The Heart That Hides (Regency Spies Book 2)

by April Munday

  “Goodnight, Freddie. I love you.”

  Then Finch was alone with Sophia.

  “She’s an amazing woman,” said Sophia. “Where did you find her?”

  “She answered my advertisement. You haven’t heard the rumours about her, then?”

  “I don’t listen to gossip.”

  “You should. There’s often a lot of truth in it, but not necessarily about its object.”

  This maxim had served him well in his covert activities.

  “And in this case?”

  “No truth about Miss Wilding. Miss Wilding is the epitome of virtue.”

  “Thank you for introducing us. Despite her situation, I think we shall be friends.”

  “Despite her situation, she is a gentlewoman.”

  He had thought Sophia understood this; why else would he have introduced them to one another?

  “I know. I’m glad she came to you. No one else would treat her as well.”

  “She’s good for Freddie.”

  “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

  “She has been badly treated in the past.”

  “Is that why there are rumours?”

  “You’re an intelligent woman.”

  “And you, Edmund, are an intelligent man.”

  “The rumours are just that,” he persisted.

  “You would hardly allow a woman of ill-repute near your son.”

  Finch felt the breath catch in his throat and he coughed. When the spasm was over he knew he had been thinking about Louise. He had still not allowed her to meet Freddie for something held him back.

  “No,” he said, when he realised that Sophia expected a contribution to the conversation from him. “I find her character irreproachable.”

  “Good. I like her a great deal.”

  “I’m glad. She should have a friend.”

  “Are you not her friend?”

  Finch could not answer, for he did not know the answer. He would give it some thought. They sat in silence for a moment.

  “Is there any news from John?” she asked finally.

  “Meldon says that he won’t come home, but he was able to buy a commission for him.”

  “Oh. He is to remain a soldier?”

  Finch looked at her closely. Did she already regret turning him down?

  “Yes.”

  “He will not be good at it.”

  “No. I don’t think he will. Let us hope that the war is won before he has to fight.”

  Sophia looked away from him.

  “Sophia, do you regret turning him down?”

  “I did not expect to send him to his death.”

  “He’s not dead.”

  “He’s not meant to be a soldier. He’s a peacemaker, not a warmonger.”

  “It is not your fault that he reacted as he did.”

  “I may not love him, but he’s been my friend since we were children and I miss him... a lot.”

  She was still crying on his shoulder when Mary returned.

  Chapter Six

  August 1812

  Finch stood on the beach looking out over the North Sea. There was little to see in the dark, but he kept looking for the signal.

  General Warren had sent for him a few days before.

  “You look well enough. Are you fully recovered?”

  His words had told Finch that the general finally had a mission for him. He was relieved to know that his usefulness was not at an end.

  “Yes, I’m recovered.”

  “Good. I need you to go and meet the Dutchman.”

  “Are you sure you want me to go? It’s my fault his man was injured in the spring.”

  This still weighed heavily with him. It was pure luck that Jakob had been wounded and not killed.

  “He knows you and I doubt he blames you for the injury.”

  General Warren leant back in his chair and examined Finch until the latter began to feel uncomfortable.

  “If your nerve has gone...”

  “It hasn’t.”

  Finch was certain of this. For some time he hadn’t been sure, but now he knew he could do what was required.

  “The trouble with using intelligent men is that they think too much about what they do and see and you men with a conscience are worse.”

  Finch said nothing, for he agreed.

  “He’s bringing someone with him. I want you to collect that person and bring them to the house in Cambridge. And I don’t want you to talk to them.”

  “Do you mean not at all or just not to question them?”

  “I mean not to question them.”

  Finch wondered briefly what information the person was bringing that he wasn’t to know.

  “Very well.”

  “You take orders well, Finch. You will find things very different when you’re the one giving them.”

  Finch didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. Before he had gone to Prussia earlier in the year, the general had told him that he was thinking of retiring soon and that he hoped Finch would replace him. It saddened the older man that he would not see out the war, which he had hoped would be much shorter. Now it looked as if the war would soon be over and Britain would be defeated.

  Finch had gone home and said farewell to Freddie, glad that he could leave his son in Mary’s care. Leaving home had always been the most difficult part of his missions, for he disliked leaving Freddie. He also found that parting from Mary was not easy. He supposed he had grown used to her company. It was as well that she had agreed to accompany him to Birmingham, for he wondered how he and Freddie would manage so far from home without her.

  He had missed her the first night away when he had sat alone in an inn. They often spent hours together saying little in the evening, but a couple of times last night he had found himself looking up from his book to share something with her, only to find himself confronted by a wall.

  There was a flash of light at the entrance to the small bay and Finch waited for the rest of the signal. Then he responded with his own dark lantern. It would be some minutes before the boat arrived on the beach and this was the dangerous time when anyone whose curiosity had been piqued by the light out at sea would come to investigate.

  Finch pulled out his pistol and listened. Eventually he heard the sound of muffled oars cutting swiftly through the water. It seemed only seconds later that he saw the boat itself.

