The Heart That Hides (Regency Spies Book 2)

by April Munday

  Unexpectedly he found that he was calm and thinking clearly. Then came the realisation that Meldon was right and this was the most stupid thing he could do. Nevertheless, he had chosen his course and he would stick to it.

  Just as he had told Meldon to do, he approached the front door of the house and rang. When the door was opened, he pushed against it to knock the footman down. The boy was unconscious and it was the work of a moment to bundle him into a cupboard and lock the door. Finch thought he would start with the cellar and work his way up through the house.

  Finch was opening the door that hid the stairs going down to the kitchen and the cellar when the Frenchwoman said, “Why, Edmund, what a wonderful surprise.”

  Finch turned slowly and saw her standing on the landing above him.

  “Is it? I rather thought you were expecting me.”

  He kept his eyes on her as she descended the stairs, her movements as graceful as they had been when she had danced on the night they first met.

  “You’re right, of course. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

  Finch reached for his pistol, but saw that there was a man on the landing whose own pistol was pointing unwaveringly at him.

  “As you have discovered, the wealthy cannot have too much protection.”

  “No. And you are in need of protection.”

  He thought she paled slightly at his threat, but it was hard to tell.

  “Come into the drawing-room and we will begin.”

  “Not until I’ve seen Miss Wilding.”

  “We’re not interested in her.”

  “But I am.”

  “Then you’re a fool. She can go when we’re finished.”

  Finch knew this was a lie. Mary would die if he didn’t get her out of the house soon.

  “Let her go now.”

  “Relieve him of his weapons,” she said and yet another man appeared on the landing.

  He descended swiftly and searched Finch thoroughly. Finch was impressed that the man found all his weapons save two knives.

  “Now,” said the Frenchwoman, “you will come into the drawing-room and talk to me.”

  “No. And if you know who I am, you know that I won’t.”

  “Of course I know who you are.” She smiled her most seductive smile and dragged the nail of her index finger from his throat to his chin. “I broke your fingers ... one bone at a time.”

  She shivered with delight and Finch saw in her eyes what he had seen there so often. The mere memory of torturing him aroused her.

  Finch had always known that there had been two of them, although only one, a man, had spoken. Blindfolded, he had never guessed that the other might be a woman. He swallowed hard as he remembered the delight she had taken in inflicting pain on him more recently: the time she had bitten his lip until it bled; the time she had slapped his face, claiming he had gone too far; the time she had scratched his neck in pretended passion and left a scar. Above all he remembered the time after he had been shot when she had pressed her hand down on his chest with her full weight and stretched her fingers down towards his wound under the eyes of Meldon and Mary, so that he could hardly breathe. It was not his own physical danger he had feared then, although that had been real enough, but the knowledge that inflicting pain on him in his weakened state had aroused her more than anything else that had happened in the course of their relationship. Despite her protestations, she would never have enjoyed the sweet seduction he had planned for her. Pain gave her more pleasure than anything else even when the pain was her own. Mary was in this woman’s hands. The Frenchwoman wouldn’t just kill her; she would enjoy making her suffer. He clenched his misshapen hand in his good one until it hurt and then his head was clear again.

  “It wasn’t guilt that meant you could hardly bear the sight of your handiwork, I suppose?”

  Her nostrils flared in anger.

  “It was a constant reminder of my failure.”

  “Then you know that this is a waste of time.”

  She smiled and he saw the bloodlust in her eyes.

  “I was only getting started when you escaped.”

  He had known this; breaking his fingers had been a foretaste of what was to come, for both of them.

  “Still, I would see Miss Wilding.”

  “Does she mean so much to you, then?”

  Finch shook his head. “She’s my servant, not a soldier like us. She’s an innocent.”

  “Even innocents suffer in a war.”

  Now Finch tried to stop his hand clenching, as he had the dreadful thought that Mary was already dead. He had tried not to think about this. The Frenchwoman could not know what Mary meant to him. What she did know was that if there was no threat to another person he would say nothing.

  “Nonetheless, I will see her.”

  “Tie his hands.”

  The man who had searched him pushed his arms roughly behind him and bound them tightly at the wrists. In this, thought Finch, he had done a better job than he had when he had searched for his weapons. Finch could not move his arms; his knives would not help him now.

  At a signal from the Frenchwoman this man opened a door and allowed Finch to precede him. Finch concentrated his hearing on the other man up on the landing. If that man stayed where he was he should have no more than three to deal with in the cellar, perhaps only these two; they surely could not have found it necessary to guard Mary closely.

  In this he was proved correct. Mary was bound and gagged and sitting on the floor of the cellar, surrounded by dry stores for the household. She was alone. Willing himself to show no emotion, Finch said quietly, “Miss Wilding, are you unharmed?”

  Mary started at the sound of his voice, but made no further movement. She was scared, but calm as Finch had known she would be.

  “I’m sorry that you’ve had to suffer in this way.”

  “Ever the gentleman,” said the Frenchwoman, as she came in with a lantern.

