The Heart That Hides (Regency Spies Book 2)

by April Munday

  “Where shall I start?”

  “Here.”

  He turned the pages until he found the place, his fingers brushing hers as he did so. Against reason, she thought he had done so deliberately, but his face showed no new emotion. She looked at the poem he had chosen.

  “You know it?” he asked, in recognition of the faint smile that touched her lips.

  “Yes.”

  She started to read the well-remembered words, looking across at him from time to time. Finally he seemed to be at ease and he smiled as he watched Freddie.

  The food was served and Freddie was called back to order. Before the meal was over he had started to yawn.

  Finch suggested that Mary take her port to their room and put Freddie to bed. He offered her the book of poems.

  “Thank you, but I need not deprive you of it, since I packed a book for my own entertainment.”

  “Then goodnight, Freddie. Miss Wilding, I shall come in to see him before I go to bed. I shall not be late.”

  It was a habit of which she approved heartily. She curtsied and took Freddie to their room.

  Finch sat and drank his port for a while. He was glad that they were to be friends at least, if she could not love him. Even if he could not accept having an aristocrat as his son’s governess, it helped him to know that it made her happy. Since he didn’t want to be parted from her, it should make him happy, too, but he would rather give her a life of ease than one of toil. Not for the first time, he thought about her life and what had brought her to him. She had spoken of prostitution as if it had been something she had considered in the past. That was something else to be laid at Holden’s door. Pushing that thought aside, he allowed himself to contemplate her character, knowing that it could only deepen his love for her. It could not be helped; she was the woman he wanted for his wife. He wondered if she could be persuaded to marry him for Freddie’s sake, for it was clear that Freddie loved his governess as much as she loved him. He shook his head; blackmail wasn’t his way. Finch would have to win her love by demonstrating his, even though that would mean keeping her as a servant. He considered again that there might be someone else, someone she might have met on her visits to the park with Freddie. All hope was lost if she loved another, for he would not stand in her way if she wanted to marry someone else. It would, he thought, have to be a great love to take her away from Freddie. Surely she would have mentioned it last night if she had some hope of marriage. She was kind enough to have turned him down on that count rather than embarrassing them both by speaking of prostitution. It settled his mind to think that there might still be some hope for him.

  Finch shook his head, filled with the irritation that had consumed him all day. How could a man with his observational skills, with his supposed self-awareness not have noticed that he had fallen in love? When had it happened? It had not been last night, he was certain of that. That was when he had noticed what he should have noticed long before.

  So often when he had been out in the evening his thoughts had strayed with pleasure to the contentment he would find on his return home should he be fortunate enough to catch Mary practising on the piano. Every time he had bought a book recently his first consideration had been whether it was something that she would read with enjoyment or discovery. And he had touched her as often as he could. At least his body had been aware of his feelings even if his mind had not.

  Looking back, he could not now put a date on his love. He must have loved her that day she had been so distressed in the garden. If only he had understood his feelings then he could have comforted her better, perhaps proposed then. It would have been a better proposal if it had not been born of desperation and lack of awareness.

  He turned his thoughts once more to the woman who called herself Louise Favelle. When he had not been berating himself for an idiot for not realising that he was in love with Mary, he had been berating himself for imagining himself in love with the Frenchwoman. Finch now saw what his friends had seen so clearly; the Frenchwoman was a beautiful façade, but her character was not something to be studied with joy. Nothing about her was real. Her plans were still hidden from him, however, and he could not divine her purpose in approaching him, for he saw now that he had been led from the start. That she was a French spy was equally clear to him. What remained hidden was what she had hoped to achieve. It was true that he had a great deal of information that would be useful to the French. It was equally true, if they knew who he was, that they knew that torture would not make him give it up. He considered this for a moment and realised that it wasn’t true. Who knew whether another broken bone would have made him talk, or ten, or twenty? He had no idea how much pain he could withstand, for he had managed to escape. Even these thoughts couldn’t distract him from Mary for long.

  Knowing that Mary could not go to bed until he had looked in on Freddie, he rose earlier than was his habit, went to their room and tapped lightly on the door. When Mary neither called out for him to enter nor opened the door, he didn’t bother knocking harder, but pushed the door open. Mary was lying motionless on the floor and Freddie was nowhere to be seen.

  Finch’s first thought was that she was dead, but even as he placed his fingers against her neck, she began to stir.

  “Do not try to move. You have been attacked.”

  Her face was already bruising where someone or something had hit her.

  “Freddie?”

  “Gone.”

  “No!”

  Her cry would have broken his heart, had it not already been broken.

  Once again she struggled to rise and this time he let her, cradling her against his chest when she proved too weak.

  He felt the familiar detachment that had served him so well on General Warren’s missions come over him. No one knew better than he how fear and anger could cloud his judgement. Now more than ever before he must keep a clear head.

  “Did you see them?”

  “No, but they were waiting for us when we came into the room.”

