The Lady In Question

by Victoria Alexander

  He collapsed on top of her, his labored breathing against her ear. And she fought to find her own breath. His heart beat hard next to hers and it was as intimate as their coupling — no, more. His heart beat in time to her own. And she knew, with a deep certainly that came from her very soul, it always would.

  He raised his head and she couldn’t make out his features in the dark, but she could hear the grin in his voice. “Was that wicked and dangerous enough for you?”

  “Indeed, I think it was quite…quite…” Laughter bubbled up from deep inside her. “Quite.”

  “Not nice, then?”

  She laughed. “No, no, definitely not nice.”

  “Excellent.” He rolled over to lay by her side.

  “I believe you can untie me now.”

  “I don’t know if that would be wise.” He trailed his finger over her breast.

  “Tony!”

  “I rather like having you tied up. Think of it as an adventure.”

  “It was an adventure.” She giggled. “And I rather liked being tied up as well. Being completely helpless.”

  “You, my love, will never be completely helpless.”

  “Perhaps I am a tart after all.”

  “Perhaps you are.”

  “But I’m your tart.”

  “Indeed you are, for now and always.” He kissed her firmly.

  “Perhaps someday I shall tie you up.”

  “Perhaps.” He laughed, reached over her head and untied his cravat.

  She wrapped her arms around him. “Or perhaps I can be the highwayman and you can be a runaway prince.” She pulled him close and nibbled at his ear. “You did say something about gunpoint.”

  ———

  Tony awoke abruptly and sat upright in bed. For an instant he struggled to get his bearings, then recognized what had jerked him out of a sound, satisfied sleep.

  The distinct acrid odor of wood smoke hung in the air.

  “Bloody hell.” He leapt out of bed and felt for his trousers, discarded somewhere on the floor.

  “What is it?” Delia’s voice sounded groggily from the bed.

  “The house is on fire. Get up!” He found the trousers and yanked them on. “Now, Delia!”

  “What?”

  “Clothes, do you know where your clothes are?” His voice rang loud and sharp to drag her to her senses.

  “I have a wrapper somewhere, I don’t —”

  He groped at the foot of the bed and found the robe and thrust it at her. “Here!” The smoke was not overly heavy, but he had no idea how bad it might be. “Quickly, Delia!”

  “Tony.” Her voice rang with confusion and shock, but she got to her feet and slipped on her robe. “I can’t go —”

  “Quiet!” He grabbed her, threw her over his shoulder and carried her out of the room.

  Angry voices sounded from the lower floor. Halfway down the stairway, he noted light from the parlor and realized it was from candles and not an inferno. He drew a deep breath of relief and set Delia down on the stairs.

  “Stay here,” he ordered.

  She struggled to stand. “Why? This is my house and if it’s on fire I want to see how bad it is. You can’t leave me here.”

  “For the first time in our lives together, and very likely the last, do exactly as I say.” He cupped her chin and gazed firmly into her eyes. “Do you understand? I want you to remain here until I’ve determined what’s happened. Besides” — his voice softened — “I would prefer my wife not present herself in front of the servants so scandalously dressed.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then nodded grudgingly and sat down on the step. “I warn you, I will not wait long.”

  “No doubt.” He gave her a quick kiss and hurried down the stairs and into the parlor.

  The heavy smell of smoke lingered in the air. The far wall was charred and water puddled on the floor, but the fire itself was out. Damage from the blaze appeared minimal.

  “We were lucky, sir.” Mac wiped a grimy hand wearily across his forehead. “We found it right after it started.”

  Mrs. Miller stood glowering between two of the other men.

  “It was Mrs. Miller.” Mac scowled at the woman. “We caught her trying to escape just after she started the fire. She still had a smell of lamp oil about her.”

  Mrs. Miller responded with a defiant glare.

  “Is this true?” Tony said slowly, reluctant to believe that one of his own could be working against them.

  “Sir, she had her bag with her and we found these.” Mac handed Tony a packet of papers.

