He hadn’t been privy to their meetings, but he’d gathered they were not social in nature. Which was only a partial relief. And now—now she wanted to leave, just when the painting was progressing, taking the shape that had haunted his dreams since he met her?

  “When?” he asked.

  “Today. Preferably within the hour.”

  “Mon Dieu!” he exploded. “But you cannot be serious.”

  “I assure you I am.”

  She was, too—no hint of mirth marred her solemn expression. In fact, her eyes appeared wider than normal, her complexion paler. The duke’s news, whatever it had been, had clearly bothered her.

  “Is someone ill?” he demanded. As a painter she owed him no allegiance, but as her lover, surely he deserved some explanation.

  “I hope not.”

  Her answer told him nothing.

  She sighed, then cocked her head and met his gaze. “Philippe, have you by chance heard from Charity?”

  “Charity?” He thought fast. “That is your friend, the duchess’s sister, no? I am sorry, ma belle, but I have not heard from the young lady. Indeed, I have but met her twice.”

  She studied him intently as he answered, prompting him to a question, “Should I have heard from her? She would make a fetching subject—though her surface beauty does not hold a glow to your own, mon canard.”

  The endearment—my duck—earned him a small smile.

  “I am sorry, Philippe.” She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “If you can continue in my absence, please do. I shall return as soon as I am able. But this is something I must do.” She kissed him, and amidst the usual stirrings of desire he tasted confusion, fear.

  “Your friend is in trouble?” he murmured against her lips.

  She broke the kiss, pulled away. “I must go.” Her voice caught on the words—he barely heard her as she disappeared in a swish of cherry-colored skirts.

  Philippe heaved an exasperated sigh. He’d thought he understood her. A wealthy, if lonely, young widow with an eye for fashion and nature’s scenery. An open book. Obviously, he’d judged too soon. She had passion that set his own desires aflame, made him long for eternities he’d never before considered. And she held more secrets than a priest taking confession. How very vexing.

  Success! Richard punched a fist into the air as the ship sailed safely from the English harbor. He’d gotten in and out of England with no one the wiser. The sacrifice of two of his informants—two who’d been compromised anyway—was nothing compared to the value of what he was about to deliver to his Emperor.

  The sacrifice of his son—well, that didn’t bear dwelling on. He’d done what he had to. The maps were hidden in Philippe’s hotel suite—tactical maps, with troop movements denoted by arrows. Nothing a mere painter ought to possess.

  And they would be found, because Kettridge and Peters had their orders. The two lowly spies hadn’t thought to question the instructions—there was always a plan for what an informant was to do if caught. What neither understood was that this time, the plan had included their capture. They would be angry when they realized the ship had left without them. Angry—but mostly afraid. They had a day, two at most, before Castlereagh’s men would hunt them down like scurvy dogs.

  “Answer no questions,” he’d told them. “If they ask for names, you may give them only one.” Neither agent had demonstrated surprise at the name he’d provided. That in itself had caused Richard a moment’s revulsion. What had he come to, that he engaged in a business of this nature? But it was far too late to turn back. The last piece of advice he’d given the two he’d known would soon be caught: “The Brits may torture you. But if you talk, we will kill you.”

  Bea hated leaving Philippe, but she had no time to dwell on it, for moments later she was in the duke’s carriage, the fresh team of horses barreling toward London.

  The one good thing about her parting conversation with the artist was that she felt reasonably confident he had no involvement in Charity’s disappearance. Philippe’s first thought of her had been as a possible subject for a painting. Either he was an extremely accomplished liar, or a man who lived and breathed for art. She thought she knew him well enough to bet on the latter—which meant it was probably safest to leave him behind anyway. No sense embroiling yet another innocent in such dangerous intrigues.

  There was so much she didn’t understand. “Alex, Lord Castlereagh’s messenger came to Montgrave just before you did. But he made no mention of missing papers.”

  “No. He would not have known at that time. The loss was only discovered this morning, after Evans was on his way to you.” He dragged a hand through his hair and let his head fall back against the carriage. “So much has happened…the past day is but a blur.

  “Do not tell anyone about the missing papers. It is essential we recover them first—or resort to an alternate plan, which is likely whether the plans are recovered or not. Were the public—let alone the rulers of other nations—to find out about the loss, Britain would lose face. Viscount Castlereagh will ensure anyone who is in a position to help is informed.”