  Going into the water, he helped the Dutchman pull it up onto the sand.

  “Edmund! I hoped they would send you.” The tall man clapped Finch on his shoulders. “I trust you are fully recovered.”

  Despite his nickname, the Dutchman was a Prussian and he spoke now in German. Finch responded in the same language.

  “It’s good to see you, Franz. I am well. And Jakob?”

  “It was not your fault. You know that. He will recover. He walks well enough now.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Finch turned to the boat and tried to see the Dutchman’s passenger.

  “Before we help our guest out, I bring something for another English friend.”

  The Dutchman leaned into the boat and pulled out a small waterproof bag. He opened it and removed the contents. Finch transferred them into the bag that he wore across his shoulders.

  “Thank you. He will appreciate it. I could not tell him I was meeting you, but he gave me something some time ago in case I should do so.”

  He pressed the woollen jacket into the Dutchman’s hands.

  “Thank you.”

  Franz was not a smuggler; this was an exchange of gifts. Finch used a different route entirely to get books and pamphlets out of and into Prussia. He made Meldon’s music secure in his bag and turned once more to the boat.

  “She says nothing, so you will have a quiet journey.”

  “She?”

  Finch felt sick; he had never considered that it might be a woman he would be escorting to the house in Cambridge.

  “I’ve tried French, Dutch, German and
English and had no response.”

  Finch said nothing, but he raised his lantern so that he could see the Dutchman’s face more clearly.

  “Ach, Edmund, she’s not a prisoner, she comes willingly enough.”

  Finch turned back to the boat. There was indeed a small woman sitting in it, her impatience shown by a faint tapping of her booted foot against the bottom of the boat.

  “Parla italiano?” asked Finch and, when there was no answer, “Habla usted español?”

  “I speak perfectly good English, young man. And German for that matter.”

  The woman in the boat held out her hand. Finch took it and helped her out of the boat.

  “It’s good to be back in England. It’s taken me two years. My name is...”

  “Please, I’m not to know.”

  But he could guess, for even in the faint light of the dark lantern she resembled a portrait he had seen more than once and he groaned inwardly. Although she moved easily enough, her voice told him that she was old. If she was who he thought she was, she would be in her late fifties or early sixties.

  “Very well. You may call me Mrs Smith, Edmund.”

  Finch bowed. “I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, Mrs Smith. Please allow me a minute to see Franz on his way and then we’ll leave.”

  Mrs Smith stepped away and Finch turned once more to the Dutchman.

  “Even in the dark a woman can see that you are handsome and throws herself at you,” said Franz.

  “She must be in her fifties,” guessed Finch quietly.

  “Older, I should say. I hope to see you soon in my country, Edmund, but I fear there are dark days ahead.”

  “I believe so, too. Bonaparte seems to grow more powerful each day.”

  “It will not continue forever.”

  “No. Peace must come.”

  “And on that day, my friend, I shall visit your home and we will get drunk together.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  They clasped hands and then started to push the boat back into the water. The Dutchman jumped lightly into it and was soon out of sight.

  Finch walked up the beach to stand by Mrs Smith.

  “Well, Mrs Smith, I hope you’re able to ride a horse. I didn’t bring a carriage.”

  The woman reached out in the dark and patted his arm.

  “I only hope you can keep up with me, Edmund.”

  They arrived in Cambridge two days later. True to her word, Mrs Smith rode well and fast, but she confessed that the voyage across the North Sea had not agreed with her. They travelled until midday of the first day, then took rooms in an inn. Finch told the innkeeper that his aunt had overestimated how far she would be able to ride and needed to spend what remained of the day resting.

  In daylight he had seen that the Dutchman had been correct and Mrs Smith was closer to sixty than fifty. Now that he saw her face clearly, he knew that this was Lady Jane Lovage, who as a young woman had crossed Europe alone on horseback simply to win a bet. There was a portrait of her in General Warren’s house. He was aware of the rumours that she and the general had been lovers since the general’s wife had died more than thirty years ago. More recently it was said that she had been bewitched by the stories of Bonaparte’s personality and had somehow managed to get to Paris to admire him more closely. Now she had returned and was in his charge.

  He had expected her to protest that she was capable of making her own way to Cambridge, or anywhere else on Earth that she wished to be and she had, indeed, made it clear to him that she was armed and able to protect herself, but she had gone with him docilely enough and appeared for a late dinner at the inn after a few hours’ sleep.

  “Dear Franz was right,” she said as they ate their jugged hare. “You are handsome. Perhaps I should change my plans and go with you.”

  Finch choked on his food.

  “Please don’t rearrange your plans on my account.”

  Mrs Smith laughed.

  “Don’t worry, you’re safe. I doubt you could keep up with me. There, I’ve made you blush.”

  “This is not the kind of conversation I’m used to having with a woman.”

  He thought guiltily of Louise, who was more prone to act than talk. She would have been perfectly at ease with this conversation.