  “Please be assured that I shall do all in my power to get you out of here.” Finch continued talking to Mary as if they were alone in the room.

  For a brief moment he allowed himself to be distracted by her eyes. He saw sorrow there, as if she knew that they would both die shortly. There was something else, though, that he could not identify. She was afraid; he could see that clearly, but there was more. Trust, perhaps. Did she think he had a way out for them both?

  “All in your power,” sneered the Frenchwoman and Finch wrenched his eyes away from Mary. His head cleared again and he continued to consider his options. They were few enough.

  “You have no power here,” continued the Frenchwoman. “You are bound and without weapons. You can do nothing.”

  “I can talk,” he said grimly, “if you release her. I have no objection to dying here, but there is no need for Miss Wilding to come to any harm.”

  Mary’s eyes widened in alarm when he mentioned his death and she shook her head. Finch considered her for a moment before smiling and dropping to one knee beside her so that his body blocked her arms and torso from the French agents.

  Mary moved as if to ease some discomfort in her back and Finch saw that she had somehow managed to remove the rope that bound her wrists. He knew that his expression changed and was grateful that his back was to the Frenchwoman.

  “Since we are both to die,” he said, smiling to show that he lied, “I ask you to forgive me for what took place in the library.”

  Mary looked surprised, then her eyes looked down to her left. At first Finch thought she was pained by her memory of that night, then he knew his stupidity for what it was and followed the direction of her eyes. He saw the point of a knife appear from the sleeve of her jacket. Had she been carrying his knife all this time? He looked into her face again, trying to gauge what he saw there. Her obvious fear reminded him that they could neither of them afford for him to be distracted. He could give Mary no sign of what he intended, but hoped that she read in his own eyes that he had a plan, if she would only play her part
.

  Immediately he swivelled to face the woman who stood in front of the closed door so that his back was to Mary.

  “I should like to hear her forgiveness from her own lips. Could you remove the gag?”

  “Really, Edmund. Sometimes I think you deserve your reputation for stupidity.”

  Finch felt the rope around his wrists give as Mary cut through it. As soon as she had placed the knife in his hand he threw it at the man, who crumpled noiselessly to the floor. Before the Frenchwoman could react, he had retrieved one of his own knives, jumped to his feet and held it to her throat.

  “We both know you’re too much of a gentleman to kill me,” she said.

  Finch broke her neck.

  “How little you know me,” he said quietly, as he lowered her body to the floor.

  He turned back to the governess.

  Mary had removed her gag and was trying to unknot the rope around her ankles. Finch used his knife to release her, then pulled her to her feet.

  “Did they really not hurt you?” he asked as he slid an arm protectively round her waist.

  “No. They threatened...” Her eyes clouded with tears. “And they told me what they intended to do to you.”

  He pulled her against his chest while she cried and he stroked her hair.

  “We should leave,” he said gently.

  “Yes, of course.”

  She made no move to pull away and Finch didn’t move either. The last thing he wanted was to let go of her. She was alive and so was he. At this moment nothing else mattered.

  “Meldon will be here soon. He will take you back to his house.”

  “And you?”

  She raised her tear-stained face to him.

  There was a noise outside and the door burst open.

  “I see I’ve come too late to be much help.”

  Meldon looked around the room and nodded appreciatively.

  “You can take Miss Wilding away,” said Finch. “Is the rest of the house clear?”

  “Someone upstairs put up a fight, but there’s no one else here.”

  “I locked a boy in a cupboard. He might still be there.”

  Meldon reached out a hand to Mary.

  Still clinging to Finch, she asked, “What will you do?”

  “I’ll clear up here.”

  “And then?”

  And then? Very soon Mary would realise that he was no gentleman at all, but a cold-blooded murderer and she would never want to see him again.

  Finch loosened her arms from his waist and put one of her hands into Meldon’s.

  “I shall come for Freddie when I’m finished here.”

  He saw from her face that she understood some of what he had not said. She knew he wouldn’t be coming for her.

  “Meldon will keep you safe.”

  “You put your life in danger to come for me.”

  Had she thought he would not come? For those few terrible hours had she believed herself to be alone?

  “I hoped you wouldn’t.”

  He could say nothing.

  Finch looked at Meldon and nodded.

  “Come, Miss Wilding. We’ll leave Finch to his work.”

  Reluctantly, Finch let go of the hand he still held. Mary looked back at him as she stepped through the doorway, then was gone.

  The next two days passed in a blur. Mary was careful to appear calm before Freddie, but when she was alone she sobbed uncontrollably. Since Meldon had led her up the stairs and away from the cellar she hadn’t seen or heard from Finch.

  As much as she could, she stayed in her suite with Freddie. His lessons were short and they didn’t take their afternoon walk. Mary didn’t want to be out of the house when Finch returned, for she was afraid he wouldn’t want to see her and she wanted to see him desperately.

