He spoke quietly. “Don’t talk. Rest. We’ll get you in bed soon.”
“Don’t want to rest. Want to hear the opera.”
Michael squeezed her gently. “I’m not sure with your headache you want to listen to a lot of caterwauling.”
Her lips curved into a faint smile before he lifted her into the waiting carriage.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“Lose them.” Anatole jumped into the carriage, which had been waiting around the corner from the opera house. Tearing off his workman’s disguise as they bounced along Floral Street, he donned the waistcoat and top hat of an English fop. He’d disappear into the bowels of London’s East Side, among the gambling and prostitution holes, looking like any other indolent gentleman, seeking the next thrill.
He was getting too old for the game. He had almost been captured this time. Unprecedented.
He had missed his target, too, alerting the English to his presence in London. Fouché would not be pleased. Fouché’s method of expressing his displeasure could be fatal. He chuckled at his little witticism and then reached for the brandy in his waistcoat pocket.
He gulped the French brandy, enjoying the smooth heat moving down his throat and warming his stomach. Fouché had only one precept. Kill or be killed. Since he was Fouché’s assassin, who would Fouché hire to kill him?
Maybe it was time to disappear into Spain. In the moment when the workman on the scaffolding dove for him, he thought he had seen…a ghost. He shook his head. It wasn’t possible.
He never failed and he wouldn’t this time. He sank back into the leather seat to decide his next move. Desperate times required a novel solution. And despite his occupation, he had no desire to die. He would have to draw her out, since she was always guarded by at least two men. And not the usual dimwit thugs, but observant and skilled men.
Killing her brother had been so much easier.
Chapter Thirty
Michael paced in Ashworth’s library. The doctor and Amelia were upstairs with Gabby. What was taking this long? Primal, ugly fear knotted and twisted in his gut.
The library door opened. Finally. Michael rushed to the door.
Instead of Amelia or Morley, it was Rathbourne. Mighty hell. He didn’t need his brother-in-law’s pompous posturing right now. Of all the blasted times for him to appear.
“How is she?” Rathbourne’s tone wasn’t his usual—precise and businesslike. He actually sounded concerned.
“The doctor is with her now. But I don’t know why it is taking so long.”
Rathbourne walked to the side table and poured two generous brandies. “Drink this.” He handed Michael the glass filled to the brim with the deep amber blend.
Michael sipped the whiskey. “If I hadn’t pushed her… When I saw the pulley coming straight at her, I panicked and pushed her too hard.”
Rathbourne stared at him. “Have you considered that if you hadn’t pushed her what the consequences might be?”
Michael threw back the rest of his brandy. He winced with the hot burn of the alcohol down his throat and into his gut. “Of course, but the possibility of…the outcome. Someone wanted to kill her.”
Rathbourne slumped into a chair near the fireplace. “Not a comfortable feeling when a man can’t protect the woman he loves.”
Michael looked over his glass at Rathbourne, who wasn’t acting like his superior, but a friend. “Why are you here? Did my sister send you?”
Rathbourne ran his hands through his coarse, black hair. “No. I haven’t told Henrietta yet. In her condition, I don’t want her to hear the stressful news.”
“But Henrietta barely knows Gabby.”
“But she knows how you feel about Gabby. I will wait to hear what the doctor says and then I will reassure Henrietta that both Mademoiselle Gabby and you are fine.”
“Oh, bloody hell! I don’t want Hen to worry.”
Rathbourne gave a rueful laugh. “My sentiments exactly.”
“I was standing right next to Gabby and she almost…” The awful words caught in his throat.
“First of all, it wasn’t your job to protect her, but Ashworth’s, and thus mine, ultimately.” Rathbourne shifted in the leather chair in front of the fireplace. “We miscalculated.”
“Miscalculated?” Outrage flooded Michael. “That’s what you’re calling her near-death? A miscalculation?”
“We anticipated that they would try to kidnap her. Not kill her.”
Michael took a slow breath and sat down next to his brother-in-law. Rathbourne looked dog-tired. He had prominent dark circles under his eyes, his skin was sallow, and his hair looked like he had run his fingers through it repeatedly.
Despite needing to vent his anger, Rathbourne didn’t deserve to listen to Michael’s frustration. Rathbourne carried incredible responsibility—keeping England safe from Napoleon. Michael wouldn’t want his job for all the tea in China.
“Is it someone else who wants Gabby killed? And why?” Michael demanded.
“It makes no sense for Napoleon to have her killed. He wants to cement his bloodlines with Gabby’s lineage and her fortune. It has to be her close association with Madame Abney. My sister has told me that Mademoiselle Gabby studied with the same mentor as Madame Abney in Paris. Mademoiselle Gabby must have rattled someone or gotten too close to their operation. It is the only reasonable deduction since she’s barely been out in society except for the opera house. I need to talk with her.”
“You think she has learned something that made the French spies want to kill her.”
“Exactly.”
Michael jumped to his feet. “She can’t go back there!”
Rathbourne raised his eyebrow. And Michael lost all his feelings of comradery with his brother-in-law.
“You are not going to send Gabby back into that den of murderers.”
