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Clearly Céline was in trouble.

The next day Céline looked around her room. Everything looked neat and tidy. There were no signs that she might never return to it. Sally and Virginia had already made up the bed and tidied the room. She touched the counterpane.

This room held few memories for her, unlike the earl’s house she had vacated upon widowhood. She thought about all the times she had hoped to be carrying the earl’s child, only to be disappointed time and again.

Her glance rose to the rest of the room, thinking of the three years within its walls. Much living that was only “existing” had occurred. Céline hadn’t realized it herself until Roland had shown up and recruited her services . . . but more recently—and much more intensely—since Mr. MacKinnon had come into her life.

The fact that he was both enemy and lifesaver only added to the sensation. Would he betray her to the British? He hadn’t . . . yet. But
he was not her only enemy. She had not seen de la Roche, but even now, she felt his eyes upon her every time she left the house.

Gaspard was right. She had no time to lose—whether it was MacKinnon or the Comte’s agents who betrayed her, her life in England was no longer safe.

She picked up her reticule and gave herself one final inspection in the pier glass, not wishing to appear anything but her best when she left this house . . . this city of adoption.

She would not see MacKinnon again. She willed herself not to walk down the stairs to the basement. She had bid him adieu yesterday afternoon when she had finished reading him the novel.

They had parted as mere lady and servant. Gratitude, all politeness, a hint of indifference in his tone, which would have cut her to the quick if not for the memory of his searing kiss.

What secrets must you hide deep in your soul, my dear butler?

But it was not to be her lot to discover them.

There was a war to be fought, and a country to save.

With a final glance behind her, she lifted her arm in farewell and left her room.

She was leaving this morning.

Rees had only discovered it when he’d appeared at breakfast for the first time since his return from Hartwell. It had been an effort to continue forking up his food, his features schooled to reveal nothing but passing interest.

She had wasted no time since informing him yesterday of her departure. Besotted fool that he’d been, so distraught by her news, he’d not even thought to ask her the date of departure.

As soon as he’d finished breakfast, he returned to his room, fighting the hope that he would see Lady Wexham one last time before she left for her supposed sojourn in the country. More likely to France! All he’d been able to discover at breakfast was that she was headed for Somerset. He could have donned his butler uniform and stood in
the entryway upstairs, but he did not want to bid her farewell in the company of others, as servant to lady.

But as the morning wore on, he heard no footsteps outside his door. He stood like a sentinel by his window, watching the post chaise draw up to the front of the house. Tom had told him she would not be taking her own carriage but leaving it for her sister-in-law, who would stay in London for a few more weeks before retiring herself to the country.

Tom and William loaded the corded trunks and other valises onto the boot of the yellow coach.

Still tiring easily, he finally turned back to his bed and continued working on the encoded scrap. He had little fear that anyone would knock on his door. The servants were too busy with Lady Wexham’s departure.

He had dressed earlier with no aid, only leaving off his jacket. Thankfully, his wound, though still tender, was closing nicely. In the back of his mind had been the thought that he wanted to appear presentable if Lady Wexham should stop by his room before her departure.

But no one came.

He stared at the series of numbers. He had a few sheets of notepaper filled with possible letters replacing them, using the knowledge he had gained of patterns in previous ciphered codes he had studied.

He didn’t know how much time had elapsed, perhaps an hour, when he heard voices in the street. He jumped off the bed and went back to the narrow window.

Lady Wexham stood outside, Valentine beside her.

He rubbed the back of his neck, observing Tom help Lady Wexham into the carriage then turn to assist Valentine. Gaspard already stood mounted on Lady Wexham’s mare. She would not need Rees to protect her this time, he thought bitterly, remembering how useless he had been. Pray to God that the chef would prove more adequate.

Lady Wexham disappeared into the carriage without a backward glance.

She was departing his life as simply as she had entered it, with no fanfare, no warning of the effect upon him.

He should be glad.

Instead, his worry only deepened. If she planned to flee to France, she might very well be heading to even greater danger. She didn’t realize what the decades of war had done. Chaos was coming, if Bonaparte fell.

Wellington had advanced as far as Vitoria, Spain. It was only a matter of weeks—perhaps days—before he reached the French frontier. In the meantime, the Prussians and Austrians were closing in on Bonaparte’s armies in Germany.

Would she look back one last time? He shook his head bitterly. The last thing he wanted was for her to see him like this—staring out the basement window like an unwanted dog being left behind when the master went on a journey.

But he couldn’t tear himself away until the postilions climbed aboard the horses, one on the lead horse and one on one of the wheelers behind. The fact that she had hired two teams of horses meant speed was of the essence. Where was she going? France, Scotland, America? He had to know.

With a blow of the horn, the groom behind gave the signal and the horses were off.

Once the vehicle was out of sight and the sound of the wheels and hooves had faded from the street, Rees left his watch post and headed back to his cot.

He sat against his pillows, unseeing for long moments.

What now, Lord? Go back to the Home Office, end my assignment officially, and report to Oglethorpe at the Foreign Office? Tell them the countess has left the country?

Instead he felt a sudden urging to take up the note in his hand once more and continue working on it. He rubbed the edge between his thumb and forefinger. So far he had made little headway. Perhaps he’d lost his knack for discerning patterns.

But if the Lord was quickening him about it, perhaps he should ask for wisdom.
Dear Lord, if this is important, help me see what it means.

With a renewed will, he studied the numbers.

And he knew what one of the words was.

About an hour later, he had cracked the code and read the message in French:

When you read this, I shall be gone. It was an unforgettable experience making your acquaintance, Mr. MacKinnon.

He stared at the letters. She’d known. All along she’d known.

She’d never by sign or word let on. Yet she’d let him continue his game. Why?

