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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

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BOOK: Lovers Forever
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“Hmm. I suppose not, but then I am hardly a stranger, my boy.”
Sipping the brandy, Nicolas seated himself across from the duke. “Perhaps not a stranger, sir, but I must admit that I was surprised when Buffington brought your card to me. What can I do for you?”
“Hmm, I think, perhaps, it is a case of what we can do to help each other....”
Nicolas looked startled. “Help each other?”
“Yes. You see, there is a little annoyance in Kent, which happens, we believe, to have its headquarters somewhere in the vicinity of Sherbourne Court. It has occurred to us that it would be convenient if we had someone in the area to investigate the situation more closely.” Roxbury regarded Nicolas over the rim of his snifter. “Someone we could trust implicitly and whose sudden appearance would not arouse comment, or something even more, er, dire.” His silvery hair gleaming in the candlelight, looking ever so much like a mischievous cherub, Roxbury smiled seraphically at the younger man across from him. “And who would question the return to his country estate of the newest holder of a long and illustrious title, the earl of Sherbourne?”
His thoughts racing behind the polite facade he offered to Roxbury, Nicolas stared at the amber liquor in his snifter. He suddenly wished that he knew more of Roxbury and the “we” and “us” the older man referred to so glibly. Then he shrugged. What the hell. The one sure thing that he did know about the duke was that the sly old devil had England's best interests at heart—at least what Roxbury and his friends considered England's best interests!
Deciding that he had nothing to lose by listening to the man, Nicolas sent the duke a keen glance and asked bluntly, “And what, sir, is this little ‘annoyance' that you wish me to look into?”
“Oh, just a spot of smuggling,” Roxbury returned lightly.
A grin split Nicolas's dark face. “Smuggling? In Kent? Sir, you know that Kent is the most notorious hotbed of smugglers in all of England! There is hardly a beach or shingle along its entire coast where smugglers don't land their goods—or hardly a night, either! And if that's not enough, it is nearly impossible to find anyone who doesn't have contact or dealings in one form or another with the smugglers—from the vicar who discovers a little cache of silk for his lady in thanks for the brazen use of his cellar, to the farmer who finds a cask or two of brandy in his barn, compliments of the smuggler who took every horse in his stables to cart the smuggled goods to London!”
His gray eyes unreadable, Roxbury lifted his snifter of fine French brandy. “Or a lord of the realm?”
Nicolas flushed. “Or a lord of the realm,” he admitted reluctantly, having no real idea whether his brandy was legal or not, but suspecting the latter.
“Oh, don't look so guilty, my dear fellow! I am not accusing you of anything that half the members of the Horse Guards aren't also guilty of.” He smiled. “If it shall make you feel any better, I'm quite positive that the brandy currently reposing in my own cellar did not come through the normal channels of purchase.” Roxbury's face grew serious. “It is not the brandy or the French laces or silks that concerns us. It is the good English gold and information that is flowing freely between France and England—information that is being passed through the ranks of the smugglers.”
“Again, sir, I don't meant to be indifferent, but the smugglers have been used for generations to send and receive information from Britain to the continent. Stopping it would be impossible.”
“You're quite right. Stopping it
entirely
would be impossible.” Roxbury set down his snifter. Leaning forward, his attractively lined features intent, he said, “What I'm talking about is something different from just the usual odd bits of information that filter back and forth across the channel. Some months ago, six or eight, it was noticed that something very different was afoot—there was a new and highly effective network passing along some very secret knowledge. It took us a while to pinpoint how the information was being passed, and we have only recently narrowed our investigation to your area, to a band or bands of smugglers working in the vicinity of the Romney Marsh.”
Nicolas frowned. “Again, I have to remind you that the Romney Marsh area is rife with smugglers, who knows how many, but I can't imagine any of the usual bands of ‘owlers' having access to the kind of information you're talking about. Most of them are just farmers and simple laborers seeking to add a little extra to their income. It's true that there is a violent criminal element, much like the Hawkhurst Gang of Sussex in the last century, who also ply the trade, but I don't see how any of them could be involved with highly secret material being sent to and fro.” Nicolas glanced across at Roxbury. “Instead of focusing on the smugglers, who have to be simply messengers, wouldn't it be easier to discover the source? To find the man or men who are using the smugglers? With no disrespect to Your Lordship, it would seem to me to be the quickest way of stopping the flow of information.”
