Checkmate, My Lord (3 page)

He glanced around. “Is this your carriage approaching?”

She nodded, not removing her gaze from his face.

Taking in her small cache of luggage stacked behind her, he asked, “You are returning home?”

“Yes, Mr. Cochran,” she said with growing impatience. “Please answer my question.”

The carriage rocked to a halt, and Cochran motioned her inside. “Let me explain in a more private setting.”

Catherine considered the propriety of allowing a stranger into her carriage, especially while in mourning. But this was London, not Showbury. No one knew her here, and she had learned long ago to take matters into her own hands if she wished for a particular result.

“Very well, Mr. Cochran. Mary,” she called.

“Yes, ma’am?” The maid eyed Cochran.

“Would you mind riding with the driver for a short time?” Catherine asked.

“No, ma’am.”

While the hotel staff busied themselves loading her trunks, Cochran assisted her into the carriage and made arrangements to have his horse tied to the back. When Mary was seated and all was in readiness, he bounded inside and settled across from her.

They rumbled down the street in silence for what felt like hours. Her pulse pounded hard within her ears and sweat trickled down her right side. “Please do not torture me with this suspense any longer, Mr. Cochran. How long was my husband with the government and in what capacity?”

“I believe Lord Somerton brought him into the fold about four years ago.”

Catherine ignored the sharp clenching pain around her heart. “And his capacity?”

He brushed a few specks of dust from his coat sleeve. “Since Ashcroft is gone, I suppose telling you won’t do any harm. But I must ask you to keep what I’m about to impart to yourself. Discussing Foreign Office affairs—even old affairs—could have an ill-effect on current initiatives.”

“You have my word.” She would promise him anything at the moment. “I will not repeat your confidence.”

“Ashcroft was in the business of collecting sensitive information.”

“What sort of information?”

“I can’t go so far as to tell you specifics,” he said, “but he sought any type of intelligence that would protect England’s shores.”

“Do you mean he was a spy?”

He paused a moment. “The preferable term is agent.”

Jeffrey was a spy. For four years. Under Lord Somerton’s tutelage.
Dear
God
. How could she be ignorant of something so important and dangerous? Could Jeffrey’s work for the government be the reason he all but abandoned his family to the country?

“He wasn’t always an agent, mind you,” Mr. Cochran said. “Somerton started him out as a messenger. Your husband made many forays across the Channel retrieving vital intelligence on Napoleon’s movements.”

Gut-churning dread washed over her, not only for the danger her husband faced but also for the role Lord Somerton had played in Jeffrey’s activities and his decision to keep this knowledge from her. How amused he must have been yesterday. “Are you aware of the details surrounding my husband’s death?”

“He was set upon by footpads, as I recall.”

“That is what was reported to me.” She studied him. “However, I have reason to believe something far more nefarious occurred.”

“What do you mean?”

“Based upon what you’ve disclosed and the nature of the letters I delivered to Lord Somerton, I can’t imagine any other outcome at the moment.”

“Letters?” A new intensity entered his tone.

“My husband’s,” she said. “Jeffrey sent me several pieces of correspondence before he died. They made little sense to me, but a few of them mentioned Lord Somerton, so I thought they might be of use to him.”

“Interesting, to be sure.” He stared out the carriage window. “Did your husband mention anyone else in his correspondence?”

Catherine hesitated, still unable to recall where she’d come across the man’s name, though the letters seemed the most likely source. “I’m afraid I don’t recall offhand,” she said. “Once I receive the letters back from his lordship, I’ll review them again and let you know.”

“Very well,” he said. “Since we are developing a temporary partnership, I will say that I share your view on Ashcroft’s means of death.”

“You think he was executed, too?”

“Not at all.” His face scrunched in a look of disgust. “The French execute their citizens. The English perform more civilized forms of removal.”

“What possible method of killing countrymen could be considered civilized?”

“One that is quiet and effective and not for the public’s delectation.”

