Surrender Becomes Her (13 page)

Still grinning, Marcus sat up in his chair and exclaimed, “You’re working for that old devil Roxbury.”

Jack didn’t bother to deny it. He merely shrugged and said, “He knew I was bored and he asked me if I would look into a little matter for him. He mentioned your name and intimated that it might be advantageous for me to reacquaint myself with you and informed me that your mother was currently visiting London.” Jack flashed him a shamefaced smile. “I went to call on your mother for the express purpose of testing the wind. I’d hoped, at the worst, that she’d suggest that I visit you one of these days. I’d planned on arriving on your doorstep with a polite note from your mother and seeing where things went from there.” He shook his head in amazement. “I couldn’t believe my luck when she told me that she was leaving for Sherbrook Hall just as soon as she could arrange it and would I mind escorting her.” Jack grinned. “I leaped at the chance, I can tell you.”

“So what’s the little matter Roxbury wants you to look into?”

Jack hesitated. “Roxbury didn’t say I shouldn’t tell you; in fact, now that I consider it,” Jack said slowly, “I think he thought that you might be useful.”

“Probably had already learned of my engagement to Isabel and her connection to Whitley,” commented Marcus. “From what Julian says of Roxbury,
nothing
slips by the old man.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Jack agreed.

“I don’t know how useful I will be,” Marcus said with a grimace. “My meeting with Whitley was, er, not friendly. Caught him harassing Isabel.”

“And he’s still alive?” asked Jack, surprised.

Marcus smiled grimly. “The pair of them made light of the situation and, short of calling Isabel a liar, there was little I could do.” An expression of disgust crossed his face. “I did try to provoke the fellow, but he wouldn’t rise to the bait.”

“That sounds like Whitley. From what Roxbury told me, his retirement was not entirely voluntary. There had been several incidents during his career in which Whitley’s reputation was not enhanced and it was decided that his time in the Army should come to an end before he got more men under his command killed and wounded or did something that would embarrass the government.”

“So why is Roxbury interested in him?”

Jack stared at his brandy for several minutes, putting his thoughts in order. Finally he looked at Marcus and said, “I suppose you’ve heard that there is an invasion planned for later this summer to help the Spaniards?”

Marcus nodded. “To be led by Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Wellesley.”

“Yes, Sir Arthur will lead the troops, but the government doesn’t trust anyone in that nest of vipers Napoleon has made of the continent and—this is not common knowledge by the way—the present plan is to invade Portugal and then Spain.”

“I may not have heard the specifics,” Marcus said, frowning, “but rumors about the invasion have been circling for a while. How does Whitley fit into Wellesley’s plans?” Marcus sat upright. Incredulously, he demanded, “Surely you don’t suspect him of being a spy for the French?”

“If he is, the French don’t know it yet, but Roxbury thinks that Whitley may be offering his services soon.” Grim-faced, Jack went on, “Just before the major left London, he visited some old friends at the Horse Guards. As you know, the place is a hive of officers and officials and their friends, and none of them know what the next person is doing. Information leaks from Horse Guards like a sieve, but usually it is not of vital national interest. Embarrassing or irritating, yes, but nothing that can’t be rectified. But shortly after Whitley’s
visit just a little over a week ago, a very important memorandum went missing.”

“And this memorandum has to do with the Wellesley troop movements?”

Jack nodded. “Departure dates, landing sites, everything. There is time enough to change it, but we would have to find other places to land and that would delay the invasion…and put our allies in grave danger.” Jack looked disgusted. “It’s possible, and this has been discussed, that the memorandum will turn up on someone’s desk or in a file where no one thought to look, but one of the people Whitley visited, a General Smithfield, is the last person known to have had the memorandum.” Jack stared down into the fire. “Smithfield, for obvious reasons, didn’t report its disappearance immediately. At first, he thought it was merely misfiled and wasted valuable time searching for it. By the time he admitted that he couldn’t find the memorandum and the alarm was raised, he’d almost forgotten that Whitley had even been in his office.”

“But he’s remembered Whitley’s visit now?” Marcus asked with a lifted brow.

