A Spy's Honor (37 page)

His face smashed into the ground.

Claire
.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Claire and the rest of the family arrived at Bellemere late in the afternoon, and after helping Emily set the household to rights, Claire excused herself. In her bedchamber, she occupied her mind with the menial tasks of unpacking her belongings. But alone, with the wind occasionally gusting outside her window, she came undone.

She didn’t sob; she wept quietly while, after all these years, her heart finished breaking. She had turned down John’s awful proposal. Had rebuffed his decidedly unromantic declaration of love. How long had she waited to hear those three words? Her father had never said them. Stephen hadn’t either. With the way John said them, she wished the words had never left his mouth.

How could he think she didn’t respect who he was? She’d fallen for him
because
he was honorable. He was the one who had turned his back on what they had. Repeatedly.

John’s leaving her in the middle of the night to attend to his duties was not at all the same as when he’d left her, rejected her, five years ago. She knew that. Still, she would not become her mother, always waiting despondently for her husband. Any rational woman would refuse such a life. So for once in her life she’d done the sensible thing.

She dried her eyes with a worn handkerchief. No, there was nothing to regret. Not even the fact she’d made herself unsuitable for another. She wanted no man; there was nothing wrong with becoming a practical spinster.

“I made a life without John Reyburn once before. I can do so again.”

She would go for a ride before dinner. That would clear her head and restore her spirits so she could at least give the appearance of contentedness when facing the family.

She donned an older, warmer riding habit and even pulled on an extra flannel petticoat because the weather had turned chilly over the last two days. Allerton, encountering her in the corridor, offered to accompany her, but she refused him, and under grey skies that looked unfriendly but held no promise of imminent rain, she and a groom set out. At first she wandered the orchard, pleased for Allerton’s sake to see the trees blooming. Bellemere and its tenants depended on the success of its crops. But after a while she let the mare loose and they raced down the lane and through the woods.

The cold slapped at Claire’s face, but she pushed on, grateful to feel something besides appalling melancholy.

She had certainly made a mess of her life the last few months—first agreeing to marry Kensworth and then becoming entangled with John again. Too entangled. How could she have climbed into
bed
with him?

Very easily—she had let her emotions guide her instead of the practicality she’d been grooming while he was gone. Being with John had been one of her grandest romantic fantasies, as had hearing him declare his love for her. But was that all she wanted—fantasies? Pretty flowers and furbelows instead of the harsh, sometimes ugly, act of loving another?

Her heart couldn’t withstand the latter.

Claire allowed her mare to ease into a trot and looked behind her to see if the groom, on his slower mount, had caught up. He hadn’t, but she was within his sight. Looking around, she realized she had wandered onto Stephen’s land, albeit a part she had not explored. Another wooded section lay ahead, and she thought she glimpsed the outline of a building deep within.

Interesting. She didn’t think any of Wakebourne’s tenant cottages lay this far out.

She let the mare settle into a walk and headed toward the building. As she got closer, she realized it was an old hunting box. Stephen had never mentioned its existence, although by the look of it the place was uninhabitable.

A movement caught her eye. Not inhabitable, and yet someone was there. Three people, bustling between the back of the building and a wagon.

She halted her mare as her heart began to race. John had not yet completed his mission. She had cleared Stretton, so did that mean only Stephen was left on John’s list? He was in residence here, and her breath caught at the thought of him mixed up in whatever dastardly plot John was investigating. But, John could not be right. Stephen—Kensworth, she should probably think now—could not be involved.

She turned and signaled the groom to stop. Jack was an obedient boy sadly in want of a curious nature; he would wait as long as she wanted. Then, with the utmost care, she slipped off her mare and looped the reins over a tree branch.

She crept closer to the hunting box under cover of the thick plants growing in this part of the woods, and nearer the clearing she stopped and observed.

Three men, in their shirtsleeves, were loading a wagon with wooden boxes. Seeing as much, she wanted to laugh at herself. Undoubtedly Stephen—
Kensworth
—had set them to clearing up the area.