Catherine stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Assassination, Mrs. Ashcroft,” he said. “Although I cannot confirm it for a certainty, my sources revealed that your husband sustained a knife wound to the underarm.”

An image of Jeffrey’s naked torso lying across a sheet-covered table in the parlor at Winter’s Hollow surfaced. “My husband endured a great many stab wounds, sir.”

“A ruse, no doubt,” he said. “Few but the most highly trained men are aware of the fatal location or of the technique used.”

“What technique did the murderer use?”

“The full answer would be difficult to hear,” he said. “Let me say only that the killer did more than merely stab your husband. He made sure to sever a vital artery.”

Catherine closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. When she had her stomach under control again, she asked, “Why did Lord Somerton not explain this to me as you are?”

“It is difficult to say why his lordship does anything. However, in this instance, I suspect he was more concerned about the investigation.”

“Investigation?”

Cochran grimaced, as if realizing he’d said too much. “The Foreign Office is investigating a few of its staff for aiding the French, and I’m afraid Lord Somerton has not escaped their notice.”

She thought back to her brief audience with the earl and recalled the dark circles beneath his disturbing eyes. “That is unwelcome news, sir.”

“Indeed, it is for all of us, ma’am,” he said. “Lord Somerton is known for his loyalty and willingness to defend those under his command to the death. If Lord Somerton is found guilty and that trust is broken, the Foreign Office shall never be the same.”

“Well, let us hope the investigation proves Lord Somerton’s innocence rather than his guilt.” Why she hoped so after the earl’s subterfuge she couldn’t be sure. But her husband believed him to be a man of honor and so would she—for now.

“Yes, yes, let us hope.” He cocked his head to the side. “Am I correct in that you share a border with Lord Somerton’s country estate?”

Something about the way he asked the question made her sour stomach take a turn for the worse. “Yes.”

“Very good,” he said. “Superintendent Reeves is a cautious man and will require Lord Somerton to leave the city while the investigation is under way. No undue influence, you understand?”

“Of course,” she said. “But why is it good that we share a border?”

“Because you can help us keep watch over Somerton while he’s away from the city.”

“Pardon?” she asked, incredulous. “Are you asking me to spy on his lordship?”

“Goodness, no, dear lady,” he said. “I would not put you and Sophie into such a dangerous position. All I ask is that you share with me any unusual activity you might witness and, in exchange, I will keep you apprised of our inquiry into your husband’s murder.”

Catherine stilled. “You know of my daughter?”

He nodded. “Ashcroft spoke of his
redheaded
moppet
often. So much so, that I think of her as a treasured niece.” He rubbed the side of his forefinger along his full, bottom lip. Thoughtful, silent. His blue gaze conveyed a secret message she could not decipher. “Perhaps one day I shall meet her.”

Redheaded? Jeffrey hated his red hair and often bemoaned the fact that Sophie’s blond curls were interlaced with the atrocious color. This conversation had ventured down a path that made Catherine unaccountably ill at ease, but she couldn’t for sure say why. She strove for a noncommittal answer. “Yes, perhaps.”

“Splendid.” He rapped on the small sliding door behind his head. The carriage slowed. “I shall call on you in a few days. It will be a most productive visit.”

Her fingers tightened around her reticule, the black jet beads digging into her flesh. “Productive for whom, Mr. Cochran?”

He hopped down from the carriage and then turned to give her a knowing smile. “For us both, of course.” He shut the door but held her gaze as he accepted the reins of his horse. “
Adieu
, Mrs. Ashcroft.”

The carriage jerked forward, jostling Catherine as it regained a more even rhythm. She hardly noticed. Her mind spun so fast it felt like the large terrestrial globe that used to take up a good deal of space in her father’s study.

Around and around, her thoughts revolved, but they failed to land on anything that would help her understand the events of the last few days. What she’d hoped would be a sleuth-like bid for justice had manifested into an immersion of spies and intrigue.

One thing was for certain, though. Her rather mundane country existence was about to become a good deal more interesting.

