“Until you hand his mother over to Kinley, you mean?”
David’s features hardened, the truth of that statement only exacerbating his temper.
“And since you are as incapable of shirking responsibility as she is of shifting it to others”—Rockwell shoved his hand into his pocket and tossed a gold locket to David—“I came here to give you that.”
David caught the trinket and turned it over in his hand.
“I rescued it after your wife bartered it for a bolt of fabric.” Rockwell’s horse sidestepped and had to be reined in tighter. “She wanted to give Miss Munro a new gown. Or else she just wanted to get rid of the locket. I suspect both.”
A sinking feeling in his gut, he snipped the latch. Someone had tried to remove the woman’s image inside. The miniature daguerreotype was Meg’s only remaining possession of a woman her father had viciously exorcised from her life. But Rockwell’s reasons for giving it to him were hardly rooted in sentiment. “Let me guess the conundrum.” He shut the lid. “This was not among the things she packed and brought from the cottage when she moved back to Rose Briar, which meant she retrieved it from inside the house after she returned to the manor house. Maybe you’re mistaken.”
“I know exactly what she took because I helped her move.”
“Why not take this straight to Kinley?”
“Kinley is impatient,” Rockwell finally said, sans the boyish dimple that made him look less than his twenty-six years. “I suspect his concern over Colonel Faraday is not nearly so top shelf as gaining a percentage of the spoils on this case. That locket may not mean anything, or it might mean a lot. I thought I’d leave it to you to find out. Not him.”
David’s gaze remained on the cemetery as his mind dwelled on the riddle surrounding Meg’s last few weeks in India. A part of him recognized this locket might hold significance. He knew her father had given her the trinket. Knowing what he did now of Meg’s mother, David understood that the locket meant something else entirely to Faraday.
He also respected the symbolic gesture of Meg’s defiance against her father when she had quit wearing the locket shortly after they were married. He suddenly realized he knew exactly at which point she had begun to take a stand against her father.
Even then, he recognized that as Colonel Faraday allowed David into the inner Circle of Nine, Meg was trying to escape.
Shoving the locket into his pocket, he looked at Rockwell. “How is it you and your wife were assigned this case?”
“Kinley contacted me shortly before he contacted you. My father was Kinley’s aide-de-camp when they worked on this case in India.”
“Your father worked on this case?”
A ghost of a frown flitted across Rockwell’s features, as he became aware he’d revealed something that he shouldn’t have. David was thinking of that damnable earring that miraculously came into Kinley’s possession, and who might have had it all of these years, for Faraday couldn’t have kept it with him in prison.
“My father is dead. I have as much a personal stake in this case as you do.”
“How is that, exactly?”
“You and I depend on each other,” Rockwell said, avoiding the question. “Trust me to do my job as I trust that you’ll do yours.”
“What I depend on is loyalty and the assurance that no one is going to undermine me. That this is a sanctioned operation.” He no longer took pains to avoid the topic uppermost in his mind. Nor would he rely on Pamela’s loyalty. “And I trust if someone wanted to kill Meg or me, it wouldn’t be someone working for my own government.”
“Listen to yourself.” Rockwell laughed. “Have you considered that the woman you came here to apprehend has twisted your bloody breeches in a knot? Or is it always your habit to populate every country where you work?”
David smashed a fist across Rockwell’s jaw. Both horses reared. Rockwell tumbled from the saddle. David gripped the reins of his own startled horse to keep from trampling his partner to bone and dust. When he brought Old Boy under control, he slid from the saddle and dropped to the ground in front of Ian, his heavy coat brushing his calves.
“You have never impressed me as being thick-witted, Rockwell.”
“Maybe I lack finesse in my delivery, but I believe I have gotten my point across.” Ian struggled to his elbow. “You would know that if you were not so singularly wrongheaded. Face it, you have a bloody tendre for your wife, Donally.”