  Tony untied the packet and leafed through the pages, then glanced at Mrs. Miller. “The Effington Papers, I presume?” He turned his attention back to the papers and his jaw clenched. As disappointed as he was in her, he was more so with himself. The threat to Delia had been right here under his nose all along and he hadn’t seen it. “Where’s the money?”

  She shrugged.

  “You have a great deal of explaining to do.”

  Mrs. Miller looked at him for a moment, then laughed. “Why should I explain anything to you?”

  “Indeed. Why should you? The truth is evident.” His gaze dropped to the papers. “They’re forgeries, aren’t they? And you had them all along, which means this is not what you’ve been looking for.” At once the answer struck him. “It’s the notebook, isn’t it? That’s what you were after.”

  “Come, now, St. Stephens, I know how this works. I’ve been in this position before. You think at this point I shall fall to pieces and confess all.” Mrs. Miller snorted in disdain. “Not bloody likely.”

  “I’ve never laid a hand on a woman before, sir, but in this case,”

  Mac said in a low, threatening voice, “I should be more than willing to —”

  “It’s not necessary, Mac.” Tony studied Mrs. Miller for a long moment. “Whatever she’s been trying to find is obviously still in the house, or at least she thinks it is. But tonight was her last opportunity to do anything. Once my wife and I leave tomorrow, this operation is over and you will all have new assignments. As Mrs. Miller has apparently failed to find what she’s been looking for in the house, her only option was to burn the place down.” He narrowed his eyes. “With us in it.”

  “You have nothing of substance, St. Stephens.” Mrs. Miller smiled in a smug manner. “The fire was scarcely more than an unfortunate accident. I simply dropped a lamp. Clumsy of me, but —”

  “Accident, my ass,” Mac said indignantly. “We caught her in the act, sir.”

  “On the contrary, Mrs. Miller, I’d say we have a great deal. Starting a fire and attempting to kill us all at the very least. Given your possession of the Effington Papers, I suspect we can add trying to extort money from the government, forgery and” — realization struck him and his stomach twisted — “the murder of Charles Wilmont. He is dead, isn’t he?”

  She raised a brow. “Did you doubt it? Did you ever truly think Wilmont would have betrayed you and that blasted department? He might have acted the scoundrel, but his loyalty to the crown and his sense of honor were far greater than I ever imagined. And if you’ve believed otherwise, even for a moment, you’re not as good a friend as you thought you were.”

  “You are not the one he betrayed.” Her expression hardened. “He was never supposed to marry her. It shouldn’t have happened. His purpose was to learn the truth about the papers and purchase them. Nothing more than that. It would have worked beautifully too if he had simply done as he was supposed to. He never would have known anything about me. I would have had the money and he and I…” Bitterness sounded in her voice. “He made promises and I believed them. I was a fool and he deserved what he got.”

  “You killed him?” Delia’s disbelieving voice sounded from the doorway. “You killed Charles?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Miller hissed. “And I quite enjoyed it.”

  “I don’t understand.” Delia stepped farther into the room, her gaze intent on Mrs. Miller. “Why?”
>
  “Because of you.” Mrs. Miller fairly spat the words. “Wilmont was supposed to be mine. You were nothing more than a —”

  “Than a what?” Delia’s voice rose.

  “Mac,” Tony said quickly. “Get her out of here.”

  “Wait,” Delia snapped. “Than a what?”

  Mrs. Miller smirked. “Ask your new husband. And while you’re at it, ask him about your butler too.”

  “Mac,” Tony growled.

  “Yes, sir.” Mac nodded at the other men, who hurried Mrs. Miller from the room.

  “I don’t understand.” Delia shook her head. “My housekeeper killed my husband and now” — she looked around the room and her eyes widened — “has tried to set my house on fire?”

  “I can explain,” Tony said, stepping toward her.

  She backed away. “And what was she saying about Gordon?” Delia glanced around the room. “He’s not here. Where is he?”

  “Delia.” Again Tony started toward her.