August 10

Sebastian’s chest rose high upon seeing the gray stone walls of his childhood home. Unlike him, Bellamere Park, with its clusters of square chimneys and expansive gardens, had changed little in the four years he had been away.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled the earthy scent of newly shorn grass and crisp air, never realizing until that moment how much he had missed spending time in the country, where a man concerned himself with putting food on his table, rather than preventing the next attempt on his life.

The last few months had challenged his intellect, his endurance, and his long-held beliefs on a level that frightened even him, a man jaded by intrigue and ruthless when it came to the pursuit of his objectives. Never before had he wondered if all his sacrifices, and those of his men, had been worth the price.

Not until recently.

Sebastian tried to hold on to the unusual tranquility pouring over him, but he was unsurprised when it dissipated into the biting afternoon breeze. Shrugging off his disappointment, he opened his eyes and kicked Reaper into a trot for the final quarter mile of their journey.

As he descended the low rise, he glanced to the east, toward the Ashcroft estate, and felt a sense of foreboding. Dealing with death, in all its many forms, had become part of his life. Although he could still experience remorse, pity, and sympathy, he never allowed himself to linger in the emotions for long. He could not afford to.

But the Ashcroft situation was different, more complex. More gray than black or white. His duty, first and foremost, was to England, to the security of its borders, and to the safety of its people. The needs of one woman and one little girl were secondary. They could not factor into his actions. He released a steadying breath. Not at all.

Reaper tossed his big black head and broke into a gallop. The powerful thrust forward pulled Sebastian out of his ruminations, and he tightened his grip on the reins again and loosened his thighs. His mount obeyed instantly and slowed his gait back into a trot.

He could wring Jeffrey Ashcroft’s neck for sending those letters to his wife rather than to him. He understood his caution, and the agent’s plan had been ingenious. Who would ever suspect a man of sending his wife coded messages intended for another? Ashcroft had known his wife well. Had known it was only a matter of time before she brought the letters, dotted with Sebastian’s title, to him.

The too-intelligent fool’s only mistake had been in not keeping abreast of his wife’s activities, or he would have realized she wasn’t at Winter’s Hollow to receive his correspondence. The delay had likely cost the young agent his life. Another secret to keep.

But as Jeffrey had known she would, his Catherine had traveled to London with the damned letters, and Sebastian had been forced to pretend nothing was amiss. It was a role he had played a hundred times before, though this time proved more difficult.

Every instant she turned those big brown eyes on him, he had come close to telling her everything. She had always had a disturbing effect on his control. When her husband was alive, he had found the wherewithal to fight her pull. Now that Ashcroft was dead, no more physical obstacles stood in his way. Only a ghost.

Sebastian shoved aside his pointless musings and halted Reaper outside of Bellamere’s wide double doors. An instant later, a liveried footman emerged to hold his master’s exhausted mount. After several hours in the saddle, Sebastian’s endurance had also waned. He wished now that he had sent word ahead to warn his staff of his arrival. Waiting for his chambers to be aired and linens to be laid seemed like an eternity to his crumbling strength.

By the time his foot hit the top step, though, his aging butler materialized. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

“Grayson.” Sebastian smiled at his former accomplice to unspoken crimes, taking in the stooped quality of his shoulders and the deep grooves in his forehead. The man appeared to have aged a score of years since his last visit. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

“Indeed not, sir. Rucker sent word ahead.”

“Of course he did.” Sebastian must remember to give his London butler an extra day off for his welcome, albeit insubordinate, forethought. “Then you know Parker is following behind with my luggage.”

“Indeed, sir. We’ll be on the watch for your valet.” Grayson waved his age-spotted hand toward the open door. “Per your preference, my lord, I did not assemble the staff.” His butler did an admirable job of keeping his displeasure out of his tone. “However, they are ready to serve you as needed.”

Nodding, Sebastian said, “Well done, Grayson.” He had never favored the custom of pulling the servants from their duties to line up in neat rows to bow and dip toward their employer as he majestically strolled down their center. A bunch of useless rot, as Danforth would say.