“You know she must do this if she is ever going to be free. And we need her help to end the spy ring.”
“It is unsafe. How could she have learned anything about the spies? She’s a musician. She’s only talked about music with Madame Abney.”
Rathbourne raised both eyebrows. “Exactly.”
Michael paced the room. Why hadn’t he seen the possibility? Because he was too busy trying to fight off Madame Abney and explain himself to Gabby. “I can’t believe she’s learned anything critical.” Then he remembered Gabby’s comments about the notes on the side of the music in Madame’s dressing room.
“You’ve remembered something. What is it?”
Michael hesitated. “Gabby made a comment to Madame about the notations on her music for her royal performance.”
“Bugger to hell! No one is supposed to know about the performance. I’m trying to maintain secrecy around the whole event. But the king refuses to let the threats affect his behavior. It is commendable, but he’s making my job a damn nightmare.”
“You think the coded messages are specifically about harming the king at the concert?”
“It is the natural deduction. Madame Abney and her musicians will have the opportunity to be close to the king.”
Michael stopped. “They’re planning to kill the king? Why? I thought Napoleon was posturing to be friends with England.”
Rathbourne ran his hand through his hair again. “He wants us to believe he doesn’t have any designs on England, but trusting him would be like trusting a rabid dog. Our diplomats are pretending to accept the French’s pretense of still seeking peace, while we prepare for war.”
“But if the French kill the king, we’ll seek revenge and attack France. Napoleon’s strategy is to distract England while he builds his empire in the rest of Europe.”
“You are quite knowledgeable. I didn’t realize how much you’ve been helping Henrietta with the Abchurch work.”
“Pursuing Madame Abney is mainly a nighttime activity. Besides, doing the code work with Hen is much simpler than fighting off an aggressive French opera singer.”
Rathbourne chuckled. Michael was
glad to entertain his brother-in-law.
“A plot to kill the king makes no sense according to our intelligence, unless it’s a distraction.”
“Either way these are serious killers. I don’t want Gabby involved.”
“You know it’s too late for that sentiment. She is involved.”
“But you don’t need to tell her what you’ve just told me.”
Rathbourne shrugged. “Do you really believe she won’t be wondering who wanted to kill her and why? What would you have me do?”
“You plan to use her to try to stop French spies from killing the king. And last week you thought she was a French spy.”
“I never said I thought she was a French spy. And I’m not asking her to take down the spies. Only to continue her relationship as an interested musician with Madame Abney. And, in case you haven’t noticed, my sister, Ashworth’s wife, and Amelia are all part of this mess. And none of those men are happy with their loved ones involved, but these are not easy times.”
“But no one has tried to kill them despite the fact they were there when Gabby spoke about the music to Madame.”
Rathbourne leaned forward in his chair, bridging the distance between them. “This work is not always logical and precise, like code breaking. We’re always trying to stay ahead of our enemies, second-guessing their motives. What we know is that messages are being passed, most likely in the music, and Mademoiselle Gabby’s life was threatened after she made Madame’s acquaintance. Are they all related?” Rathbourne shrugged. “We will be vigilant and hope either you or Gabby makes headway with the music.”
Michael wanted to rush Gabby to the countryside and out of harm’s way. “I can’t stand by and let this happen.”
“I know this is difficult.” Rathbourne stood.
Michael ignored his brother-in-law’s sympathetic tone. “You’ve no idea.”
“Your sister was almost killed trying to negotiate the code book for your life. Have you forgotten?”
“Bloody, bloody hell.”
“I will ensure that Mademoiselle is safe.”
“You can’t guarantee her safety. Chalmers and Fenton guarding her couldn’t stop a single man from trying to kill her.”
“Actually, there were two men on the scaffolding, but Fenton thought the one man looked as if he was trying to stop the other from releasing the pulley.”
“Who would be the other man?”
“No idea since he wasn’t one of my men. And Chalmers and Fenton weren’t guarding Mademoiselle Gabby.”
“Then what were they doing backstage and then running after the murderer?”
“They were guarding you.”
“Fenton and Chalmers are my bodyguards?” Michael was incredulous. How many bodyguards did he need? “I thought Denby was.”
“Denby, as your valet, can’t attend the opera and other gentlemen’s pursuits. You are an important asset with your skills. Your safety is of national importance.”
Michael raised his hands. “I’m not that bloody important.”
“Maybe not.” Rathbourne smirked. “But Henrietta would never recover if anything happened to you.”
“My God, are you protecting everyone in England?”
“Some days it feels like it,” Rathbourne straightened his cravat, his voice tinged with sardonic amusement. “You needn’t worry about Mademoiselle’s safety. I have the best man to guard her.”
Michael bristled. “And who that might be?”
“The man who has the most to lose if anything happens to her.” Rathbourne took one last swallow of his brandy and placed his glass on the table.
Michael wanted Gabby protected, but the idea of another man more capable to keep her safe was more than disconcerting and humiliating. “And pray, tell me who could that possibly be? The king?”
“No, old man. You. You saved Gabby tonight. And because of your association with Madame Abney, you’ll be close by to guard Gabby.”