“Yes, he has, but he doesn’t know that his old friend Whitley has become our most likely suspect for the theft—if it has indeed been stolen,” Jack replied. “All Smithfield, or anybody at the Horse Guards, knows is that a list was compiled of everyone who called at the offices during the crucial time the memorandum could have gone missing. When prompted, Smithfield did vaguely recall that Whitley, among others, had visited one morning within the time frame that we think it disappeared.” Jack’s lips thinned. “But since Smithfield practically holds court every day in his offices with all his old cronies, Whitley was just another name on the list.”

“But not any longer?”

Jack shook his head. “Roxbury was able to eliminate everyone from the list except for Whitley and one or two others.” He grinned. “I suspect those gentlemen are, even as we speak,
being befriended by other individuals pressed into service like myself.” His expression grew somber. “There is, however, a spy known as
Le Renard,
‘the Fox,’ who has been at work in England for years, and Roxbury has long sought to capture him. Roxbury first considered the Fox the probable culprit, but to his mind none of the gentlemen known to have visited Smithfield seem likely to be
Le Renard
; they are in Roxbury’s opinion too respectable, too timid, or too stupid. Of course, even he admits that being considered respectable, timid, or stupid could be a clever disguise.” Jack sighed. “We can’t rule out the Fox, but at the moment Whitley seems our most likely lead. His reputation is unsavory, he has a grudge against the government for forcing him to retire, and one of Roxbury’s, er, cronies discovered that he left London the very next day after his visit to Smithfield for the Devon coast.”

“And how did you find out that bit of information?”

Jack smiled. “Roxbury had his minions interview everyone Whitley had talked to and discovered a gentleman who remembered Whitley mentioning once that he thought he would look up the wife of an old friend who lived in Devonshire: a Mrs. Hugh Manning.”

“Well, if that don’t beat the Dutch!” growled Marcus, scowling at his cousin. “You were already aware that Whitley had come here to visit my fiancée?”

Jack had the grace to look guilty. “Roxbury told me that Whitley knew a Mrs. Hugh Manning from his days in India,” he admitted. “Roxbury pointed out that Manning Court, where Mrs. Manning resided, was located conveniently near Sherbrook Hall—where my cousin lived.” Not liking the look in Marcus’s eyes, Jack said hastily, “I didn’t know her name was Isabel or that she was your fiancée.” When Marcus continued to scowl at him, he added, “You yourself admitted that Roxbury probably knew about the engagement and her connection to Whitley; don’t blame me for what Roxbury knows.”

Marcus snorted, half amused, half vexed. “Julian claims that a ferret can’t fart in a henhouse that Roxbury doesn’t know about it. After this, I’m inclined to believe him.” He shot Jack a considering look. “You could have told me, you know.”

“I really didn’t know that the Mrs. Manning who knew Whitley in India was your betrothed until your mother mentioned it,” Jack said. He sighed. “And I’ll confess, once I knew of your relationship to Mrs. Manning, even though Roxbury implied I should, my mind wasn’t made up about how much to tell you.”

“I think,” Marcus said to no one in particular, “that I have just been insulted.”

Jack laughed. “As I said earlier, you don’t know me very well, but conversely I don’t know
you
very well either.” Seriously, he added, “I had to base my decision as to whether to trust you or not on
something
. Your opinion of Whitley matches mine and that determined my telling you about Roxbury and the rest.”

Not one to hold a grudge, and agreeing with Jack, Marcus nodded. “Very well, then,” he said, “how do you propose to discover if Whitley has the memorandum or not?”

“Search his rooms would be the first step,” Jack said. “If he has the memorandum, I’m convinced he has it with him.”

Marcus agreed, saying, “The Devonshire coast is a known smuggler haunt and it is possible that he is here as much to see my fiancée as the possibility of finding a smuggler to sail him to the Channel Islands at least or mayhap even to France.” He grinned at Jack and asked, “So when do we search his rooms?”

Jack grinned back. “Tomorrow night?”

“Excellent!” said Marcus. “What is your plan?”

Jack’s idea was that Marcus would engage Whitley in conversation at the inn while he searched Whitley’s rooms.

Marcus pulled on his ear and said, “That horse won’t run;
you forget Whitley and I are a breath away from daggers drawing. He’d be highly suspicious of my sudden desire for his company.”