Entering the spacious Great Hall, Sebastian found it as much unchanged as the exterior of the manor. Built during the virgin queen’s reign, the Great Hall was designed to leave its visitors speechless. And it did. Whether in awe or horror depended on one’s fondness for ostentatious trimmings.

Even though he’d spent much of his childhood here, his gaze still roamed over the twin marble columns stretching three stories high. Wide Flemish tapestries lined both sides of the room, covering the upper portion of the walls, and a twenty-foot trellis table sat center-stage before a fireplace large enough to harbor an average-sized man.

His ancestors had a flair for the extravagant—not really to his taste, but he held fond memories of Bellamere Park and would always consider this his true home. He’d been away far too long, he realized with some regret.

Raised, muffled voices down the corridor drew his attention.

“That would be Mr. Blake, my lord,” Grayson said.

“In my study?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is he with a tenant?”

“No, my lord.” Grayson’s pale blue gaze shifted to the distant closed door. “Mr. Blake is speaking with your neighbor.”

Sebastian’s heart jolted. “Jeffrey Ashcroft’s widow?”

“Yes, sir.”

Removing his gloves, Sebastian strove for calm. Thoughts of his fatigue evaporated. He hadn’t expected to see her this soon, and he certainly hadn’t wanted to be covered in road dust at their first meeting. “What business does Mrs. Ashcroft have with my steward?”

“More of the same, I suspect.”

He stared at his butler, wondering how he was supposed to decipher the man’s remark when he hadn’t set foot on his estate in years. Pulling in a fortifying breath, he turned to find out and did his damnedest to keep his pace even, unhurried. “Thank you, Grayson. That will be all.”

As he neared his study, he noted the door was ajar. The agitated conversation from within wafted through the opening, reaching him.

“The railing is completely missing, Mr. Blake,” a female voice said. “Garry Lucas came close to tumbling through the small opening and falling into the river.”

“But he didn’t, Mrs. Ashcroft,” the steward said. “Had Garry’s mother kept a better eye on her son, we would not be having this conversation.”

“Mr. Blake, you know as well as I that the northern bridge is a favorite thoroughfare to the village for the children.”

Sebastian recognized Mrs. Ashcroft’s voice. He leaned closer to the opening.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“You said the bridge railing would be fixed a fortnight ago.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“When might we expect its repair, Mr. Blake?”

“Mmm… soon.”

“Could you please put down your brush and honor me with your full attention, sir?” Her voice held a warning edge.

The steward answered with a deep sigh, followed by the clattering sound of wood against wood. “I have heard your every word, Mrs. Ashcroft, and have responded accordingly. What else do you want from me?”

“Action, Mr. Blake. I want you to care for his lordship’s tenants as is your responsibility.”

“I know my responsibility.”

“Then why do you ignore it?”

Sebastian’s eyebrows rose. The side of his cheek pressed against the door frame, bringing his ear closer to the conversation. He hoped Grayson or one of the other servants didn’t happen by and see him eavesdropping in his own home.

“I do not ignore my duties, but I refuse to cater to the tenants’ every complaint.”

“Is that not for his lordship to determine?”

“Lord Somerton is not here. In his absence, he trusts me to do what’s best for the estate.”

“Broken bridges are best for the estate?” Incredulity sharpened her tone.

“Of course not—”

Sebastian pushed open the door, having heard enough of the steward’s feeble explanation. The moment he entered the study, his nostrils flared, assaulted by the thick, cloying smell of linseed oil and turpentine. His gaze swept across the room, taking in the dozens of amateurish oil paintings leaning against every viable surface. And some not so viable surfaces, like his mother’s two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old Cassone chest.

Then he found her, standing five feet away from his steward, wearing all black as custom dictated, her blond hair knotted at the back of her head. But today, her appearance seemed more somber, more severe than when she had visited him in London. Instead of repelling him, however, her look drew forth several questions, intriguing his analytical side and capturing his attention much longer than was proper.

“Excuse me, sir.” Indignation lined the steward’s brow. “What do you do here? We are in the middle of an important meeting.”