His thoughts jerked to a stop at the night of their kiss. Had she known then that he was the pirate?

She must have.

The realization filled him with fierce elation, hope—and fear. Fear of what it could all mean.

He read the message again. She had known the danger she was in.

France. The word formed instantly in his mind. He would bet his life she was headed across the Channel.

If there was any chance Lady Wexham had fled to France, Rees mustn’t dawdle here conjecturing. He would go after her, he decided in that moment—if nothing else, to ensure that no one stopped her flight, his mind picturing de la Roche and Lady Agatha, even Castlereagh himself.

He stood, the paper crumpled in his fist, and went once more to the window. She had an hour’s lead on him, and before he could leave, she’d have another hour. But a good horse was always faster than a coach-and-four.

He must think . . . plan. The closest port was Dover, but it was also one of the most heavily fortified against a French invasion and patrolled for smugglers.

If she were heading to one of the tiny harbors along the southern coast, it could be like looking for a needle in a haystack. But with a hired chaise and postilions, she would likely stop at all the posting houses on the Kent Road.

He gathered a few things for a journey and stuffed them in a satchel, his mind already on what he would say to the other servants. He’d ask Jacob for a horse—the fastest one available. And he’d arm himself. With his butler keys, he would select one of the late earl’s fine pistols and get enough shot for the journey.

It would be the last liberty he’d take as Lady Wexham’s butler.

21

R
ees crossed London Bridge into Southwark and took the road southeastward toward Dover. As he paid his fourpence at the first tollgate, he glanced behind him, realizing he was leaving London without letting anyone know. He had given Jacob the rather flimsy excuse that Lady Wexham had left something behind and he would endeavor to catch up with the carriage. No one knew he was heading southward.

Jacob had offered to go himself or send a footman, but Rees was adamant and silenced Jacob’s protests over his gunshot wound with a sharp word, using his authority as butler for the final time.

He left the last houses behind him and rode through open fields with only an occasional inn or posting house along the way.

The journey gave him plenty of time to think. Going over all Lady Wexham had said and kept hidden since his gunshot wound, he marveled anew at her audacity. Knowing she housed a British spy under her very roof, yet she had not confronted him or dismissed him but befriended him! He shook his head. She’d even taken him to Hartwell—into the lion’s den.

She must have suspected him since Valentine had found him outside Gaspard’s room. He thought about the night he’d followed Valentine to the tavern. Had it all been a ruse? Likely.

Lady Wexham had proven one step ahead of him all the way.

Even her final move showed her cool head in the face of ever-growing peril. What a perfect way to disguise her escape to France. Make preparations for her usual sojourn to the countryside, where she did not reside in any one place but traveled all over for several weeks, even months.

News traveled slowly. Her servants here would have no reason to communicate with her or expect any news from her until the end of the summer. All they cared about would be making their own getaways to their various families.

Only Lady Agatha would remain for a short while in London, and likely would not suspect a thing until Lady Wexham did not appear at the earl’s country seat sometime well into August.

Lady Wexham had covered her tracks well.

He frowned, wondering at the timing. Had Lady Wexham been warned of some impending action? Or was it merely that since the holdup on the road, she knew her time was limited? He had not spoken with Bunting since the night he’d dragged himself to his lodgings.

He sobered, knowing tonight he should have gone to report instead of running after her half-cocked.

At the third tollgate, he left Surrey and entered Kent, soon afterward reaching the town of Deptford. There he stopped at a posting house to refresh both his horse and himself, banking on the fact that if Lady Wexham were heading anywhere on the southeast coast of England, she would likely stop at the same posting house.

He hadn’t been in the saddle since the gunshot, and after five miles, he was already sore. He rubbed his shoulder, his wound throbbing, and prayed it hadn’t reopened.

He followed a stable lad who led his horse to a watering trough, then handed him an extra coin and asked if a post chaise had stopped there in the last few hours.

After receiving an affirmative for one carrying a single lady and her lady’s maid, Rees remounted with renewed energy and will. She couldn’t be too far ahead of him.

He spurred his horse on, hoping to overtake the chaise at Shooter’s Hill. Many a carriage had a difficult time on the steep rise. But first were the miles of Blackheath. He pressed on past the farms and fields until the road began to climb. It was a well-traveled highway, so he passed several wagons, farm carts, and an occasional rider on their way to London. All of these would surely slow her chaise down.

As the incline grew sharper, he made out the dusty cloud of a carriage a mile or so ahead of him. He frowned, seeing no outriders. What had happened to Gaspard? The road entered a wood, so the carriage disappeared from his view.

He slowed his mount’s pace, keeping well behind. By the time he arrived at the top, he had a good view of London and the Thames in the distance behind him. He peered forward but saw no signs of the coach ahead of him. It must have entered the next wooded stretch.

Hoping it was Lady Wexham’s coach, Rees began his descent, wondering if they would stop somewhere for the night or change horses and ride all night to Dover.

Céline sat viewing the miles pass by the carriage window. In a day or two, depending on tide and weather, if all went well, she would be in France.

She had not been on her native soil since she was seventeen. What would it be like at eight-and-twenty, as a widowed countess? No longer the girl who had fallen in love with a handsome French lieutenant.

But perhaps just as foolish.

When and how she’d allowed herself to fall in love with a man whose identity she didn’t even know . . . it was beyond belief.

“Regrets, madame?”

She turned to Valentine and attempted a smile. “Perhaps, but—no.” She shook her head. “My life was useless, going from party to ball, before Roland contacted me.”

“What will you do in France?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to think about it.”

Valentine knotted her thread and picked up her sewing in the swaying coach. “Roland will find you something to do.”

Céline smiled. “And where will I flee when my life is once again in danger?”

Valentine shrugged. “You will not be in danger in France.”