A Lady's Secret Weapon (12 page)

Catherine paused on the entrance landing. “Sophie adores all the attention you and Sebastian shower on her, and I appreciate the patience you’ve shown her. But you must tell me when she becomes too much.”

“She’s a sweet, good-natured child, Catherine, and deserves all the happiness we can provide. I only wish my experience with children was greater. Perhaps I might be able to do more if I understood them better.”

“One would never know you lack experience. You appear quite natural in her company.”

“Hmm. I wonder what that says about my manhood.”

She smiled. “An indicator of great talent and depth of character, sir.”

Every moment he spent in Catherine’s presence helped solidify how this widow from the country stole Somerton’s well-protected heart. He leaned close to her ear. “You’re too kind, madam. If I had no care for my present good health, I would attempt to snatch you away from Somerton. Since I like my head attached to my shoulders, I will have to content myself with longing for you from afar.”

Catherine laughed. “I think you enjoy your bachelorhood far more than your good health.”

He winked at her. “You may be right. Shall we?”

“Indeed. I’m surprised Sophie allowed us to linger so long. She appears quite ready.”

Ethan led their small group to Hyde Park without incident. Sophie was so awestruck by the various sights he pointed out that she did little more than stare and make excited noises. He found himself enjoying his role as guide and set out to make the girl’s first promenade memorable. Much to his surprise, Sophie’s equestrian knowledge far surpassed his own on the subject. She knew all the various breeds and their history. From deep in her mind’s well, she plucked unusual bits of trivia to share. Ethan even learned another way to treat colic.

When they reached the halfway point of their circuit, a familiar face caught Ethan’s attention. Miss Hunt, along with her assistant, Mrs. Cartwright, sat in an open carriage at the side of the gravel walk. Her ever-present footmen were also in attendance—one acting as driver and the other sitting astride a horse at the back of the carriage.

The sight of his black-haired beauty sent tingling warmth shooting through his veins, brightening his day even more. As he neared her location, he realized with some astonishment that he had missed her, even though he had seen her only yesterday.

Then his gaze moved to the quartet of well-dressed gentlemen surrounding her and the murderous expression on Mac’s face. The tingling warmth became scalding and altogether unpleasant. What were the men doing in the park at this hour? A time normally reserved for children and servants.

“Is something wrong, Ethan?” Catherine asked, halting a few feet ahead of him.

During his study of the proprietress and her entourage, his grip on his reins had slackened and his mount decided to indulge in a short respite—in the middle of the walk. He grasped the reins tighter and squeezed his knees, forcing his mount into motion again. “No,” he said. “I merely caught sight of a new acquaintance. Allow me to introduce you.”

Ethan did not wait for Catherine’s consent, for it suddenly seemed imperative that he reach Miss Hunt’s side. More specifically, insert himself between her and the young bucks staring at her bosom. “Good morning, Miss Hunt. Mrs. Cartwright. Gentlemen.”

The proprietress angled her head to the side for a better view of him. “Lord Danforth,” she said. “This is a pleasant surprise.” Her gaze settled on Catherine and then Sophie, whose attention darted from one person to the next, as if she would miss something exciting.

“May I introduce Mrs. Ashcroft and her daughter, Sophie. Catherine, Sophie, this is Miss Hunt and her assistant, Mrs. Cartwright.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hunt.”

“Hello,” Sophie chirped.

Miss Hunt swept her hand in a wide arc. “And these gentlemen are known as Mr. Buckley, Mr. Kirby, Mr. Talman, and Mr. Pyne.”

Each man tipped their hats in Ethan and Catherine’s direction, murmuring their greeting.

Pyne’s assessing gaze swept over Ethan.

“Well, gentlemen,” Mr. Buckley said, “shall we leave Miss Hunt to her new visitors?”

“Seems a shame,” Mr. Talman said. “But I have an appointment to view a prime bit of horseflesh in a half hour.”

“Good day, Sydney. Mrs. Cartwright,” Pyne said, nodding to Catherine and holding Ethan’s gaze for a challenging moment before following his friends.

