Never a Gentleman (26 page)

“Morning, sir,” the new butler greeted him, tilting his head a bit to get a good look at him.

“Roberts.” Handing off his hat and gloves, he looked around, expecting disaster. All was quiet, though, the rooms still steeped
in shadow. “Anything out of the ordinary happen? Is my wife awake?”

Is she safe, or has someone already hurt her?

Roberts frowned as if assessing Diccan’s sanity. Diccan could hardly blame him. “Whole world’s asleep, sir. ’Ceptin’ you and
me, anyroad. Well, and that bloke outside.”

Diccan had started up the stairs. This stopped him two steps up. “What bloke?”

“Mrs. Hilliard’s been seein’ him. Said she told you. Almost caught ’im last night.”

“What did he look like?”

Roberts shrugged. “Just a bloke. Dressed like he had a shop.”

Diccan rubbed at his eyes, suddenly queasy. “And he’s been watching the house?”

“Nossir. He’s been followin’ the missus.”

Diccan’s stomach dropped. Drake had been right. Grace was under scrutiny. “There are people who disagree with my politics,
Roberts. They shouldn’t be allowed to worry Mrs. Hilliard.”

“They won’t, sir. She can count on us.”

He nodded and turned for the stairs. “Thank you. Please send Schroeder to me.”

Babs arrived, still pinning up her hair, her apron thrown over one shoulder.

“What do you know about a man following Grace?” Diccan asked as he chucked his jacket. “Is it the same man Grace has seen
or someone new?”

She didn’t pause in her grooming. “Someone new. Reilly followed him. Lost him in Covent Garden. There have also been several
ex-soldiers who loiter down by the park.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

She tilted her head. “You weren’t here, were you?”

Diccan pulled off his neckcloth. “That’s not your business.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Better tell your valet that. He’s ready to gut you with a paring knife.”

“He knows better. So do you. If you see anything that looks threatening, you contact me. You understand?” He waited for her
shrug. “Who can we trust among the staff?”

“The ones Mrs. Hilliard hired would throw themselves in front of a cannon for her. The rest work for you. Why? You’re as twitchy
as a cat in a room full of hounds.”

He reached into his pocket and drew out a folded paper. “This was in my coat when I left Minette’s this morning.”

Schroeder accepted the paper and unfolded it. “Ah. The warning you’ve been waiting for.”

He hadn’t realized how it would affect him when it finally came, though.

Glad you’re enjoying the charms of your mistress. As long as you give her your complete loyalty, you will keep others safe.
It would distress us to hurt your innocent wife.

The words were like shards of glass in his gut. He wanted to destroy something. He wanted to lock Grace in
the smallest room he could find and guard it until he could guarantee her safety.

“That note has to get to Drake,” he said. “Make sure Grace is accompanied everywhere. Arm our people, but don’t let her know
it. Check and see if any of your staff has picked up any new leads.”

“All right,” she said, tucking the note into her skirt. “What about you?”

He looked at the bed longingly. “I have work to do.”

“You might want to get the whore’s stink off you, first.”

He stopped, his hands at the waistband of his pants. “That whore has led us to five other people of interest. Last night she
convinced me to steal confidential documents for her. She also seems to enjoy sharing details of the Wellington plot. Until
we get the rest, I have no choice.”

Even so, he yanked his reeking shirt off his head and threw it in the corner.

Babs had been at this too long to argue. “Just be careful,” she warned, and reached up to drop a kiss on his cheek before
walking out the door.

Diccan had just gotten his pants unbuttoned, when his door opened. “Not now,” he barked.

“Yes, now,” the intruder answered.

He whirled around to see his wife standing in the same door Babs had just exited, her posture like steel, her eyes winter
bleak as she took in his state of undress. “There are things I can control,” she said with deadly calm, “and things I cannot.
If I ever see Schroeder come out of this room again looking like that, I will fire her without reference and poison your coffee.”

Last week he would have argued. Even twelve hours ago, he would have hinted at the truth. But he had been warned.
So he protected her. “Madame,” he said, his voice as dry as dust. “My head is the size of a melon and my stomach threatens
to disgrace me. If you wish to shrill in that odious manner, inflict it on the staff. I am going to sleep.”