Roxbury sat back on his chair and snorted. “Indeed it would. And don't think that we haven't been desperately trying to do just that!” He scowled. “We have. But unfortunately, our spy has been too bloody damned clever for us. To date we've learned only one thing—the name ‘Mr. Brown'—and we have no idea what it means precisely. It could be a code. A password. Or the name of our spy! We have set trap after trap for the devilishly elusive ‘Mr. Brown,' have followed trail after trail, but we still come up empty-handed—or with dead agents!” He sent Nicolas a considering look. “The man who was finally able to narrow down our investigation to your area was just one of the victims of our clever spy.” Baldly he admitted, “We fished his body out of the channel three months ago—he'd had his throat cut. The next man we sent to the area was there only two months before we were presented with his body, and the latest man to dare to follow up on their information didn't last a month!”
“And this is the ‘little annoyance' you want me to look into?” Nicolas asked dryly.
Roxbury smiled faintly. “Yes, I thought it might appeal to a neck-or-nothing young daredevil like yourself. Give you something to do besides sit by your fire this winter.” Slyly he added, “You'd also be doing your former commander, Wellesley, a favor. Remember, he and his troops are the ones who are at grave risk as long as this damned spy is able to pass along vital information almost at will—despite our best efforts to stop him!”
Roxbury couldn't have used a more effective argument. Nicolas straightened and, meeting those watchful gray eyes, asked simply, “What do you want me to do?”
Roxbury sighed, suddenly looking all of his seventy some years of age. “We know so damned little! But we suspect a great deal. We don't even know whether our culprit is someone new to the area or whether it is someone who saw an opportunity and decided to take advantage of it. Because of the quality of the information being passed along, though, we are positive that it is no ordinary man, that it has to be someone who, without question, can rub shoulders with England's finest and those in the highest positions of trust. It would be hard to imagine,” he said dryly, “an ignorant stable lad or a simple, country innkeeper having the same access to the facts that our spy does!”
“But he does use the smugglers?”
“Oh, yes, we have been able to tie the appearance of certain smuggled goods in London to the transfer of information.” Roxbury looked troubled. “It is not the smugglers that we actually want—it is the man they work for. And that is where you come in—if, as we believe, he is a member of the aristocratic class, with your skill at spotting suspicious activity, we feel that you might be able to discover something for us.”
“My, er, skill?” Nicolas asked with amusement, his black eyes twinkling.
Roxbury smiled faintly. “You weren't chosen
just
because you are the earl of Sherbourne and have a good reason to be in the area. Wellesley suggested you—said you'd been extremely helpful to him in the past.”
Nicolas looked uncomfortable—he always did when his military exploits were mentioned. “It's true that I was able to be of some use to Sir Arthur, but that was under entirely different circumstances.”
“No, it wasn't—it is
precisely
the same—Wellesley needed information, and you went out and found it for him—any way that you could. We don't expect you to take the risks you did in India and Portugal—all we want you to do is keep your eyes and ears open, and if anything strikes you as odd or abnormal, we'd like you to discreetly investigate it.” Roxbury sent him a hard look. “We don't, however, want you to tackle the fellow yourself; we just want you to give us your best guess, based on your observations, as to his identity.”
“Very well. I shall do my best, but it seems a fool's errand that you are sending me on,” Nicolas answered quietly, all humor gone from his face.
“I realize that, but at the moment you are our best hope.” His face grim, the duke added, “Remember—fool's errand or not, be on your guard—the last two agents were tortured before they died—I wouldn't want that to happen to you.”
“I see,” Nicolas said slowly, an unpleasant, brassy taste in his mouth. A clean kill was one thing, torture another—in the course of his military career he'd done both, but of the two, he much preferred the clean kill. “Is there anything else I should know, sir?”
Roxbury took a sip of his brandy. Then, carefully setting down his snifter, he looked at Nicolas and said calmly, “You know, of course, that Avery Mandeville is the new baron and is living at Mandeville Manor?”