Ethan turned back to the proprietress’s carriage in time to see Mrs. Cartwright slide a comforting hand over Miss Hunt’s. The proprietress patted her assistant’s arm and lifted her chin.

“Miss Sophie,” Miss Hunt said, “that’s a fine horse you have there.”

Sophie beamed. “Thank you. Her name is Guinevere. Bastian brought her to town for me.”

“Lord Somerton, dear,” Catherine admonished her daughter.

“Sorry, Mama.” Sophie turned her big blue eyes on Miss Hunt. “I’m only supposed to call him Bastian at home.”

Miss Hunt smiled at the girl’s conspiratorial tone. “You must be a very special girl if the fierce Lord Somerton gave you leave to call him Bastian.”

Sophie nodded her head at a rate of speed that made Ethan dizzy. “He’s going to be my new papa,” she whispered.

Miss Hunt’s gaze swept over Catherine’s mourning attire, prompting Catherine to add, “When I’m out of mourning, of course.”

Not an ounce of judgment crossed the proprietress’s face. To Sophie, she said, “Then we have something in common. When I was about your age, I got a new papa, too.”

“Truly?”

“Truly, Sophie,” Miss Hunt said. “And I grew to love him more than any words could ever express.”

“Brilliant,” Sophie said, wiggling in her saddle. “Did you hear that, Mama? I can love Bastian the same as Papa.”

“Of course, you can,” Catherine said, concerned. “Whatever gave you the impression you could not?” No sooner were the words out of her mouth, than she brushed a hand over her daughter’s mop of curls. “Never mind, dear. We can discuss this later.”

Ethan interjected, “Miss Hunt owns and operates an employment agency, Catherine. Perhaps she can help you locate a new governess for Sophie.”

“Do you, indeed?” Catherine asked.

Miss Hunt sent Ethan a warm look before answering. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I confess to dreading the process. Sophie deserves the best, and I have no notion of where to start in London.”

“Mrs. Cartwright, do you have an agency card for Mrs. Ashcroft?” Miss Hunt asked.

“Certainly.” The assistant fished out a white card from her reticule and stood to descend from the carriage. Only Mac dismounted in time to pluck the card from Amelia’s hand and then offered it to Catherine.

“Thank you—”

“Mac, ma’am.”

“Feel free to contact us whenever you’re ready, Mrs. Ashcroft,” Amelia said. “We would be happy to discuss the depth of our services at whatever time is convenient for you.”

Catherine tucked the card into a pocket of her voluminous riding habit. “You will hear from me very soon.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ethan saw Sophie lean forward in her saddle, staring hard at Mac, who had returned to the rear of the carriage, before transferring her attention to Mick in the driver’s seat. “If he’s Mac, who are you?”

“Sophia Adele,” her mother scolded, “you are being rude.”

“Sorry, Mama,” Sophie said, though her gaze did not falter.

The merry footman’s lips turned up into a broad rogue’s smile. He pointed his thumb at his chest. “I’m Mick.”

“How do I know you’re not Mac and he’s Mick?” Sophie asked.

Catherine started to admonish Sophie again, but Mick shook his head, apparently delighted by the girl’s question. “That’s an easy question, pet. You see, I’m the more handsome brother. Mac there, he has a terrible scar on the left side of his chin. The ladies take one look at his hideous disfigurement and run straight into my arms.”

Sophie’s eyes narrowed on Mac, suspicion marring her smooth brow. “I don’t see a scar.”

Mac angled his head a little and tapped his chin. Coming from the footman who never smiled, the playful gesture was one part menacing and one part charming. Like Sophie, Ethan tried to locate the disfigurement but could only discern a small pale line about an inch in length. Hardly hideous. If anything, the old wound gave the footman an air of danger, making him even more attractive to the ladies. He wondered if Sydney found the scar appealing.

“That’s not scary at all,” Sophie proclaimed. “The scar on my knee is far uglier.”

Laughing, Mick slapped his leg and shook his head, conceding defeat.

“Come along, Sophie,” Catherine said. “I believe you have tortured our new friends more than enough for one day.”

In nearly an exact replica of Mick’s rogue’s grin, Sophie’s toothy smile revealed her delight in having tortured someone. She waved her hand. “Good-bye.”