Michael recognized the logic in Rathbourne’s idea. That didn’t mean he had to accept it.
“But I must tell Gabby the truth about my relationship with Madame Abney and my work.”
“Of course, she must know all the details to protect herself and to help in the investigation. I’m still interested in what role Lord Weston and Lady Sauvage play. I don’t want you to interfere with Weston’s interest in Gabby.”
Michael was bone-tired of all the intrigue around Gabby and the way his brother-in-law stayed in the wings, acting as a puppeteer, orchestrating everyone to act by his direction without full understanding. “You should have informed me about Lord Weston. How dare you keep information from me that could be dangerous to Gabby?”
Rathbourne stiffened. “And watch you run him through in a fit of jealousy?”
“You don’t think I’m capable of acting logically?
“No. A man in love does not act logically. And it isn’t singular to you. My policy is to not involve anyone in an operation when their personal attachments may influence their judgement. Their behavior and the outcome are too unpredictable. I can attest that my own concern for your sister clouded my judgement and could have gotten Henrietta killed.”
Michael couldn’t refute Rathbourne’s reasoning. It didn’t stop him for wanting to tear Weston apart. Weston had been close to Gabby at several events. Why would he want to harm Gabby unless he was hired by the French? Michael agreed with Rathbourne’s approach in theory, but this was Gabby’s life they were discussing. Michael bolted out of the chair and braced himself for the fight.
An unfazed Rathbourne looked up and spoke in a precise and unruffled manner. “Mademoiselle Gabby is the center of the intrigue. I’m trying to deduce who might be trying to kidnap or harm her. Because of your relationship with Mademoiselle Gabby, you’re now involved up to your neck in a French intrigue. And because of your work and your sister’s affections, I will not inform you of every decision I make to ensure your safety. You will have to trust me that I have your and Mademoiselle Gabby’s welfare foremost in my plans.”
“My God, and you expect me to protect her without knowing who you think might be a threat?”
“I am trying to unravel a spider’s web. The work is meticulous and painstaking. It is possible Weston isn’t a threat, only a gentleman pursuing a beautiful young woman. But after tonight, we must treat everyone who is interested in Gabby as a suspect. I am now informing you of the possibility, as I will Mademoiselle Gabby when I speak to her. You now know about Weston, but you must not interfere with his pursuit of Mademoiselle Gabby.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Michael sat in a stuffed armchair beside Gabby’s bed, pouring over Madame Abney’s arias. Every few minutes he would get up and check on a sleeping Gabby. The covers were pulled up to her neck, revealing only a mass of honeyed curls and her pale skin. Since the attempt on Gabby’s life, no one cared about the rules of propriety. Lady Gwyneth and Amelia had retired after the eventful evening, leaving him in charge of Gabby’s care.
He wanted to tend to every need for Gabby in the same gentle way she had cared for him. But since everyone had left, she slept deeply and restfully.
Gabby had sustained a nasty head wound and subsequently a very bad headache. According to the esteemed Dr. Oglethorpe, she would be right as rain after a few days of rest. Michael should have been relieved by the doctor’s prognosis, but her rapid recovery would mean she would soon be returning to the opera and to danger.
He was exhausted, but he needed to study the music. The sooner he figured out the pattern, the sooner Gabby and the king would be safe.
He leaned back in the chair, resting his neck, and closed his eyes to visualize the possible variations of coded notes in the music.
* * *
Michael woke to Gabby’s voice. He bounded out of the chair abruptly, sheets of music scattering across the floor. Confused for a brief second, he looked around the blue lady’s room.
“Michael? Why are you sleeping in a chair? Here, in my bedr
oom?” Gabby was wide awake, her eyes shining bright, and color had returned to her smooth skin. She was upright with the pillows behind her back and the covers pulled up to her neck.
He couldn’t stop staring at her striking fresh countenance. Michael sat down gingerly, on the edge of her bed, careful not to jar her. He took her hand that rested on the top of the cover. “I was tending to your care and studying Madame Abney’s arias, until I fell asleep.”
“Does Lady Gwyneth know you’re here?”
“Yes, I have everyone’s blessing. And I’ve sworn to be here only in the role of nurse.”
“You’re my nurse?” An attractive pink color flushed across her face.
“After what happened last night, everyone is more concerned for your safety than the rules of propriety.”
“Aunt Euphemia knows about your presence here…in my bedroom?”
“Yes, my dear. But their opinions wouldn’t have mattered. I was not going to leave your side.”
Gabby’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Do you still have a headache? The doctor left a powder for you if your head hurts.” Michael squeezed her hand.
“I’m fine. Only a bit of a headache.”
“I’m so sorry, Gabby. It was my fault, I shoved you too hard.”
“No, you saved my life. If you hadn’t seen those men, I don’t know…”
“Don’t think about it now. You need to rest.”
“I don’t feel tired. What time is it?”
Michael stood and moved to open the heavy drapes. He spread them apart and peered up at the dawning light.
“The sun is about to rise.” He came back to stand next to her. He wanted to soothe the corkscrew curls from her forehead as he had done during the night. “Do you want a sip of water?”
A Cantata of Love (The Code Breakers 4) Page 18