A Lady by Chance (Historical Regency Romance) (17 page)

"Oh no, my good man, Lord Haverstock is seldom home at this hour," Mr. Reeves said.

"I had hoped to apologize to him for something I said at White's the other night."

"I will convey that to my husband," Anna offered. She had heard nothing of an incident at White's.

Churchdowne walked toward her, his eyes never leaving hers. "I beg that you don't, since you were the subject of our discussion."

The life was once again sucked from the room. Anna wondered if all the people in the room held their breath. Never had she felt more uncomfortable. What on earth could her husband and this man be discussing at White's that would concern her?

Before she could be forced to respond, Evans opened the door and announced Captain Smythe, who entered the room with jaunty grace. He swept into a bow before Anna, greeted her, then turned to Cynthia. "Lady Cynthia, you will be pleased to learn I bring a letter from your brother James."

Cynthia gave a cry of delight, then turned hopeful eyes to her elder sister.

Lydia took the letter from Captain Smythe and read it silently, tears springing to her eyes. When she finished she told those gathered about her brother's experiences at the Battle of Salmanca, and talk of the war occupied the remainder of the time.

It was a cool evening. Sir Henry wore a light coat and beaver hat as he stood beside a half dozen iron ballustraded steps to a dark house on Tavistock Place. His eyes never left a slender red brick house across the street and down five houses: Number Twenty-Three. From his inquiries, Sir Henry had learned that Pierre Chassay, a once well-to-do Frenchman, occupied Number Twenty Three. Further inquiries with his friends in France netted Sir Henry the offer of ten-thousand pounds to silence the little Frenchman.

Never having earned his money by performing such a deed, Sir Henry had given the matter considerable thought before executing his plan. He did not give serious thought to the matter of accepting the offer. There was nothing he would not do for money. But having accepted, his thoughts now focused on how to perform the deed and get away with it.

The door to Number Twenty Three opened, and a short, dark-haired man emerged. He walked down the darkened sidewalk to the other end of the block from where Sir Henry stood.

Sir Henry pulled his hat down further on his forehead and set about following Monsieur Chassay. When the small man rounded the next corner, Sir Henry's long legs took broad strides to catch up. He barely turned the corner when he saw the Frenchman enter The Boar and Barrel public house.

From within the pub Sir Henry heard the raised voices of men happily whiling away an evening. Sir Henry would be careful not to come in on Monsieur Chassay's well-dressed heels. Standing in shadows a few doors down, he watched a number of modestly dressed men enter the establishment. After ten minutes, he entered. He had an immediate sense of Monsieur Chassay's presence without having to move his head in the Frenchman's direction. Sir Henry had known the Frenchman would be alone, standing by the bar and quietly observing those around him. Since Chassay was on the left side of the bar, Sir Henry went to the right. Not removing his hat, he ordered ale and drank it slowly, keeping his quarry within his sight.

Before long, Monsieur Chassay ordered more ale. He talked with no one save the employees of The Boar and Barrel.

Sir Henry nursed his drink to keep his mind clear and sharp.

In all, Monsieur Chassay drank four bumpers before donning his hat and coat and leaving.

Sir Henry set after him immediately. The street was empty at this late hour. Though his prey was just a few yards ahead, Sir Henry could barely see him for the fog which appeared to rise from the sidewalks. He hastened his step and soon came abreast of the Frenchman. Trying to sound inebriated, he said, "I say, lost my way around here. Could you direct me to Russell Square?"

Monsieur Chassay looked up kindly at the tall man whose hat was pulled all the way down to the tops of his eyebrows. He moved his shoulder and head in the direction of the square, then faced Sir Henry and gave directions in a thick French accent. Sir Henry moved closer, his hand in his pocket. Chassay's glance darted the bulge in the Englishman's coat, fear flashing in his eyes.

In one swift move, Sir Henry withdrew his stiletto and thrust it into Chassay's heart. The Frenchman gasped, his hand grabbing Sir Henry's wrist. But his strength, like his blood, oozed from his body. His hand fell. His eyes went cold. And he slumped forward, groaning. The knife embedded in him, his blood spewing on his killer's hand.