  She turned on her heel and started toward the hall.

  Mac stepped in front on her, blocking her way. “My lady —”

  “Let her go, Mac.”

  Delia cast him an odd look, full of doubt and confusion, then headed toward Gordon’s room.

  “She’ll find out everything, sir,” Mac said quietly.

  “I know.” Tony took a silver candlestick from a table and lit it with a punk from the fireplace. Even to himself he seemed to move extraordinarily slowly, obviously reluctant to face what he knew was ahead. Still, it could not be put off. He drew a deep breath and started after her.

  Delia stood in the center of the butler’s room. “He’s not here, Tony.” Her gaze met his. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Delia.” Tony set the candle on the desk.

  “Where is he?”

  Was it possible that she hadn’t yet realized the truth? Could it be he still had a way to get out of this without telling her everything?

  “Has he gone? Now, in the middle of the night? He’s an old man, Tony. If that witch has hurt him…” She turned to the chest of drawers.

  “Delia, don’t!”

  “If his things are here” — she yanked a drawer open — “then he’s obviously in some sort of dire straits and…” She stared into the drawer for an endless moment.

  “Delia.” He stepped toward her.

  With two fingers she pulled his mustache out of the drawer and stared at him. “What is this?”

  “I can explain.” He struggled to keep a note of desperation from his voice.

  She dropped it on the top of the chest, then retrieved his eyebrows and spectacles, placing them next to the mustache. She stared at the articles of disguise for a long time. At last her gaze met his. Her voice was cold. “How could I have been such a fool?”

  “It’s not what you think,” he said quickly.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am exactly who you think I am. Anthony St. Stephens, Viscount St. Stephens.”

  “Perhaps I did not phrase the question correctly,” She said slowly.

  “What are you?”

  He drew a deep breath. “I am an agent of His Majesty’s government.”

  “A spy?”

  “Spy really isn’t the right term. Agent is more accurate. I work for a department of the government whose purpose it is to protect and investigate and…” She glared at him. “I suppose spy works as well as anything at this point.”

  “And Gordon, dear sweet old man that he was, my butler, my confidant, my friend, does not exist at all, does he?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “You should be very afraid.” Delia pushed past him and strode back to the parlor. Mac stood in the doorway. She stopped and cast a disgusted glance at him. “Are you a spy too?”

  “I wouldn’t use the word spy, my lady,” Mac said. “I think agent is really —”

  She uttered an odd sort of scream, and stalked into the room. Tony followed at her heels, disregarding Mac’s halfhearted smile of encouragement.

  “I’d tell you to shut the door, although I suspect your MacPherson out there would simply press his ear against it. Besides, we would both choke to death on the smell of smoke in here.” She whirled toward him, clutching her robe tighter about her. “So what are you, in truth? An arrogant viscount? An incompetent butler? A spy?”

  “Your husband.” It was the first thing that came to mind, and he knew the moment the words left his mouth they were a dreadful mistake.

  “That remains to be seen,” she snapped. “I want the truth now. All of it.”

  “Perhaps if you would calm —”

  “Calm? You wish me to be calm? Bloody hell, my housekeeper has killed my husband! I’ve married my butler, and all of my servants are spies! Spies!” Fury shot from her eyes. “I shall never be calm again!”

  “Perhaps a glass of brandy will help —” He started toward the door. At once, a hand holding a decanter shot into view in the doorway and Tony grabbed it. Mac stayed discreetly out of sight. And range.

  “Brandy? You think brandy will help? A bottle would not be enough to calm me down! I would have to be completely inebriated and unconscious, and even then my lifeless body would still be twitching in anger!”

  Mac’s disembodied hand offered two glasses. Tony took them gratefully, moved to a table and poured a glass. “It’s been my experience, in times of great turmoil, brandy helps promote a certain amount of rational thinking, even clarity.”

  He cautiously held out a glass. She snatched it from his hand, downed it one swallow and clenched her teeth. “I am rational.”