  “I’m surprised. You must attract the type that enjoys racy talk. Marriage wouldn’t protect you.”

  “I’m a widower and it didn’t.”

  Mrs Smith patted his hand. Absurdly, Finch was comforted.

  “I’ve never married, although I’ve been loved and been in love. He’s asked me many times, but it never seemed right, until now. I’ve come back to marry him.”

  Finch put his fork down and studied her carefully.

  “You think I’m too old to marry.”

  “No.”

  “His children won’t like it. His grandchildren won’t like it.”

  “He’ll like it and you’ll like it.”

  Mrs Smith looked away as if she couldn’t bear his scrutiny any longer.

  “He’s almost seventy. We won’t have long. I should have married him long ago.”

  Finch agreed, but said nothing; it was obvious that she regretted the choices she had made.

  “How long have you been a widower?”

  The change was sudden and complete. The fearless woman who had crossed a continent alone was back.

  “Six years.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Being married?” At her nod he considered. “I loved my wife and she loved me. We couldn’t not be married.”

  “Then fall in love again.”

  “But I have,” he protested.

  Now it was her turn to study him.

  “Your reputation, among those I respect, is one of intelligence.”

  Finch was thrown off balance again. Could the general really have told her that he was one of his men? Surely he could not have done so.

  “Then you know who I am.”

  “Of course.”

  Finch opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again.

  Mrs Smith smiled.

  “I do not know, I guessed. Oh, the general told me nothing. He is discretion itself. How many handsome young men called Edmund with such a badly damaged hand do you think there are in society?”

  “But you’re not in society.” At her shocked expression he added, “I also guess.”

  “I’ve been an agent for a long time.”

  “So, you do bring information.”

  He was relieved that she had had some other purpose for going to Bonaparte than admiration.

  “You surely don’t think he would use you and Franz on a whim?”

  Finch, who had thought just that, shook his head.

  “I can tell you nothing and I admire your restraint in not asking.”

  “I’m under orders.”

  “Of course.”

  She touched his left hand lightly. Troubled, he raised it and examined it.

  “You don’t object to touching my hand.”

  “Of course not, unless... Oh, I’m sorry. It must still give you pain.”

  “No, please don’t think that.”

  “Then, no. I consider it a sign of your bravery, but even if I didn’t guess how you came by it... Ah, your lover cannot hold your hand.”

  “No, she can’t.”

  “And it would make no difference if you could tell her you were tortured.”

  “I don’t believe it would.”

  He suspected, however, that, like his torturer, Louise would be aroused by the idea of inflicting pain on him.

  Mrs Smith continued eating, but Finch pushed his plate away.

  Louise, alone of all the women he knew was repulsed by his hand. It was true that Lady Caroline frowned whenever she became aware of it, but she could remember when he had had full use of his hand and mourned the loss of it. Lady Anna, who had been beguiled by Meldon’s fine hands, had never looked away from Finch’s broken one and had not flinch
ed from his touch on the few occasions she had permitted him the liberty. Mary, after her first shock, had barely seemed to notice it and seemed as comfortable touching it as she was to be touched by it.

  “It’s an imperfection that mars the whole,” he said at last.

  “It was something that was done to you and part of the whole. If the silly girl can’t see that...”

  “She’s a woman and she’s far from silly.”

  “Oh, Mr… Edmund, if she can’t see past…”

  “Please! I don’t wish to be rude, but could we talk about something else?”

  “I apologise. It is none of my business. I like to talk too much.”

  Finch smiled, but found it difficult to join in the new conversation she started; his mind was too full of thoughts of Louise. Things could not stay as they were between them when he returned.

  They arrived in Cambridge on a day that started with fog and changed to brilliant sunshine by midday. Mrs Smith was quiet, but cheerful, while Finch was almost entirely silent.

  General Warren was waiting for them outside the house and did not invite them in. Finch was grateful for this, for he suspected that he would recognise what was inside and he would not like it. He helped Mrs Smith from her horse, then stood to one side while the general greeted her.

  “You’ve done something useful for your country these last few days,” said the general when he joined Finch.

  “I have done no more than escort an elderly woman from the coast to the house of a friend.”

  General Warren nodded.

  “Of course. Will you rest a while or leave straightaway?”

  “I shall return to London, unless you have something else for me to do.”

  “Not yet, but when Mrs Smith and I have spoken, well, then we shall see.”

  Finch went to make his farewells to Mrs Smith.

  “Thank you.”

  She smiled up at him.

  “I’m afraid I have not been good company.”

  “We shall meet again. You can make it up to me then.”

  Finch bowed and left them there together.

  “I’m so glad that you agreed to have dinner with me this evening.”

  Louise’s smile was, as always, quite dazzling and Finch doubted he would withstand the force of it much longer. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to anymore. His short absence had changed his attitude to her and it seemed to have changed hers to him. Apart from greeting him with a chaste kiss, she had made no attempt to touch him.