Sir Henry put an arm around the smaller man and dragged him to the stoop of the nearest house and released him.

The body of Pierre Chassay crumbled to the cold sidewalk, his blood pooling about him, the knife still protruding from his lower chest.

Sir Henry removed his own blood-stained gloves and put them in his pocket as he hurried away.

Anna could scarcely believe her good fortune. Two nights in a row she would be able to enjoy a quiet evening at home with her husband. Three months ago she would never have believed she could be so bored by society and so desirous of solitude. Though being with Charles was hardly solitude. She watched him as he leaned back into the comfort of her settee and stretched his long legs in front of him. A lump came to her throat. To think that three months ago she did know of his existence. And now he occupied her thoughts every hour of the day and invaded her dreams at night.

May I hope that your feet are better tonight, Lady Haverstock?"

"Oh, yes indeed. I entertained a large number of morning callers today and still conducted the sewing lessons in the East End." She came to sit beside him.

His hand covered hers and gave it a squeeze. "I suppose Morgie provided escort."

She nodded. "You should never have need to worry over the safety of Lydia or me for Morgie absolutely smothers us with protectors." She noted a stray lock of black hair on his forehead and brushed it away. "I believe all his concern is for Lydia. They are as comfortable together as hand in glove."

"She's always been like a sister to him. They practically grew up together, you know."

"Don't I! They are forever reminiscing about things they did as children at Haymore."

"Was Morgie one of the morning callers?"

"No, but Kate's intended and Cynthia and Charlotte's objects of affection were in attendance."

He stroked his chin. "Let me see, Captain Smythe was paying court to Cynthia. Who, pray tell, has Charlotte singled out?"

"Who is the only man she has ever spoken favorably of to you?"

"Surely you do not expect me to remember all the men who have stood up with my sisters these past weeks."

"Now, think on it, Charles."

"The shabbily dressed Methodist?"

She nodded.

"But he hasn't been around of late."

"I think not by choice. He seems excessively fond of Charlotte."

"You have talked with him?"

She nodded again. "He's very serious, very kind and, I believe, very much in love with Charlotte. I've made inquiries and learned he is of good family though he cut himself off some time ago because they did not support his decision to enter the church."

"A man of principle, then?"

She kissed his cheek. "I knew you would judge the inner man, not the outer."

"Far be it from me to be taken in by beauty," he said, smiling as his eyes appreciatively traveled her face and down the length of her.

"Were there other callers?"

"Oh, Mr. Simpson, who is smitten with Charlotte. Lady Langley and her daughter and Mr. Churchdowne."

Her husband stiffened at Churchdowne's name. "Would that I had been here to
properly
dispatch the scheming Churchdowne," he said angrily.

"Actually, he said he was calling to apologize to you."

Haverstock's brows lifted. "Did he say what he was apologizing for?"

"Only that it concerned me. I felt so excessively uncomfortable, I did not wish to pursue the matter, but now I expect a full explanation from you."

"I struck the man."

"Oh, Charles, surely not at White's?"

He nodded.

"Had he. . .alluded to my parentage?"

Her husband nodded solemnly.

She swallowed, avoiding the scrutiny of his all-seeing eyes. "Oh, I almost forgot!" she said. "You've a letter from James." She walked to her desk and brought him the envelop.

He couldn't open it fast enough. As he read, his eyes moistened. He read it slowly once then reread it. When he finished he sighed and looked into Anna's eyes with a softness she had never seen there before. "We've been spared once again."

Until this moment Anna had never realized the depth of her husband's attachment to his younger brother. How could one brother daily jeopardize his life for his country while the other betrayed his country, thus betraying his brother? Oh, she did not at all underhand this man she was in love with.

"May I read it?" she asked.

He handed her the letter.

James gave a brief but modest account of his role at Salmanca and with sadness told of the men he had lost at Badajos.