Sebastian tensed at the younger man’s tone until he realized Blake had no idea that he was speaking to his employer. Two years ago, he had hired the steward, sight unseen, on the recommendation of an acquaintance. Even though they had never met, Sebastian had corresponded frequently with the gentleman and never had cause to be concerned about his management of Bellamere.

Sparing Mrs. Ashcroft another long look, Sebastian caught the glint of righteousness sparkling in her eyes. When she noticed his attention, the sparkle brightened a moment and then dimmed until it extinguished altogether.

An odd pang of disappointment gripped his chest.

“Sir? I must insist on an answer.”

Mr. Blake’s shrill command interrupted his contemplations of the widow. “A better question is,” Sebastian’s attention slowly settled on his steward, “what are you doing here? The last I recall, this was my study, not your studio.”

The steward’s face lost all color. “Lord Somerton?”

Sebastian gave him a mocking bow. “At your service.” His gaze cut back to the widow. “Mrs. Ashcroft.”

“My lord,” she said with a curtsy. “Welcome back.”

The neutral tone of her voice gave Sebastian pause. What had he expected upon seeing her for the first time? A bright smile? A glimmer of warmth? Another slow perusal of his body, as she had done in London?

The answer did not come to mind. Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t impassivity.

“My apologies for the mess, my lord.” The steward jumped off his high stool. “Had I known you were coming, I would have removed my collection.”

“Perhaps you might do so now while I speak to Mrs. Ashcroft.”

“Of course.” The steward began scurrying about the room, gathering as many canvases and frames as he could carry. “Right away. I’ll call for a footman to fetch the rest.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Sebastian moved to the door and held it open. “The staff are busy preparing my rooms.” He had no intention of making this easy for the man.

Mr. Blake attempted an awkward bow. “As you wish, my lord.”

“Mrs. Ashcroft, please join me.”

She pulled her reticule close and glanced away as if bolstering her courage. The action was reminiscent of how she used to respond to his presence years ago. Where had the confident and determined woman from London gone? Then he recalled the conversation he had overheard between her and Mr. Blake, where she had defended the safety of Showbury’s children.

Sebastian set aside the widow’s bewildering behavior for now. To the steward, he said, “Open the windows once you’ve cleared out your possessions. Then I should like to speak with you in the library.”

Mr. Blake knocked over a jar of brushes. “Yes, sir.”

Sebastian closed the door against the steward’s fumbling attempts to clean up his mess. Of all the places the man could have set up his studio, why had he picked Sebastian’s study? It would take weeks to rid the room of such strong odors.

He set the problem from his mind and guided the widow down the corridor. “Do you have a moment? I thought perhaps we could step outside to clear our heads.”

“Certainly,” she said.

He glanced down at her profile, trying to divine her thoughts, but it was no use. Somewhere along the way she had crafted an elegant mask, one with perfect neutral symmetry. It was a tactic he knew all too well.

They strode through the Great Hall and exited one of the double doors leading out to a large terrace at the rear of the house. Sebastian guided her to the stone balustrade that separated the small table and chairs from the formal gardens and parkland beyond. His lungs expanded with a deep, purifying inhalation while he studied the area for potential threats, an act as natural to him as breathing. When he finished his search, he took in his first glimpse of Bellamere’s gardens in years.

Row after row of flawlessly groomed hedges and precisely placed flowers greeted his eye. Winding gravel paths connected each unique section to the last. Statuary, ponds, and iron trellises dotted the landscape, providing secluded nooks to soothe one’s soul.

The sunken garden was a particular favorite of his. Many times as a boy, he would take refuge in the far corner of the deep-set rectangle, where a small fountain gurgled and splattered water over its low basin. There, he had dreamed of a different life, filled with laughter and family… filled with love.

Even then, his responsibilities had threatened to overwhelm him. As heir to a thriving earldom, he’d had much to learn. Which meant long days of study with his tutor and intense sessions on estate management with his father, who was more concerned with creating a replica of himself than nurturing a motherless boy.