She stared at him long and hard, but in the end, she said nothing, just left, not even slamming the door behind her. And Diccan,
exhausted and aching and beset by unfamiliar fear, sank onto the edge of the bed and stared sightlessly at the wall, trying
to remind himself that what he did was necessary. There was no way he could convince himself that it was right.

Grace wasn’t sure how much more she could take. If only she’d waited five more minutes before going down to breakfast, she
might have missed seeing Schroeder sneaking out of Diccan’s room, half dressed and pinning up her hair. She might have still
continued believing in something that didn’t exist.

But she hadn’t missed it, or the guilty flush on Schroeder’s face as she hurried by. She’d threatened Diccan, but even as
she said the words, she knew the threat was empty. She couldn’t hurt him. She couldn’t hurt Schroeder. Evidently the only
one she could hurt was herself.

Should she stay? Was there anything really to stay for? She so heartily wished she didn’t hear her father’s voice in her head.
“Fairchilds never quit! Figure it out and try again.”

It wasn’t easy, but she stayed. She returned to her routine, which no longer seemed to include Diccan at all. She tried so
hard not to fret. Not to look for him in a crowd, or listen for him coming up the steps late at night. She tried
her best to find comfort in her new, more limited life. She counted on the fact that she was finally getting past all the
upheavals. And then Uncle Dawes came to see her.

It was midnight when Grace returned home alone from a rare ball with Diccan to have Roberts tell her that her uncle waited
for her.

“Uncle Dawes?” She stepped into the fire-warmed salon, not quite believing what she saw. Her uncle was rising from the blue
settee, a brandy snifter in his hand. “It’s after midnight. What’s wrong? Aunt Dawes?”

“She is well,” he said. “It’s you I’m worried about. It is urgent I speak with you.”

Completely bemused, she gestured to the chair he’d vacated. “Then please sit back down.”

“No,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “Thank you. Did Hilliard come home with you?”

She unpinned her toque and set it aside. “No. He was headed for his club.”

“Oh, no,” he said, his shoulders slumping, and Grace suddenly felt afraid. “I
hate
this.”

He sounded more than angry. He sounded sad.
He looks old,
she thought. “You frighten me, Uncle. Please. Just say it.”

He looked away a moment. “He’s not at his club. Not now. He had an entirely different destination in mind when he left the
party.”

Grace was becoming sorely tired of this line of dialogue. “I know about his mistress, Uncle.”

“No you don’t.” Impatiently he shook his head. “You don’t know what she’s involved in. You don’t know what she’s involved
him
in.”

“Then tell me.”

He looked at her, but she wasn’t really sure he saw her. “Treason.”

Grace just stared. “What are you talking about?”

He sighed. “This very minute your husband is betraying his country.”

G
race wasn’t sure how it happened, but within the hour she and Uncle Dawes were pulling up in front of the neat little townhouse
on Half Moon Street. She was still arguing with him.

“Uncle, I promise. Diccan might be a rake, but he is not a traitor. Why, not three months ago he helped us get a man out of
Belgium who uncovered a plot against the Crown.”

Uncle Dawes helped her out of the carriage. “Because otherwise he would have been exposed.”

“How do you know?” she asked, looking up at the nondescript row of plain brick townhouses.

“I learned it from the man I’m bringing you to see.”

She shook her head. “Unless that proof is the sight of Diccan holding a gun to King George’s head, I’m afraid you’re wasting
your time.”

Suddenly her uncle grabbed her arm. “This isn’t a joke,” he snapped. “People are going to die.”

Grace found herself staring. Her Uncle Dawes had never raised his voice to her. He was the one who had taught her
to fish during the brief summer she’d spent in England. He’d ridden with her, listened to her bad piano, and laughed at her
worse jokes. For the first time, doubt slithered through her.

“All right,” she conceded. “Let’s talk to this man.”

Still, she felt a bit foolish as she walked through a wrought iron gate and up the walk. If only the charge weren’t so absurd.
If only the night weren’t straight out of a Minerva Press novel. It was black and foggy, tendrils of gray wrapping around
the lamplights and chilling Grace’s ankles. She felt moisture on her face and thought how muffled the sounds of passing horses
were. It was as if she had stepped into a cocoon, a cold, unsettling place where she became invisible.