  On the first evening Freddie had asked after his father and all Mary could say was that he had had to go away on business and would be back shortly. At the boy’s protest that his father never left him without saying goodbye, she had responded that Finch had asked her to say goodbye on his behalf. The ill-thought out lie had angered Freddie and she had reflected that Finch had been right when he’d told her that she was a bad liar. Freddie had taken refuge with Meldon, until he realised that his godfather had no time to spare for him. He returned to Mary, who hugged and kissed him and allowed him to sleep in her bed, as much for her comfort as for his.

  On the night of the second day, she was woken by a soft, but insistent knock on her bedroom door.

  “Come in,” Mary called, wondering if she was being called to help with Lady Meldon, who’s baby was due any day now.

  The door opened and Finch stepped into the room. The light from the candle in his hand showed the fear on his face. She jumped out of bed to go to him.

  “Where’s Freddie?” he asked, his voice raw with fear. “His bed’s empty.”

  “Here,” she said, “he’s here with me.”

  She caught hold of his hand and led him to the bed so that he could see the sleeping boy.

  “Thank God.”

  His body sagged with relief and she thought how fragile he looked. Dark circles under his eyes showed that he hadn’t slept since she had seen him last. He had washed, shaved and changed his clothes, but quickly, for his cravat hung awkwardly and an open cuff protruded from the end of the sleeve of his jacket. She took the candle from his shaking hand and placed it on the chest of drawers.

  He ruffled Freddie’s hair and the child woke instantly.

  “Papa!”

  He jumped into Finch’s arms.

  Finch hugged him tightly and Mary saw that his whole body was shaking.

  “I’m sorry I had to leave without saying goodbye. It was something very important and I... Oh, Freddie, it’s so good to be with you.”

  “I was scared.”

  “You had Miss Wilding with you. She’s as brave as a lion.”

  “I quarrelled with her.” The boy’s voice was barely as whisper.

  “Did you apologise?” Finch’s voice was scarcely louder.

  Freddie shook his head and Finch turned so that he could see Mary. Tired as he was, he was angry at his son’s apparent lack of manners.

  “We have made up,” she said.

  “If Freddie is at fault, he should apologise.”

  “He is not at fault. I am and I have apologised to him. Like you, he is a gentleman and he will not tell you that I have let him down.”

  Finch looked distraught and she wondered what she had said to upset him. He kissed Freddie.

  “I must talk with Miss Wilding and then I must sleep. Go to your own bed now and I shall see you when I wake. It won’t be until late tomorrow. Don’t worry if you don’t see me for a while. I shall be here.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Finch kissed the boy again and Freddie climbed down from his father’s embrace and left them alone.

  “You look as if you’re about to collapse. Are you sure it can’t wait?”

  Mary resisted the impulse to reach out and stroke his cheek. She wanted to take him into her arms and hold him until the tiredness went away.

  “No, I have my own apology to make. You should not have had to see...”

  “Stop,” she said quietly. “Are you about to apologise for saving both our lives?”

  “You should still not have seen...”

  “You forget that I saw my parents murdered and that she probably had something to do with it.”

  Finch acknowledged his forgetfulness with a slight bow.

  “Nonetheless, there was no need for you to see me kill them.”

  Was this what worried him, not that he had killed them, but that she had seen it?

  “If I had not seen it,” she said carefully, “I would still have known that you had done it. As I know that you killed the men who took Freddie.”

  “Of course,” he said, “although I would have protected you from the knowledge of it, if I could.”

  “Even in this you are thoughtful
and considerate,” she said.

  “I hope you will still think so in a moment.”

  With a visible effort Finch straightened and Mary wondered how much pain he was in if he hadn’t rested for two days. His wound had healed well, but even his great strength would be tested by such events.

  “I have given the matter much thought, all the more since I was confined to bed for so long, but... Miss Wilding, my feelings for you are such that I can no longer live in the same house as you unless it is as man and wife. I have no wish to behave to you as Holden did. I will give you a house and money, so you will not need to work and...”

  Mary must have swayed, for she found she was in his arms, her head resting against his chest. In her confusion, she began to cry.

  “You said I wouldn’t have to leave.”

  “I love you. I thought I could control my feelings, but I cannot. One night I would find myself in your bedroom... as I am now.”

  She felt the change in his body as the full realisation of where he was and what he was doing struck him and his arms tightened around her.

  “And your feelings for me are…”

  “You love me?” she interrupted him.

  “I have for some time. I know it’s an insult to your rank...”

  “No,” she mumbled, “no insult, not from you.”

  He held his breath and she could feel his heart thumping beneath her hand. Slowly she put her arms around him and relaxed against him. He let out his breath. Mary raised her face to him and opened her mouth to tell him that she loved him, but her words were swallowed up when he kissed her. Surprised, she didn’t respond at first, then she pulled away from him.

  “I’m sorry. I misunderstood you,” he said.

  Embarrassment and regret covered his face and he let go of her.

  “No,” she panted, “I couldn’t breathe. I’ve never done this before.”

  He raised a hand to her face and cupped her cheek.

  “Then let me teach you.”

  He bent his head towards her.