Hell yes, he did. “Meg stood up to Faraday ten years ago. Even when she had nowhere to turn and every bloody person betrayed her, she did the only right thing she could and she did it alone. It was because of her that we caught Faraday the first time.”
“And are you willing to betray your oath to save her now? That is the question pressing on your soul. The one that makes you dangerous to the rest of us on this case.”
Staring down at Ian, David found his temper sorely wanting of common sense. What the hell did Rockwell or anyone else know about his soul?
“If you’re finished going cork-brained on me, help me up, Donally. I’ll be lucky if I’m not crippled for life.”
In no mood for charity, David crouched in front of Ian. “How long has this operation been ongoing?”
“Faraday disappeared shortly after he was transferred to Marshalsea six months ago. That’s all I know.” Ian wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and examined his glove for blood. “Kinley was the man in charge of overseeing his incarceration. He is also the one who sanctioned this operation. My father was part of Kinley’s team in Calcutta. Kinley owed me.”
“What did he owe Pamela?”
“Bugger off, Donally. Your only job is to keep Meg Faraday alive.”
Rockwell’s life and career centered on his service. David had read his exemplary files. He would be the agent the foreign secretary called in to investigate another operative. “It was your idea that Meg remain here as a lure for her father. Kinley wasn’t expecting that. In fact, he was in a royal pisser about the idea. Who is the real target? Kinley or Faraday? Or someone else?”
“You’ve just proven to me you’re bloody compromised. Don’t think you’re getting anymore answers. And all records concerning this case are in the foreign secretary’s office. So, unless you know Lord Ware, you aren’t going to find out anything else.”
“You’re a fooking bastard, Rockwell.” David surveyed Ian’s sprawled form, his beaver hat askew, and somehow, he tempered his anger as he stood.
“Take your son, Donally. In fact, I suggest that you do, but Meg Faraday stays. If you compromise this case, Kinley will arrest you for treason. He’s still your superior.”
“Who shot Meg?”
When Rockwell didn’t look to be any more cooperative than he had thirty seconds before, David fixed his boot on the man’s chest. “I swear I don’t know.”
“Has Kinley ever been up to this bluff?”
“I know you two have a long history—”
“Kinley couldn’t find his way out of a glass jar if someone dumped it upside down. If the bastard is ghosting us then someone else is pulling his strings.” And the Foreign Office is after whomever Kinley is working for. “Tell me one thing. Is Faraday dead or alive?”
Rockwell’s jaw clenched but the brief fire of defiance yielded to the threat apparent in David’s own expression. “That’s part of the problem. We don’t know. We only know someone wants his daughter enough to kill to get what she has.”
A treasure worth the meager price of an oath—certainly worth the kingdom it could buy. So why hadn’t Meg taken the bloody thing and run when she’d had the chance?
But as he looked around him at the church and the dome of blue sky above, he knew the answer. He knew in his heart that even if she had the treasure, she would never touch it. For Meg had found a treasure more valuable to her than that offered by diamonds and gold. It lived in the people who loved her, the family she had never had, the trees, the land, the house on the hill. It lived in her son.
“Pamela is investigating a lead,” Rockwell said, still on the ground. “So, if your oath to this crown means anything, bloody stay here and do your job and allow us to do ours.”
David recognized a spoken threat when he heard one, but it was the unspoken one that troubled him because it came from Rockwell himself. It was unfortunate the younger man hadn’t broken at least one bone in his body, David thought, removing his boot from Rockwell’s chest and offering his hand in a gesture of goodwill and concord that extended no farther than his eyes. It was also unfortunate for the young upstart spy that David did not intend to sit quietly in the background.
“Are you going to live?” David asked.
“I confess I’ve been deuced inconvenienced.” Rockwell brushed off his cloak. “My horse has abandoned me. You can trust me not to toss down the gauntlet a second time.”
He straightened just as David smashed him in the jaw, landing him back on his arse in the slush. “On the other hand.” He stood over the sprawled man. “I have no such problem, Rockwell.”