He inscribed a personal note to each member of his family. To his mother, he begged that she not worry about him and hoped she would be up attending balls with her beautiful daughters. To Lydia he wrote, "Oblige me by exercising Sultanna for me when you are at Haymore. I can trust you to give her a good romp." Not knowing about Charles' marriage, he reminded his brother that he was not getting any younger. "It is past time for you to chose your marchioness, you know," he wrote. "With your good looks and title, any beauty in London would be glad to have you – even with no fortune." Without having heard about Mr. Reeves, he kidded Kate that he fully expected her to be a duchess by the time he returned. He told Cynthia he hoped to be home in time to see her marry the man of her dreams, and he warned Charlotte against bringing home any more stray kittens.

Reading his letter brought James to life for Anna. She stiffened as she gazed at her husband and thought of his treasonous deeds. Wordlessly, she handed the letter back.

"I don't think my mind is ever free from worry over him," Haverstock said. "And since our marriage I've wondered countless times what he would think of you. How you would like him."

She realized the reason he did not look at her was because he spoke of deeply personal feelings. He even admitted that she occupied his thoughts a great number of times. The admission was something the oh-so-formal marquess never did. And it once again made him dear to her. This time it was she who covered his big hand with her own slender one.

But it was her husband who initiated the intense lovemaking that followed.

Chapter
19

She had enjoyed this morning's ride, Anna reflected as she reached for hot scone. Charles and Lydia had invited her to race them, and although she did not catch up to the superior riders, she had managed to exhaust her thoroughly lathered mare and work up a decidedly healthy appetite herself. After washing and changing clothes and allowing Colette to repair the damage to her hair, she faced her husband across the breakfast table.

He appeared engrossed in perusing the
Morning Gazette
.

"Does you lordship find my appearance more tolerable than when you last saw me?" Anna asked.

The corner of his mouth lifted to a crooked smile. "I find your appearance last night the most agreeable of all. I like your body bare and your hair down."

Anna colored and glanced about the room to assure herself they were alone. "A Godiva fetish, I daresay."

The skin around Haverstock's eyes crinkled from his broad smile.

"Any news from the Peninsula?" she asked.

"Articles, yes. News, no," he answered, his glance skipping over the headlines.

In a matter of seconds, his mirth vanished. He stiffened and cried out, frightening Anna.

Her first thought was that something terrible had happened to James. She sprang from her chair and rushed to his side.

"What is it?" she asked. "Is it James?"

He ignored her, his eyes racing over the small print. She followed his gaze and saw that he read an account of a vicious murder in Bloomsbury.

When he finished reading, he flung the paper aside. "No, it's not James. A friend of mine has been murdered."

"How dreadful," she said, gently stroking his shoulder. "Who was it?"

"Pierre Chassay. A true friend to England – as well as to his native France."

"Does he have a wife and children?"

"No. They, too, were murdered. In the Terror."

Anna sank in a chair beside her husband in order to read for herself about the unfortunate Mr. Chassay. "Poor man. How was he murdered?"

"A dagger to the heart."

Anna winced.

Haverstock pushed his food away, got to his feet and curtly took his leave.

Anna picked up the paper and began to read the account of the murder. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw where the "deceased victim of this most heinous crime" resided.

He had lived at Number Twenty-three Tavistock Place.

The swarthy little man!

Her pulse drumming, she read on. The owner of the Boar and Barrel related that the little Frenchman came to his establishment every night. Though he was quiet, Mr. Chassay was well liked by everyone. "The gent couldn't of 'ad an enemy in the world," Mr. John Moore said. Mr. Moore went on to say there had been a suspicious man in his establishment the same night as the murder. The man kept his hat on the whole time he imbibed at Mr. Moore's, and he left as soon as Mr. Chassay did, although they sat on opposite sides of the pub and did not appear to be acquainted.

Mr. Moore described the suspicious man as speaking like a gentleman. He was tall and thin.

Had she driven the dagger into Mr. Chassay herself, Anna could not have felt more responsible for his death.

Haverstock had gone straight to his office and torn through the files. Just as he had known, there was no file on Pierre Chassay. Haverstock had taken care to protect the identity of those who supplied him with information. No one had known of Pierre except for Monsieur Hebert, and those two were life-long friends who would never betray one another.