While everyone murmured their farewells, Ethan caught Miss Hunt’s eye. “I will see you tomorrow.”

She sent him a bland, resigned smile. “Of course, my lord.”

As he and the two Ashcroft ladies guided their horses away from the carriage, Ethan could feel Catherine’s frequent glances. He understood her curiosity, but he had no desire to assuage it. Because he didn’t know how. His reaction to the gentlemen’s attention to Miss Hunt, especially Pyne’s, had felt a great deal like jealousy, an emotion he had thus far avoided.

Until today.

Until Sydney.

As he did most nights, William Townsend observed the illuminated windows of Abbingale Home from the shadows of a rented room across the street. Searching. Always searching.

His fingers curled into the faded, mud-colored drapery. Fury, helplessness, and recrimination warred inside him. None would free him from this untenable situation.

Inside Abbingale’s walls brewed a nightmare he’d helped create and was now incapable of stopping. And it did not end there. More homes like Abbingale had been enfolded into LaRouche’s new scheme. The thought nauseated him. How had this happened? For months, he had strategized and then executed a plan that would garner him enormous wealth. Enough to leave England and his heritage behind and start afresh in America, where they did not look down on certain choices a man made.

But the foreigners he aided were no longer content to communicate from afar. They had invaded England’s shores one threat at a time, with no one the wiser.
Émigrés
they called themselves; wealthy noblemen and merchants fleeing Bonaparte’s wrath. A decade before, during the great Revolution, such immigration had happened
en
masse
, and the government had been forced to put protective measures in place, such as the Foreign Letter Office, to ensure England was not harboring enemies within.

A dozen years ago, the government established the Foreign Letter Office to open correspondence to foreign embassies from their governments. The office got so good at opening, copying, and resealing the letters that evidence of their tampering went unnoticed. Within a year, this secret operation was absorbed into the Alien Office, another office known only to a trusted few.

William had been one of the few for many years. But now he was trusted by no one, and his plan to secure his own future had transformed into a monstrous enterprise that sickened him to the core. How had he lost all control to LaRouche?

Some would think the Frenchman insane, but William knew better. The man was ten times more intelligent than anyone of his acquaintance. Yes, it was true that many a genius descended into madness. LaRouche would never forfeit so much control, however. He loved power and money far too much.

A knock sounded at the door, and William whirled around, grabbing his pistol from a nearby table. No one knew he was staying here, not even LaRouche. He’d been careful not to stay in the same location for more than two days. Any more than that and his enemies were sure to find him.

William had failed his foreign partners one too many times, and he had no doubt they were now seeking his death. He was a loose end they needed to snip off. William understood, for he would have done the same had their roles been reversed.

Another knock, this one more insistent. William crept across the darkened room. He never lit candles for fear of drawing undue attention to himself. Leaning close, he pressed his ear near the door at the same time a boot slammed into the other side. Streaks of white light exploded before his eyes, and wind whipped past his ears as he sailed backward.

Unable to catch his footing, he crashed into the bed frame and the side of his head struck the sharp corner. Bone cracked, and he lost vision in his right eye. He hit the floor with enough force to drive out what little air he had left in his lungs.

A large, filthy boot stepped on the side of his throat. Pain ripped through William’s neck as tendons and ligaments ground together. He grappled for his weapon while thrusting the heel of his palm to the inside of his assailant’s knee. The man grunted but the pressure on William’s throat did not ease. With his impaired vision and limited movement, his pistol could be inches away but it might as well be miles, for he could not locate it.

“Do that again, guv’nor,” his assailant said, “and I’ll break your wee privileged neck.”

William squeezed his eyes shut and blinked them open again, trying to regain focus. The action proved little use, especially when his assailant rotated his boot forward, shoving William’s face in the opposite direction. With his nose a mere inch from the wooden floorboards, his world narrowed down to a blurry image of a year’s worth of dust and dead insects beneath the bed.

Behind him, a door creaked. “You should have answered the door on the first knock, monsieur,” a newcomer said.

The sound of LaRouche’s refined voice caused his fingers to reflexively dig into his assailant’s ankle. A worrisome pressure began to build in William’s head.