David slammed shut the bureau drawer and looked around the library. Having no clear thought as to what he might be looking for, he continued to methodically search each of the rooms in the town house, seeking anything of value that would help him decipher Pamela’s activities these last few weeks. Moonlight spilled through the windows behind him. Having found nothing downstairs, he made his way to the second floor.
Pamela’s private desk in her boudoir was a repository for bills, receipts, and invitations. Thumbing through each one, he noted nothing beyond the pale—except a slip of paper with a single address. He held it to the moonlight, then tucked it into his coat pocket before searching her armoire and dressing room for a dark wig. He discovered that she had wigs, but none of them dark.
He made his way to the window and edged aside the drapery. As he watched, the clouds parted and moonlight painted the rooftops a chalky white. The street was nearly deserted. Wherever Pamela was, it was better that he had not confronted her tonight. His gut feeling warned him to tread with cautious step. Yet, another part of him realized that neither Ian nor Pamela trusted him any longer.
A low fire burned in the hearth behind him and, without willing it, he was suddenly thinking of Meg, wondering if she had returned to Rose Briar with Nathanial. He looked down at his hand. A slim shaft of light slanted across the locket he held in his palm. David hadn’t thought it possible so many forces could collide without leaving a crater in his gut.
For the first time in his life, his duty was no longer clear, as something inside him, something that lay hard and unbending in the center of his being, snapped. His thoughts so at odds with honor and integrity, he nearly laughed aloud. Not in the manner of a man who reflected on his past but of one who pondered his future and realized he had to make a choice. For, until now, doing the right thing and doing what was honorable had always been the same in his mind. He didn’t know how to separate his duty from the two.
Nor did he know, as memory presented him with a picture of Meg’s future, how to save what he had so carelessly thrown away nine and a half years ago. Kinley, Ian, and Pamela—whatever their respective missions might be—worked at the center of an intricate organization spanning oceans. If David helped Meg to run again, neither of them would ever be free for as long as they lived. And they had a son to consider.
He had facilitated Meg’s capture. Yet, knowing without quite understanding what had happened, David realized his mission had changed.
But for a single brass sconce, the hallway remained darkened. Keeping to the shadows, David descended the stairs and let himself out the back door where he’d entered. He needed to find the sharpshooter, sure that the man who’d held that rifle also held all the answers—and maybe the key to Meg’s freedom. He wasn’t so much afraid of his heart as he was afraid of making a promise to her he couldn’t keep. But David understood the game better than Rockwell thought. Only the difference now was that he wasn’t willing to trade his soul anymore for his country.
“I do not wish to go to London, Mother.”
Victoria placed a finger on the spot in the storybook from which she was reading. Sitting on the settee with Nathanial, a glass of milk in her hand, she looked down at her son snuggled against her and, utterly flummoxed by the declaration, frowned.
After leaving Sir Henry that evening, Nathanial had been inordinately quiet—no longer the exuberant boy of that morning with fearless dreams of challenging Ethan Birmingham to a sword duel. She had done her best to keep a happy face, yet, from the mournful mood hanging over the meal that night, one would have thought the world had already ended.
“Don’t you want to see the city? It’s all you and Peepaw used to talk about.”
He stared morosely at the strawberry tart in his lap. “Not if you aren’t there.”
“What has suddenly brought this on?”
“Is Lord Chadwick my father?”
Meg choked on a sip of milk. Snatching a serviette from her lap, she dabbed her lips and coughed. “Is this what you and Peepaw spoke about today?” she rasped.
“Peepaw said I looked just like him. Everyone I meet says that.” Nathanial’s eyes, so much like his father’s, lowered as he traced a circle on the tart. “Do I, Mother?”
“Nathanial…”
His jaw set in sullen defiance, he thrust out his chin. “I already know the truth.”
