by Ruth Axtell
He stifled a yawn as he entered the kitchen and headed for a table that usually had coffee and tea urns for whoever happened by. He had just poured himself a cup of the strong coffee when he heard someone behind him.
He turned to see Valentine. Had she just come from Lady Wexham’s room? How was she this morning? The thoughts flitted through his mind in rapid succession as he struggled to put in place an impassive demeanor.
Valentine came toward him, her look of dislike evident. With a brief “good morning” he moved aside to allow her access to the urns.
Instead of serving herself, she stood and folded her arms. He lifted an eyebrow, lowering his coffee cup a fraction from his lips.
“You are to accompany madame to London zis morning.”
It was good he hadn’t yet taken a sip of coffee. “I beg your pardon?”
She sniffed with a toss of her head. “You heard me.”
“Lady Wexham is returning to London today?” When had she decided this?
“Yes.” As if begrudging every crumb of information she was forced to give him, she turned toward the tea urn and tossed over her shoulder, “You will pack up your zings and go to the stables to assist Jacob with anything he needs. You will ride my lady’s mare, as you did coming here.”
“Shall I go and see about hiring another coach?”
“Non—the rest of us will follow in a day or so.”
He drew his brows together, his surprise growing. “You are not returning today?” What would others say? Would it look strange that Lady Wexham was returning all of a sudden to London?
He stopped the rapid progression of his thoughts. He seemed to care more about her welfare than the fact that Lady Wexham must have a pressing reason to return to London—and it was his duty to find out what it was.
“Non,” she snapped. “My lady returns by herself in her traveling chaise.”
“I see.” No wonder the maid was so disgruntled. Probably miffed at being left behind.
What was Lady Wexham up to? What did it have to do with last night? He didn’t like it. Not when someone had been following her to her rendezvous.
“Well, what are you standing around for? Madame wishes to leave within ze hour.”
“Does Jacob know?”
“Non. That is for you to do.”
“I don’t know if he’ll be ready in an hour.”
She sniffed. “Zat is your affair.” She poured her tea, ignoring him.
Seeing he would get no more from Valentine, Rees gulped down his coffee and left for the stables.
He didn’t like it.
After some effort on Valentine’s part, Céline was finally satisfied with her appearance. A little powder and some rouge hid most of the ravages of so little sleep. At least her dark green traveling outfit set off her complexion well.
With a final adjustment of her bonnet, she picked up her reticule and turned to bid Valentine good-bye.
“Don’t look so glum. We shall see each other soon.”
“Hah. You have left me with all the work here.” She glanced with contempt at the small valise at Céline’s feet. “That is all you are taking, and I must make sure nothing is left behind.”
“I have more than enough back home.”
Valentine picked up the valise. “I shall take this down to the carriage—if that butler managed to tell Jacob to have it ready.”
Céline paused at the door. “You told him my plans?”
“Of course.” Valentine gave her a sharp look. Before she could question her, Céline walked out of the room. “I shall run to my mother’s apartment and then go to the carriage.”
“Very well. I shall see you at the front.”
Céline knocked on her mother’s sitting room door. Her maid opened the door a crack.
“Is my mother awake yet?”
“Yes, my lady, she is just having her chocolate now.” She moved aside to let Céline enter.
Céline made her way to the bedroom where her mother sat up in her nightcap and peignoir, a tray on her lap.
Her mother blinked at her over her reading spectacles. “Ma chérie, are you going somewhere so early after last evening?”
Céline leaned down and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Good morning, Maman. I am returning to London.”
“What? How is this? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I only decided last night.”
“Why ever for? You only just arrived.”
Céline chuckled, pretending a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “It has been at least a week and a half. I left many things pending in the city. Don’t worry, I shall return again soon.” Not sure when that would be, she patted her mother’s hand. “Take care of yourself. Valentine remains behind to finish packing my things. She will see to anything else you may need.”
Her mother shook her head at her. “I shall never understand you. Always flitting about.” She shooed her away from the bed. “Well, be off with you. I want you to arrive before sunset.”
Céline straightened. “Very well. I will write you when I arrive.” Blowing her a final kiss, she turned to leave, feeling the same vague emptiness she did every time she bid her mother good-bye.
Céline reached the main staircase and was just about to make her way down to the ground floor when someone called her name.
She turned to find Monsieur de la Roche at her elbow. The man had a way of appearing silently where he was least wanted.
She hid her displeasure and smiled. “Good morning, monsieur. How are you this day?”
He inclined his gray pate. “Very well, dear lady. How are you . . . after last night’s nocturnal activities?”
She tensed under his steady scrutiny. A vision of embracing MacKinnon came to her, and she struggled to keep her smile steady. “A little worse for the wear, but nothing a good night’s rest will not restore.”
“Yes.” His gaze drifted downward. “I noticed Harlequin wore himself out on the dance floor.”
Fear pricked along the back of her neck. Had he recognized her? Before she could react, he asked, “You are going somewhere?”
“Yes.”
He waited, his pale eyes never leaving hers. “At a distance?”