“You are looking quite unkempt, monsieur.” The Frenchman moved farther into the room until William could see the tips of his polished shoes. “I think it might be time to replace your valet. Oh, that is right. You no longer have a valet. How insensitive of me to forget.”

LaRouche’s not-so-subtle reminder of William’s reduced circumstances did nothing to discompose him. Everything he had lost he would replace it tenfold in America. Everything but one item, he amended, with a mixture of fury and regret. Lydia, he would never be able to replace.

“What do you want, LaRouche?”

He tsked. “Surely, you know.”

“The list?” Black spots now dotted his vision.

“
Oui
, monsieur. You failed to deliver.”

“My man established a list of agents did not exist. Had you not ordered his death, he might have gleaned other useful intelligence about the Nexus members.” He had also ordered Lydia’s death, but LaRouche would never know how much that decision affected him. Never would he hand over that kind of power.

“Cochran’s usefulness had come to an end,” LaRouche said.

William was losing consciousness. His hand dropped away from his assailant’s ankle, and his lids fluttered like a trapped butterfly in a losing battle.

“Mr. Jones, I do believe you’re killing him. Now is not the time.”

Before the ruffian obeyed, he thrust his boot deeper into William’s throat. Sucking in a lung full of air, William somehow found enough strength and presence of mind to roll away from the two men. Like a child who had whirled around in a circle too long, he could not command his equilibrium. Instead, he crouched on one knee, his hands braced on the floor before him. “What is the point of this meeting, LaRouche?” His voice was raw, broken. “I am well aware of what you want and am working on a solution.”

“How can you solve something that does not exist?”

William lifted his head and noted the hard line framing the Frenchman’s mouth. “I warned you that Somerton would never betray his agents, even under duress.”

“So you did,” LaRouche said in a conciliatory tone that raised the hairs on William’s arms. “Since you were unable to bring me a list of the Nexus secret service agents, my superiors have devised a new plan.”

Rolling to his feet, William faced this new threat on limbs that quivered like a newborn fawn’s. “A plan that requires my assistance?”

LaRouche sent him a knowing smile. “Call this new request an opportunity for redemption, if you will. You have much to make up for.”

So, he wouldn’t die today. Relief steadied his trembling legs, though he knew it to be a temporary condition. Whatever task LaRouche had in store for him, William sensed it would violate what few morals he had left. If nothing else, Bonaparte was determined to squash England beneath his rule and would order all manner of savagery to make his greatest wish come true. William could not be here when that happened. He should not even be here now. Traitors were tolerated but never accepted. Not by their home country, nor by the enemy they aided. William’s plan had always been to collect his blood-fortune and then disappear. With Lydia and…

LaRouche said, “You are familiar with the new Viscount Melville?”

William nodded carefully, while his mind searched for a possible connection. “Henry Dundas, the former War Secretary.”

“The very same.” LaRouche began to pace a wide circle around him. “He has a grandson of the same name, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” William’s stomach coiled into a knot when he recalled Melville’s current position within the government. “I try to avoid such intimate discussions.”

“You surprise me,” LaRouche said from behind him. “I would think an intelligence gatherer would be interested in all manner of discussions. One never knows what morsels might prove useful. Like now.”

“Lord Melville?” William pressed.

“Bring me his grandson.”

William concentrated on keeping his breathing even. “How old is the boy?”

LaRouche stopped before him. “
Petit
Henry will celebrate his fourth birthday in February.” He tilted his head to the side. “Please do not tell me you are being plagued by scruples, monsieur.”

Most had vanished from his life two years ago when he’d made his first exchange with the French. He had not been unhappy with that fact until a few weeks ago, when his euphoric state disintegrated into a pile of bone-crushing loss.

“You would ask that of me?” William infused as much scorn into his tone as he could manage. “After all the crimes I’ve committed against my countrymen?”

“Yes, I see your point.” LaRouche pivoted to leave.

Heart pounding, William demanded, “We will make an exchange when I deliver the Dundas boy.”

LaRouche paused, then glanced over his shoulder. “Of course. However, should you disappoint me again, I will be forced to destroy what is yours.”