Jack’s face fell. “You’re right. We’ll have to think of something else.”

“No, your plan will work,” Marcus murmured, “if I am the one to search his rooms and you are the one to keep him safely occupied.”

Jack didn’t like it, but after several minutes of persuasive argument from Marcus he agreed.

They parted for the night and, after bidding Jack good night, as Marcus walked down the hall toward his bedroom, he marveled at himself. Had he just agreed to sneak about like a thief in the night and pilfer through another man’s belongings? By Jove, he had! And he was looking forward to it.

Isabel could find little to look forward to these days. Edmund and Lord Manning could talk of nothing else but the wedding and, when she wasn’t being bombarded by their questions, Marcus was demanding she name a date for the wedding. Feeling as if pursued by wolves, she thanked God that many of their neighbors and friends were still in London and she hadn’t had to endure the inquiries from every lady of consequence in the neighborhood. Despite the lure of the Season there were still several local families that did not make the annual trek to town and she’d had to face the interested queries from several bright-eyed ladies about her sudden engagement to one of the most eligible bachelors in the area. Like a flock of twittering birds they milled around her asking question after question that she could not answer. And Marcus! He’d waylaid her more than once these past days pushing her to name a definite date.

Feeling hunted, she found herself escaping more and more often to her rooms, telling the butler to inform
any
callers that she was not at home. Her gaze fell to the scrap of paper
she held in her hand that had been delivered by a footman just a few minutes ago. And now, she thought on the verge of hysteria, Whitley was demanding she meet him after dark two nights from now at the gazebo near the lake that divided the three estates.

Had it been such a short time ago, she wondered forlornly, that her world had been turned topsy-turvy? A wave of incredulity swept over her. She was engaged to Marcus Sherbrook! How in the world had she allowed that to happen? That damn Whitley!

She sighed, staring sightlessly at the note in her lap. It was unfair to blame Whitley; he couldn’t help being a weasel and a scoundrel: this was all her fault. If she’d boxed his ears and sent him away that day in the garden none of this would have happened, but she’d allowed herself to panic and look where it had led: to the brink of disaster. Panic rose up in her throat nearly choking her, but she fought it back. She’d find a way. She had to.

Isabel stared hard at the note from Whitley, rage billowing up inside of her. She would not, she swore fiercely, let that wicked rascal beat her. Crumpling the note in her hand, imagining it was Whitley’s neck, she jumped to her feet. She didn’t know how she was going to handle her impending marriage to Marcus, but she could do something about Whitley and the threat he represented. In the note, Whitley implied he had proof to back up his threat, but she knew that was impossible. She and Hugh had been so careful…. But Whitley was a sly manipulator and, while he might not have proof, he could have some item, some
thing
that might cause speculation—and she dare not let him bring it forth.

Her mind made up to thwart Whitley and his plans, she started to throw the crumpled note into the fireplace to be burned the next time a fire was lit. Thinking better of it, she carefully, meticulously tore the note into tiny pieces before tossing them onto the hearth. Watching the pieces of
paper flutter to the marble hearth, her jaw tightened. She’d beat Whitley at his own game. Some way.

Telling Barbara that he and Jack had plans, Marcus rode away from Sherbrook Hall with his cousin after dinner on Thursday evening. Along the ride to the Stag Horn they discussed their plan for Marcus to search Whitley’s room. Jack still wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, but he agreed that Whitley would certainly be suspicious of being approached by a suddenly affable Marcus. They were both aware that there were several problems with their current plan. Fortunately one major problem had been solved: they knew which room Whitley was renting at the inn and they had Jack’s valet to thank for it. Marcus had first suggested that they send one of the stable boys to ask around about the major’s lodgings, but neither man had liked that plan. Then Jack had hit upon using his valet. Fickett, a little gnome of a man, had been Jack’s batman for years in the military and had loyally followed him out of the service. He suited Jack’s needs, and as Jack had told Marcus, “I would trust him with my life, and more important, he can keep his bone box shut.” That was good enough for Marcus, and Fickett had been sent to the Stag Horn the previous night to learn what he could. He came back with the news that the major was not a popular figure at the inn and that he was renting the best suite of rooms situated at the rear of the inn, specifically the northeast corner.