She gave a careless laugh. “I fear London beckons me back.”
He raised a gray eyebrow. “London.” At the inflection, an image rose in her mind of his brain studying the word from all sides, cataloging it, and filing it away for some nefarious purpose.
She shook aside her fanciful imagination. Really, a lack of sleep was rattling her more than merited. With a careless wave, she proceeded down the staircase. “I shall see you in town one of these days, I imagine.”
“Doubtless you shall, perhaps sooner than you think.”
“I shall count the days!” Without another glance, she walked down the staircase, keeping a dignified pace.
Rees stood beside his pawing mount, waiting for Lady Wexham. It was scarcely past nine o’clock when she appeared.
He braced himself before looking at her, hoping to have himself well in hand before she approached. But his breath caught and a knot formed in his chest at the sight of her. In a dark green pelisse with a matching hat and plumy ostrich feather, she looked as elegant as any fashionable lady of the ton—and a far cry from the roguish harlequin she had played the evening before. She smiled and nodded at Tom, stopping to exchange a few words with him.
Rees stood too far to hear what they said. He had deliberately positioned his horse behind the traveling chaise in order to see her before she saw him. Now, he pretended to adjust the mare’s girth.
Valentine’s nasal tones reached him and then Lady Wexham’s quiet reply, though he couldn’t distinguish the words.
Rees kept his head lowered, focusing on the leather strap between his fingers, straining to hear the sound of the carriage door opening. Maybe he would not have to speak to her at all this morning.
Instead, it was the scrunch of the gravel drive before him and then her soft voice. “Goo
d morning, Mr. MacKinnon. Is all well with you?”
Slowly, he looked up, feeling at once the impact of those brandy-hued eyes on him. He swallowed back the gnawing ache in his gut.
“Y-yes. Yes,” he repeated more firmly.
“Forgive this sudden decision to return to town. I hope you had no trouble readying yourself for departure?”
Clearly she had no notion that he had been the pirate who had accosted her on the path last night.
Not sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved, he searched her face, wondering again why she was returning to London. “None at all, my lady.”
“You are all set to ride back then? Not too fatigued after last night’s ball? I hope you were not kept up too long.” She paused, tilting her chin at an angle. “I didn’t see you after dinner.”
Was there something behind the words? Or was she waiting for his explanation of why he’d shirked his duties as butler?
“I was kept busy below stairs,” he finally managed.
She continued regarding him a moment longer before saying softly, “I see.”
The words reminded him sharply of her whispered commands of the previous night. You may kiss me.
Finally, she gave a nod and stepped back from him, allowing him to resume breathing. “We shall be on our way then.”
Céline settled back against the squabs as the carriage lurched forward.
Well, that was over. Not sure how she would confront MacKinnon, she was relieved he had no idea she knew of his disguise. Or, was she?
Alone in the vehicle, with a few hours to do little else but think, she was hard-pressed to ignore the part of her that wished MacKinnon had acknowledged what had transpired between them last night. She touched her lips, reliving those moments of abandon.
She tried to rein in her feelings, telling herself that once in London, she would have to decide what to do about her butler. She’d have to consult Gaspard and Roland and assess the damage.
And Valentine? Her maid would demand some immediate action against MacKinnon.
Why did Céline yet feel reluctant to expose him? He was her enemy, yet . . . he had protected her last night. She leaned toward the window, even now fearful that de la Roche or whoever had followed her last night would come after her.
But she saw no one but MacKinnon riding atop her mare, a cloud of dust kicking up around its hooves, and she felt strangely secure.
She picked up her book and opened it. She might as well occupy her mind until they reached the first posting house.
They had been riding for a while since stopping at the last tollgate north of the market town of Watford. Rees calculated they would soon enter Middlesex and then it was only a few more miles to London. But first lay Bushey Heath and Stanmore Commons, open areas with few farmhouses.
He rode behind the carriage, trying to avoid the sight of Lady Wexham as much as possible. The market road to London was in terrible shape, deeply rutted from the heavy cart traffic.
How he wished he were elsewhere. Even a post aboard a cutter with the tedious task of blockading the French ports would be preferable at this moment.
He had spent most of the ride figuring out what he would do when they returned to London. What would he tell Bunting?
He would be truthful . . . as far as he could. That there were certain suspicious signs, but no hard evidence against Lady Wexham. If she was spying on the Comte de Provence, that was not grounds for treason. Let the French solve their own problems of succession. As long as Bonaparte was defeated. He doubted anything Lady Wexham did or didn’t do would affect the outcome of that.
Napoleon had sealed his own downfall with his invasion of Russia. The loss of troops was irreparable. And Spain was proving a continual bleeding sore.
It would be a matter of months, perhaps a year, but Bonaparte would be defeated.
And what then for himself? Would he receive a promotion? Could he hope for a diplomatic post—a place on Castlereagh’s team on the Continent?
The more time he was away from his clerical job at the Foreign Office, the less he wanted to return to it. Yet, he saw no way out. And without the Foreign Office job, what future did he have?