Bigger by far than the other two, one of the men turned and Claire recognized David. Now she felt like a goose, hiding in the bushes. She opened her mouth to call out a greeting, but the thin man closest to the wagon addressed David first.

“Why can’t we all travel together?”

“I told you. It will look suspicious.”

David sounded as if he were losing patience.

Claire thought it might be best to slip away, but the word “suspicious” kept her rooted to the ground. Why would David and his friends look suspicious?

“But—”

“Very well!” David slashed his hand through the air. “Stickney may ride in the wagon with you. Stop being such a ninny, Bates! You have plenty of time to get to Covent Garden. Just go slowly and steadily, mindful of your cargo.”

Peeking between two leaves, Claire stared at the wagon. What were they transporting? Small trunks, but what was inside them?

The men returned to the building, disappearing down into what must be a cellar. Claire puzzled over what they had said. Covent Garden? The Theatre Royal was there. But David didn’t even like the theatre. Tonight…was the performance of
Macbeth
. John had talked about taking her.

John.

Pushing all thought of him aside, she kept thinking. The newspaper had said the prime minister was scheduled to attend….

The other two men came up from the cellar carrying more little trunks, and the stocky one—Stickney was it?—shook his head as he tossed his on the wagon. “Thinks he’s Guy Fawkes, he does. Better hope he don’t meet the same end.”

Claire gasped, but the sound was lost in the wind.

Bates didn’t seem to like the reference either. “Shut your mouth! If he goes down, we go with him.”

Guy Fawkes had plotted to kill King James I by blowing up Parliament using gunpowder. Claire’s stomach turned at the thought that those trunks might hold gunpowder. But, the king was old, and the Prince Regent…

She turned back toward her mare, disgusted with her thoughts. Those men had probably had too much ale. They were going to Covent Garden to amuse themselves and—

The prime minister would be at Covent Garden.

Which meant this must be John’s mission, to stop this madness. To stop someone—David—from assassinating the prime minister.

Even if it wasn’t, John would know what to do. He could prevent David from making a monstrous mistake. What had David got himself into? Was he really leading this scheming band of young men?

Claire peeked through the leaves once more, glad the men had their backs to her, relieved she was too far away for them to hear any sound she made.

Stickney had moved back toward the hunting box. Bates had climbed up onto the wagon seat and gathered up the reins, and David slapped him on the back.

“Lord Liverpool awaits us. I’ll follow you to the lane to make sure the wagon doesn’t tip. It’s rough going back here.”

Bates nodded, and Stickney brought David’s stallion around the corner.

David mounted, and Stickney climbed onto the wagon next to Bates. The horse and wagon then set off in the opposite direction.

Claire’s mind raced. Confronting David was pointless. She’d never held any influence over him, even when she hadn’t jilted his brother, and any man who would plan an assassination frightened her.

She had to get word to John as quickly as possible. And maybe there was evidence inside.

Turning and telling Jack to remain where he was, and after checking to make certain the other men had gone, she rushed to the ramshackle hunting box. She passed through the small kitchen and entered the main room, desperately searching the untidy, sparsely furnished room for something to write on. There must be paper somewhere.

She found a pencil first, a small silver one in the drawer of a splintered table. No paper, though.

Claire surveyed the room again.
There, in the corner.
She sifted through a pile of sodden leaves and dirt, finally pulling out an old book.

Tearing out the title page, she scribbled a note to John telling him what she had heard and seen. But now she had to ensure John received it before David hurt someone.

She raced back to Jack. “Listen carefully. Take this note to His Grace the duke and tell him he must send it express to Lord John.
It must go to London immediately.
Do you understand?”

The groom nodded then looked at her in confusion. “Aren’t you comin’ with me, my lady?”

“No. I must see Lord Kensworth. Go, Jack! Do not tarry.”