  Three quarters of an hour. Freddie had been gone for three quarters of an hour. Finch let out a gasp of pain before he could control himself.

  “I’m going to lift you and put you on the bed. If you feel any pain, tell me and I will stop.”

  He cried out when he saw the red stain on her gown, then he saw the broken glass that had been crushed in her fall.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Port. It’s port. Unless you feel any pain.”

  He placed her on the bed and pressed his hand against the stain.

  “No, no pain.”

  There was a sheet of paper on the bed. Finch picked it up and read it aloud.

  “Come alone to the shepherd’s hut on Claddon Hill or your son will die.”

  “She learned how to hurt you,” whispered Mary.

  “So she did.”

  Finch didn’t much care how or why Freddie had been taken, only that he must be returned to him and Mary.

  “Take me with you.”

  Now he knew that she was feeling better. She, too, knew what was important.

  “I cannot.”

  “I will follow you. Freddie will need me.”

  Or I will need you, thought Finch, as he considered the ways in which this night could end.

  “You won’t even be able to walk out of the inn,” he protested, but his heart was not in it. He didn’t want to let her out of his sight.

  “You underestimate my determination and my strength.”

  “Perhaps I do, at that. Can you handle a pistol?”

  “No.”

  “If I give you a knife, could you use it?”

  “To save Freddie? Yes.”

  He’d been right; she wasn’t a mouse at all.

  “I will fetch my pistols and my cloak. You are a lion, Miss Wilding. Truly a lion.”

  He looked at her clothes and shoes.

  “First I will wash and bind your head. If you can change into sturdier shoes, I have a greatcoat that will keep the r
ain and cold out.”

  He worked quickly on her head and gradually her colour returned. Despite her protests he also gave her whisky. Her eyes never left his face, but she said nothing. He left her to make his own arrangements.

  When he returned holding the greatcoat and the knife, she was standing by the bed in a stout pair of shoes.

  “I have woken Paul. If we are not back in three hours, he will raise the watch, if they have such a thing here.”

  Finch wasn’t sure what the coachman could do, but the man had sworn to carry out all kinds of atrocities on anyone who dared to harm a hair on Master Freddie’s head.

  Finch helped Mary into the coat and pressed the knife into her hand. They went quietly downstairs to the front of the inn where Paul was waiting for them by the door.

  “Here’s a dark lantern, sir. Much good it will do you this night.”

  “It will serve, thank you.”

  “Shouldn’t Miss Wilding wait here while I come with you?”

  “I do not mean to offend, Paul, but I think Master Freddie will be happier to see her than you.”

  “I understand, but I’d be more use to you.”

  Finch didn’t even pretend to reconsider. He had not wanted to leave Mary behind. He preferred to have her near, where he could protect her. If they could hurt a six year old boy, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill a grown woman.

  “Three hours, remember.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Paul had not been wrong about the night. The rain was heavy now and it was dark with no stars or moon. There was little danger of their approach being marked until they were almost upon the kidnappers, assuming they were not being led astray.

  “When we are close to the hut I will go ahead and you will hide. If I can send Freddie to you, you will leave immediately with him. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean it. His life is more important than mine.”

  “Yes, I will not let you down.”

  “Thank you.”

  Telling himself that it was in order that they should not become separated in the dark, he took one of her hands in his. In answer she squeezed it.

  Despite the cloak, Finch soon began to feel that he was getting very wet and he seemed constantly to be wiping water from his face. The wind was blowing his cloak about, making him feel unbalanced, but he put all of this from his mind. The only thing that mattered was finding and retrieving Freddie. He did allow himself to wonder why his enemies had chosen to do this now. If Louise was involved, and that was the only thing that made sense, she had had plenty of opportunity to hand him over to someone for torture. Of course, threatening Freddie was far more effective than breaking every bone in his own body. It would surely have been easier to take Freddie when he was on one of his daily walks in the park with Mary, though something must have happened to make such precipitous action necessary. Oh, but love must have made him stupid! It was obvious what had happened. He had left London and the Frenchwoman was left behind. Two weeks away from her, let alone two months, would have been enough for him to be cured of his love. That must have been what they feared. Perhaps she had realised that he would not return after her display last night.

  He stopped walking and blew out the lantern. Putting his mouth close to Mary’s ear, he said, “You must wait here.”

  For answer she put her hand up to touch his face and he walked on alone.

  The outline of the hut was almost invisible in the rain and it was the small light showing through the partially open door that caught his attention. As an afterthought he returned to Mary and gave her the cloak; it would only be a hindrance from now on. Holding a pistol in his left hand and a knife in the other he walked slowly to the hut. There was little point seeking cover, as the rain would hide him until he was almost inside the hut.

  When he was little more than a few feet away he stood still and listened. All he could hear was the rain and the wind. He thought there must be someone inside the hut, for every now and again something passed between him and the light.