She and David were supposed to do this together, but he had not returned with Mr. Rockwell from the church today. Nathanial folded his arms, looking even more like David.
“Yes, he is your father,” she answered, setting the milk aside and turning to her son. “It’s true. We were going to—”
“Does Father want me?”
Protectiveness unfurling in her chest at the naked vulnerability in her son’s eyes, the last thing she’d expected to do was champion David. “You listen to me, young man.” She took his hands into hers. “He wants you very much, or he would not have gone all the way to Salehurst to find you or dance with Frannie just so you could stay longer and dunk for apples.”
A corner of his mouth relented to a grin.
“Something happened between us before I came to live with Sir Henry”—her voice was quiet—“or he would have been here sooner to see you.” No longer on solid ground, Victoria wished she could blame the sudden sting of tears on anyone other than herself.
“Frannie said I was a bastard,” he said.
“Well, that is quite impossible. I assure you.”
Nathanial leaned his head into the crook of her arm. “I’m not?” The news gave her a peek at the first real spark in his eyes since they’d returned from the cottage. “Truly?”
“Truly, you are not, Nathanial.”
He took a bite of strawberry tart and smiled. “I’m glad, Mother. I like him.”
Victoria didn’t quite know what to say. Although the outcome of this conversation was never in doubt, her son’s response was, until she realized that except for the rare story, Nathanial had never known Sir Scott Munro. The man in the cemetery held no connection to Nathanial’s world, not like a real live, flesh-and-blood father would. And David had a way of making himself the center of anyone’s universe.
“Do you like him, too, Mother?”
“I…” She shifted her arm beneath his head. “Your father has many…interesting, admirable qualities. He’s”—clearing her throat, she regarded her son’s interest with growing frustration—“interesting. And admirable.”
“He owns a castle in Scotland.”
She could not understand why David would say such a thing.
“Ethan Birmingham’s father is only a merchant,” Nathanial continued with rising enthusiasm. “My father is better than his father.”
“Don’t judge people on their rank or trade, Nathanial. You know better—”
“Father will set Cousin Nellis to rights, too, Mother. You shall see. He knows how to use a sword. He practices every morning. I saw him
from my bedroom window.”
Victoria sank against the cushions. With a start of surprise, she remembered the ritual kata, an ancient Far Eastern form of training. She used to watch him from their bedroom window in Calcutta. He’d performed the routine every morning before sunrise, eventually teaching it to her, until the ritual had become their own, and she’d mastered the sword.
She shut the book. “Nathanial—”
“He has a large family,” her son extolled. “With thirteen nieces and nephews. And Frannie says she heard him talking to Uncle Reuben in Old German. They all like him.”
“Did he say anything…about anything else?”
“He said my trousers were too short and I would need new clothes.” Nathanial yawned and snuggled against her. “He won’t leave us, will he, Mother?”
Victoria pushed the hair from his brow. “He won’t leave you. I promise.”
After putting Nathanial to bed, Victoria grabbed an oil lamp and padded downstairs, the skirt of her nightdress billowing out around her. The white wainscoting paneling in the corridor captured the shadows cast by the light. The house was eerily silent. David had not yet returned. She wanted to know if Mr. Rockwell had any idea why not.
Returning to the kitchen where she’d last seen him partaking of nourishment, she nearly collided with him as she entered. “My lady,” he said, “I didn’t see you.”
Noting his limp as he stepped back, Victoria raised the light to his face. She set her thumb to his chin, narrowing her gaze on his. “Do you still have all of your teeth?”
He tested his jaw, displeasure narrowing his eyes. “Barely, my lady.”
The foyer clock upstairs began to ring the midnight hour. “Do you know where Mr. Donally went tonight?”
“He was rather irritable when we parted ways. I can only hope he isn’t visiting Pamela.” Murmuring something else about walking the grounds, he left the kitchen and pounded up the stairs before she even realized he was gone.
Angel In My Bed Page 19