The groom left, albeit reluctantly, and Claire turned back to the old box. Stephen would never believe what she had to tell him about his brother—she could barely believe it herself—unless she had proof. She must search the cellar.

Stepping carefully, she descended into the semidarkness. At the bottom of the stairs, dirt crunched beneath her boots. Cobwebs hung low from the ceiling but the air didn’t smell musty. Instead—she sniffed again—it smelled like Kensworth after he went shooting. Like gunpowder.

No wonder.
The grayish powder covered much of the floor. Nearer the steps she saw two barrels, one empty, the other half full. So—she shuddered—David had carted away one and a half barrels of gunpowder.

At least she had something to show Kensworth.

“Time”—David’s voice suddenly sounded from outside the cellar door—“to destroy the evidence! Wouldn’t want that interfering Lord John to find anything.”

Claire froze, and David laughed, a sound she no longer found appealing. She eyed the gunpowder all around her and nearly retched. She wanted to scream but only choked on the sound.

“Thar she blows!”

A flaming piece of tinder wafted through the opening above.

Claire turned and ran toward the back of the cellar.

***

John woke to a smashing headache. He kept his eyes shut, attempting to contain the pain. As he became more aware, he realized he was slumped against the thin trunk of a tree, his arms awkwardly pinned behind him.

He forced his eyelids up. Daylight’s brightness assaulted him, sending sharp arrows of agony into every corner of his brain. Barely visible through the grey clouds, the sun was nearer the western horizon.

He’d been here for a few hours. God knew what David was up to. He could be on his way to the Continent by now. Things would be easier if he were.

However, John had a feeling the stubbornly passionate young man would barrel forward with his plan. Because David didn’t know John was a government agent and David didn’t know his plan had been discovered and the prime minister would not be going to Covent Garden.

Damn you, Cahill!

A sparrow responded with a singsong chirp.

Despite the hammering in his head, John began to work methodically at the ropes around his wrists. The knots were tight, but he had more than enough experience to wriggle out of them. It would just take time. Not that he had much.

With only the company of melodious sparrows, two squirrels, one rabbit and a vole who stopped to observe, bit by bit John loosened the ropes. After untold minutes—an hour?—he was free, though his wrists were chafed.

He stood and flexed his legs, relieving the tights cramps that had set in, all the while thinking. He was almost certainly not far from the road he and David had traveled; this wood smelled the same and he couldn’t imagine David dragging his limp body far. Should he head to London or Kensworth’s estate?

He decided on Wakebourne. David had been heading there earlier, and besides, the estate was closer.

He pulled his father’s watch and a compass from his pocket. It was past three o’clock. On the chance David had been reckless, John whistled for his horse. No luck. So he set off at a brisk pace, heading northwest.

Once his muscles loosened, he broke into a jog. As he’d surmised, the road wasn’t far. Another thirty minutes brought him to a small village. A harsh interrogation of the tavern owner elicited the whereabouts of John’s bay. David had paid to hide the horse at the smithy. A few more precious minutes passed while the mount was re-saddled.

At last John was on the road again, pounding hoof beats keeping time with the throbbing in his head. If David made it to Covent Garden with the full intention of carrying out his plot, he could be arrested for the attempted assassination of the prime minister. If, however, John could stop him here, a different solution could be worked out.

As he drew close to Wakebourne, John reined in the bay. From his previous trip he knew the road wound around the southwest corner of Kensworth’s estate. The house was located nearer the northeast corner. Some of the land was wooded, but most of it was open and rolling. The fastest path to the house was across the land.

Lightheaded, and aware of a knot forming behind his ear, John turned his mount onto Kensworth’s land. Unless he stumbled upon David by chance, he would have to confront Kensworth. He didn’t look forward to either. But he scrutinized every corner for a sign of David.

After a few minutes he topped a gentle rise and saw another rider, one with the burly build of a Cahill. He spurred his horse forward but was disappointed to discover the horseman was Kensworth.

He hailed the viscount, who turned toward him with lips parted and eyes unwelcoming.