  “You trust him still?”

  Alex looked at her sharply. “Have I reason not to?”

  “No, no,” Bea assured him. “It is only that too many people I thought I knew are turning out to be something…other. It has made me suspicious of everyone.”

  He nodded. “Speaking of trusting people, I must ask, Bea. What of Monsieur Durand?”

  She shook her head. “He knows nothing of this.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “As certain as I can be. I know the circumstances—the timing of his visit to England, his friendship with a couple who happen to have a French spy among their servants—but Philippe came to England for his art, and you and I are friends with that same couple, so that proves nothing. He is far more concerned with whether he can mix the right pigments to get the color of a new leaf, than he is with whether or not Napoleon Bonaparte will be defeated.”

  Alex regarded her steadily, and Bea wondered if he suspected the French artist meant more to her than she could publicly acknowledge. Finally he nodded. “I trust your judgment.”

  It meant a great deal, this trust both the duke and the British Foreign Secretary had placed in her. She hoped she wouldn’t let them down. And perhaps, just perhaps, when they’d sorted out this mess and things were back to normal, she could summon the confidence to put more of her poems out into the world. After all, her old fears paled in comparison to what she faced now.

  The duke seemed of similar mind. “Poor Beatrice. This is no fit business for a lady. But it cannot be helped now. You have a quick mind. We need you.” He swallowed visibly. “Charity needs you.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Bea asked softly.

  “Right. Alicia Wilbourne was the last to see her. She said Charity stopped by in search of a fan she thought she’d misplaced. When Lady Wilbourne went to greet another caller, Charity said she’d finish up the search and see herself out. She didn’t see Charity again after that, and had no idea anything was amiss until Charity’s maid wearied of waiting in the carriage and came to ask after her mistress.

  “Then a new search began—Lady Wilbourne and her full staff looked in every room of the house, to no avail. Somehow Charity left—alone or not—without anyone seeing her.”

  Bea absorbed the tale. “Wait. You said Alicia’s staff aided in the search? But if one of her servants is in league with the French spies, how can we trust that Charity’s presence wasn’t just covered up?”

  “Exactly. As I left for Montgrave, Lord Castlereagh had directed several constables to fully question the Wilbournes and each member of their household—though we learned that one footman was missing. A man named Peters. Claimed his mother was ill and needed help. He left, perhaps not coincidentally, yesterda
y afternoon.”

  Bea pressed a hand to her chest, where her heart had begun to beat an erratic tattoo.

  “Thank God her mother had the sense to come directly to Elizabeth and I, once her daughter’s terrified maid returned with Lady Wilbourne to confirm her mistress had gone missing. At the time, none of them suspected this type of foul play. Indeed, Lady Wilbourne sheepishly admitted she did not realize that anything more than a young lady’s reputation was on the line. She thought to find Charity kissing a groom, perhaps on a dare.” He gave a hollow laugh. “My sister-in-law is known for being reckless, but I never thought it would come to this.”

  Never had Bea seen Alex Bainbridge so distraught—except perhaps once, when he and Elizabeth hit a rough patch early in their marriage, in spite of the fact that he’d literally ridden to her rescue after a distant relative had abducted her in some misguided revenge for her rejection of his suit. Elizabeth had never shared the full details of what else had come between she and her heroic duke, or how the reconciliation came about, but it was known to all that the once rakish duke now loved his wife to distraction.

  “Why do the women of my wife’s family have the habit of disappearing—not of their own free will?” he asked rhetorically.

  “We’ll find her,” Bea said, but the reassurance fell flat. The duke knew as well as she did that although she would try her best, she could make no promises. Alex and Elizabeth had been married only since the past fall, yet it was clear that in addition to his wife, he loved his young sister-in-law as though they’d grown up together.

  And dear God, Charity was missing.

  “Elizabeth knows?” Bea asked.

  “She knows.” If it were possible, the lines on his face etched themselves deeper, giving the normally-handsome duke a near haggard appearance. “She doesn’t know the full extent, and I pray she never will. It is too risky to share any detail that might place her—or any of the others—in danger as well.”