  Tony carefully took her glass, refilled it and passed it back to her. He had never in his life deliberately tried to get a woman foxed before, but this seemed like a good time to start.

  “I am rational,” she said again, emphasizing each word. “And now, my lord viscount-butler-spy, I expect answers. Now!”

  “Very well.” He drew a deep breath. He should have rehearsed this, but he had hoped never to have to say it. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “All right, then don’t.” The only way to get through it was just to begin at the beginning. “Last year, eight or so months ago now, my department was involved in an investigation regarding papers — correspondence, actually — that allegedly detailed dealings during the war between the French and members of an influential British family.”

  “I gather you’re talking about my family?”

  He nodded. “Specifically about the duke or your father or one of your uncles. At any rate, the papers were offered for purchase. We intended to buy them, but we also needed to learn if they were legitimate. It was decided that one way to do that was to become well acquainted with the family and thereby be welcomed at Effington Hall and elsewhere to be able to investigate without suspicion.”

  “This is the most inane thing I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Admittedly it was not our finest moment, but it did seem to make sense at the time.”

  Delia snorted and tossed back the rest of her brandy. “And by acquainted, do you mean flirt? Court? Seduce?”

  “No! Not seduce. Good God, what do you take us for?”

  Her eyes widened in outrage.

  “Never mind,” he said quickly. “That was a stupid question, but you should know Wilmont was never suppose to go as far as he did. We still don’t know why he married you.”

  “Your flattery will quite turn my head, my lord.” She gritted her teeth “Go on.”

  “When the packet wrecked, we assumed Wilmont was dead and the papers were lost with him. He was supposed to purchase them while on the boat.”

  “You assumed he was dead?” Her face paled and she sank down on the sofa. “You assumed? Is he then —”

  “No, he is dead.” Tony thought it best to omit the suspicion that had briefly arisen that Wilmont was alive. “Mrs. Miller killed him.”

  “I still don’t �
�”

  “Wilmont uncovered something else. We didn’t learn of that until recently. We believe he was in possession of a notebook that had nothing to do with the Effington Papers.” He drew his brows together. “I think now it might have led us to Mrs. Miller and God knows who else.

  “Regardless, we believed both the Effington Papers and the notebook were lost in the wreck of the packet. Then we learned Wilmont had been seen with a woman on the docks before the packet sailed, and furthermore that woman had returned to London about the same time you did. We feared she might believe you to un-knowingly or knowingly be in possession of the notebook and thought you might be in danger.”

  “So, to protect me, you became my butler and filled my house with spies.” She eyed him coldly and a chill ran up his spine. “Of course, one of them killed my husband and was set, no doubt, to kill me as well.”

  “Yes, well, that was unfortunate.” He cringed as he said the words. Even to his ears this whole thing sounded ill-conceived and completely bungled.

  “Unfortunate? Unfortunate?” Delia laughed, a wrenching sort of mirthless sound. “Is there anything about this that was not unfortunate?”

  “Well, yes, I think so,” he said quietly.

  “Do you, my Lord Mysterious?” She looked at him for a long moment. Disgust and betrayal shone in her eyes. His heart sank. “I trusted you. I confided in you. I took you into my home. No, I took a dear, sweet old man who doesn’t bloody exist. What were you going to do about him anyway?”

  “He was going to die while we were in Italy.”

  “How convenient.”

  “It seemed like a good idea,” he murmured. “He’d had a good, full life and was going to pass on peacefully, in his sleep.”

  “Damned decent of you. I’m surprised you didn’t just throw him off the top of a blasted church.” Delia shook her head. “I should have known. I should have figured this all out. There were all sorts of clues, weren’t there?”

  “Actually, I thought I was rather circumspect.”

  She ignored him. “But I did see it, although I disregarded it. I noted a similarity in your eyes despite your spectacles. Your hands were not the hands of an old man, I noticed that as well. And in both guises you referred to yourself as stuffy and narrow-minded. I thought it nothing more than a coincidence. All that should have given you away, but I failed to see it.”