As he’d told Lady Wexham, he’d run away to sea at fifteen. What he hadn’t told her was that it was because he had been unwilling to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a merchant.
He’d quickly taken to the life aboard ship, working his way up from powder monkey to midshipman in a few months. He’d seen plenty of action—enough to convince him that there had to be a better way for the nations and principalities of Europe to settle their differences than through the shed blood of their men. That’s when the dream had been birthed in him to enter the diplomatic field.
But after a decade of toiling away at the Foreign Office, Rees had come to the conclusion that he was destined to molder away there unless something miraculous occurred.
And that had been when Oglethorpe had offered him the chance of a promotion for spying on Lady Wexham.
Yet now, he found himself questioning his loyalty, he who had never swerved in his allegiance to king and country.
He clenched the reins in his hands. He had to show Oglethorpe something if he hoped for any promotion. Dear God, what am I to do? Why am I in this situation—torn in my loyalties as never before? Show me what to do . . .
Would You have me expose Lady Wexham?
Protect her. The words brought him up short, they had been so clear and emphatic. The mare seemed to sense his consternation for she whinnied. Rees patted her neck while attempting to get his own thoughts in order.
Protect her. Had those been the Lord’s words or his own impulse? How could he be sure?
He’d never had to wrestle with right and wrong before. He was a British subject. His country had been threatened by France for almost two decades. France was the aggressor, not England. He had fought in His Majesty’s navy, been wounded in the service of his country, and now, although his work seemed obscure and unimportant, he knew it was valuable in the overall scheme of things.
Intelligence gathering was vital to the military and government. Any leaks of information were potentially detrimental to the war effort. It could mean a prolongation of hostilities, which would only result in the death of more soldiers.
It was simple. Rees would have to tell Bunting what he knew. He had no other choice.
Rees was so caught up in his internal debate that his horse had begun to lag. He looked ahead with a start at how far ahead the chaise had gotten. He began to urge his horse forward when a group of horsemen brandishing guns sprang out of the trees lining the highway along that stretch of road.
Rees spurred his mount into a gallop, shouting to Jacob to spring the horses. Cursing the lack of groom to load the blunderbuss, Rees prayed Jacob would be able to outdistance the five horsemen.
The highwaymen shouted for the coachman to stop. One of them spotted Rees gaining on the carriage. Rees jerked on the reins, veering away from the road in hopes of distracting some of the riders. Wheeling his horse around, the highwayman lifted a pistol and aimed for Rees. The blast knocked him backward, jerking his hands from the reins. He flew off his horse, landing with a thud on the grassy roadside, the wind knocked from his lungs. Pain radiated from his right shoulder.
In the distance, Jacob shouted, the horses neighed, and the wheels ground against the hard-packed mud. Rees attempted to roll over. To his frustration the chaise had come to a stop. “Go, Jacob—go!” he shouted, but his voice came out a hoarse rasp.
The next second, the door flew open and Lady Wexham sprang down, running to kneel at his side, ignoring the shouts of the highwaymen.
“Why . . . why didn’t you ride on?” he gasped.
“Hush.” She hiked up her skirt and began tearing off strips of her petticoat. Wadding it up, she pushed them against his shoulder. He stifled an exclamation at the jolt. “I’m sorry,” she said immediately, her eyes filled with concern.
Jacob cam
e puffing up behind her, with one of the masked highwaymen brandishing a pistol.
“You, madame, up!” The bandit gestured with his gun.
She didn’t spare him a glance, her focus on Rees’s wound. “This man needs my attention.”
He thrust the pistol against her cheek, and she flinched from him.
Ignoring the burning in his shoulder, Rees grabbed her arm. “Do as he says.”
Her gaze shifted from him to the highwayman. Finally, she let the wad go and backed away, addressing the coachman. “Hold it to his shoulder, Jacob.”
The older man knelt at Rees’s side. “Yes, my lady. You just give them what they want,” he said with a glare at the highwayman. “They have the horses.”
Through the haze of pain, Rees noted the highwayman training his pistol on him had a French accent. Had they been sent by someone at Hartwell House? His thoughts went to the man who’d followed Lady Wexham the night before. She had been right to leave when she did, except she’d been too late.
As the cloth became soaked in blood, Jacob pressed more of the cloth strips to Rees’s shoulder. “This is going to hurt like the dickens, but I’ve got to bind it up ’fore you bleed to death.”
“Yes.” He braced himself. Jacob began to undo the buttons on Rees’s coat and waistcoat. As he eased them away from his shoulders, Rees clenched his jaw to keep from screaming out. Jacob grunted. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just cut away your shirt. No sense to trouble you any more than I have to.”
Rees only jerked his head.
The coachman took out a pocketknife and slit the muslin apart. “All right then, bite down.”
Rees said nothing, fighting the nausea, and praying for Lady Wexham’s safety. Don’t let her do anything foolish, Lord.
Jacob took the remaining strips of petticoat and wrapped them around Rees’s shoulder, having to support him with his arms as he brought the strips around his back and under his arm. Rees prayed he wouldn’t pass out before he knew what was happening with Lady Wexham.