“Did we really need to sneak about like burglars?” she asked, her voice muffled and odd.

“Your husband might question your visiting this man at this hour of the night.”

“I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t question your coming to get me at this hour of the night.”

Uncle Dawes knocked on a plain black door and guided her inside. A stone-faced butler met them in the foyer and took their
wraps.

“This way, please.”

It was an unremarkable house. Flickering wall sconces barely revealed tan walls, heavy red velvet curtains, and mismatched
rugs under worn furniture. The air held a faint scent of tobacco and dust, and the decor was bland, except for a wall of encased
butterflies. For some reason, that made Grace uncomfortable, bits of iridescence pinned to death in the dark. Following the
butler up to the first floor, she felt less sanguine by the minute, as if the house didn’t
have enough breathable air. Only Uncle Dawes’s hand on her elbow kept her moving.

She didn’t realize a man waited in the hallway until he greeted her. “Mrs. Hilliard.”

He was as unremarkable as the house, with a sharp aristocratic face, thinning blond hair, and ears that seemed too long for
his features. His frame had been padded just a bit with expert tailoring. He stood an inch or two shorter than she, but didn’t
appear to notice her height. Something about him stirred a faint feeling of familiarity.

“And you are?” she asked, stopping well beyond his reach.

He bowed. “Peter Carver of the Home Office. Lord Sidmouth asked me to speak with you.”

He led the way into another dim room, this one with some books and a fireplace that sputtered. Even though she didn’t feel
like it, Grace sat, allowing the men to sit as well.

“I understand you believe my husband is a traitor,” she said baldly.

Mr. Carver set his hands on his knees. “I’m afraid so,” he said, his voice gentle. “Mr. Hilliard is giving away state secrets
that could cause irreparable damage.”

“To whom?” she asked. “Certainly no one has the energy or money right now to start a war.”

“The threat isn’t foreign. It’s from within England. Men who seek to use the civil unrest to stoke the fires of revolution.”

Grace snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Diccan is about as revolutionary as the Prince Regent.”

Mr. Carver looked regretful. “Mr. Hilliard isn’t interested in revolution. He’s interested in money. You don’t
think he supports himself on his government pay? His father cut him off years ago.”

“His uncle left him an estate.”

“That is crumbling to the ground. I’m afraid he’s been doing this for years, for one concern or another. He made a name for
himself in some sectors as a man willing to be swayed. For a price.”

“Which makes one wonder why he still works for the government.”

Mr. Carver shrugged. “He is cousin to a very powerful duke.” Clasping his hands on his knees, he leaned forward. “Do you recognize
the name Evenham, Mrs. Hilliard?”

She tilted her head. “Lord Bentley’s son? The one who was killed in a duel?”

Mr. Carver was shaking his head. “There was no duel. Evenham was shot in the head. Your husband was in the room when it happened.
He said it was suicide. We don’t believe him. We think Evenham had found damning information about your husband.”

Grace felt her certainty slip a notch. “That isn’t proof, sir, only another allegation.”

“I know. We think he is in possession of restricted files from the Foreign Office and plans to pass them to an operative.
We also think he has collected information on his cohorts. I know it’s a lot to ask, but we hope you will find it for us.
We need that proof, and no one else has managed to get it.”

She was on her feet before she could think. “No. I’m sorry, but nothing will convince me that my husband is betraying his
country. I’d like to go home now.”

Uncle Dawes followed to his feet, begging her to reconsider. Mr. Carver echoed him. Grace remained unmoved.
Finally, when she wouldn’t relent, the two men looked at each other.

“She has to be convinced,” Mr. Carver said, sounding regretful, as he made a show of checking his pocket watch. “Mrs. Hilliard,
I’m afraid I must ask you to follow me.”

“There must be another way,” Uncle Dawes said, and Grace could see that he was waxy pale.

“Why?” she asked, folding her hands at her waist.

Mr. Carver sighed. “I was loath to take this step, but you need to understand what we’re up against. You see, we met at this
location for a reason.”