  Tasting blood, he realised he had bitten his lip in his effort to control himself and not rush in to save Freddie. He was not as detached as he should be and that would be dangerous for his son. There was a sudden movement in the doorway and a man stood silhouetted against the light. Finch could see the pistol outlined in his hand.

  The man came through the door and walked quickly round to the most sheltered side of the hut. Finch knew what the man was going to do even before he started undoing the buttons on his fall. Slipping his pistol into the top of his breeches, Finch made the knife comfortable in his hand, walked up behind the man and slid the knife up between his ribs, putting his other hand over the man’s mouth as he did so. The thickness of the man’s coat had weakened the thrust and he started to struggle. Finch pulled the knife out, thrust again and twisted it. The man stopped fighting and fell at Finch’s feet. It was a matter of seconds to make sure that he really was dead. Finch wiped the knife clean in the man’s wet coat and stood.

  Now he turned towards the door, to find another man blocking the way. He had barely got his hand on his pistol before he heard the shot. Then he felt a burning pain and fell to the ground. His pistol was still in his hand and he raised it and fired. His opponent fell dead beside him. Distractedly Finch threw the smoking weapon away from him; it would be no use as a club if he couldn’t stand and he knew he couldn’t stand. He had lost the knife and it hurt him too much to search for it. He would have to retrieve the one that was hidden in his boot, but this was slow and awkward. By the time it was in his hand he was starting to feel dizzy.

  Ignoring the pain in his side he turned onto his stomach and started to crawl. There could be no element of surprise for anyone left in the hut, but surely they had thought that two men would be enough to handle a distraught father and a small boy and there would be no one else there. As he neared the door the pain grew worse. Trying not to think what would happen if he passed out before he could ensure that Freddie was safe, he dragged himself the last few inches.

  The hut was empty save for Freddie, who was tied to a chair in the middle of the room. He was gagged and his face was bruised.

  Finch didn’t waste time trying to get to him, but simply shouted, “Miss Wilding!”

  His voice sounded faint to his own ears and he couldn’t think that it would carry above the storm.

  “Mr Finch?”

  The distance from Mary’s hiding place must be shorter than he had thought, for she was beside him in a second.

  “Freddie’s in there. Get him and take him to the inn. Send Paul back for me.”

  He was blocking the doorway, but she stepped over him to get to Freddie. The knife he had given her was in her hand and she used it on the ropes that bound the child. As soon as he was released she clutched him to her and covered him with kisses.

  “Is he hurt?”

  Finch was starting to feel dizzy again and even his great concentration couldn’t mask the pain that was now beating at his side.

  Mary examined Freddie.

  “A few bruises,” she said as she wrapped him in the cloak. “Now, sit still, my darling, while I see to your papa.”

  “Take him away,” said Finch, as she knelt beside him.

  “I will, but you’ll be dead before Paul gets here if I don’t bind your wound.”

  “Then I’ll be dead, but Freddie will be safe and so will you. Others will come.”

  Why couldn’t she see that this was all that was important? She and Freddie must be safe.

  Her hand was cold on his forehead. Then she started to turn him and the pain was more than he could bear.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mary’s tears almost blinded her as she looked round the hut to find something to put on Finch’s wound to staunch the bleeding. Much as she wanted to, she wouldn’t disobey him. Even if it cost her own life, she would have stayed with him had they been alone, but he was right and she must take Freddie to safety.


  In the end, she took off the greatcoat, intending to wedge it over the wound. She wasn’t sure how she could turn him, or even whether turning him would kill him.

  “Stop!”

  Even in the noise made by the wind and the rain, the man’s voice was loud and commanding

  She’d left it too late and now they would all die. Turning back to Freddie, she saw that he wasn’t disturbed by the new voice, but whether it was simply because he wasn’t aware of what was happening, she couldn’t tell.

  “Don’t try to move him. We’ll do that.”

  The man held up a lantern to his face.

  “Lord Meldon! How...? What...?”

  “Let Perkins get there. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Mary moved back and took Freddie in her arms and watched while Meldon stepped over Finch and lit two lanterns. He placed both on the table inside the hut and helped the other man move Finch into the shelter. In the light of the lanterns she could see their faces were pale and concerned. Then she saw the blood. There was so much of it that she was almost overcome with nausea.

  “How many were there?”

  “How many...?”

  “Men. How many men?”

  Meldon left Finch and shook her by the shoulder. This was important and she must think.

  “I don’t know. I heard two shots before he called me.”

  “He had some sense left, then. Know how to use this?”

  Meldon thrust a pistol into her hand. She looked at it blankly, then recognised it for what it was.

  “No.”

  “Point and pull the trigger. Don’t point it at Perkins. I’ll be back soon.”

  He disappeared into the darkness outside and Mary was left watching the empty doorway. It was better than watching what the man on the floor was doing. Freddie stirred in her lap. His movement snapped her out of her reverie. Finch really was lying on the floor with his life pouring out of him. If she couldn’t help him, she could at least help Freddie.

  “Keep still, darling.”