Nicolas stiffened. “Yes,” he replied coolly, “I am aware that Avery is the new Baron Mandeville.”
“Wellesley also mentioned the friction between the two of you. I wouldn't,” Roxbury went on with a warning gleam in his gray eyes, “want you to let your enmity with him cause any, ah, distractions.”
“You mean, you don't want me to follow in my brother's footsteps and challenge Lord Mandeville to a duel?”
“Is there any danger of that?”
Nicolas shrugged, but his black eyes were hard and the relaxed air about him was gone. “If it pleases you, I suppose I can restrain myself for the time being.”
Watching him closely across the narrow space that divided them, Nicolas unexpectedly reminded Roxbury of nothing more than a big, black panther tensed to spring upon prey. The sudden change from smiling amiability to dangerous predator was unsettling, and Roxbury was aware that he was very glad not to be Avery Mandeville!
With a deceptively casual air that did not fool Nicolas, Roxbury asked, “Is it just the family feud, or something more?”
“Something more,” Nicolas answered grimly. “While we were in Portugal, Avery seduced the daughter of my sergeant. When she became pregnant, he denied the whole affair. The girl drowned herself—her mother died trying to save her. My sergeant was overcome with grief, having lost everyone near to him, and after the funerals, he killed himself.” Nicolas's face hardened. “I was away when it happened, and by the time I returned to camp, Avery had left for England . . . to inherit the title he now holds. Someday I intend for there to be a reckoning, but to date, he has managed to avoid me.” Nicolas smiled thinly. “Something he won't be able to do indefinitely.” Rising lithely to his feet, he gave Roxbury no opportunity for further questions. “Will that be all, sir? I do not mean to be impolite, but I plan to leave tomorrow afternoon and there is much that I must see to before I depart.”
Roxbury took his dismissal in good grace—it was no more than he had expected. He allowed Nicolas to escort him out into the spacious hallway, then stopped just before the massive outer door. Looking back, he said lightly, “I suppose that I should warn you not to follow any instructions that request you to take a stroll, unarmed, after midnight, along a deserted beach?”
“I won't, sir, you can be positive of that,” Nicolas responded with a grin.
“Well, then, I must be off. Good luck, young man . . . and enjoy yourself at Sherbourne Court!”
Nicolas stared thoughtfully at the mahogany door long after Roxbury had closed it behind him. It seemed he had a legitimate reason for leaving the city after all—he could certainly put aside any feeling that he was running away from London. He would still be leaving for the environs of Kent on the morrow, but now there was an urgency about his trip that hadn't been there previously. The sooner he reached Sherbourne Court, the sooner he could start discovering Roxbury's spy. The excitement of the chase suddenly rose up within him, and with a dangerous smile on his hard lips, he bounded up the stairs.
And so it was that as Tess Mandeville rode furiously through the dark night
toward
London, Nicolas Talmage was planning shortly to be riding
away
from that same city. Inevitably, their paths crossed.
Chapter Four
T
ess wasn't having an easy time of it, although in the beginning things seemed to be going just as they should. With her heart banging painfully in her chest, starting and jumping at every small sound, she had managed to saddle her favorite mount, a swift chestnut gelding with a small white star and a white hind foot named Fireball, and lead him from the stables. Mounting quickly, she took one last uncertain glance over her shoulder at the ominously quiet house. Then she dug her heels into Fireball's sleek sides and away they had flown, swallowed up in seconds by the darkness of the night.
As they careened wildly down the narrow country lanes, her heart didn't stop its mad thumping and her death grip on the reins didn't lessen until they had put several miles between themselves and Mandeville. But even then she continued to urge Fireball forward. Reaching her uncles in London was the most important thing at the moment. Once she was safely in their care, the unpleasant situation facing her aunts could be resolved. She had to reach London quickly, not only for herself but for Aunt Meg and Hetty, too....
Aware that she must avoid the main roads where Avery might search for her, she had to forsake speed for concealment. She kept Fireball at a fairly swift pace, but as they switched from one narrow path to another, always heading in the direction of London, their progress was necessarily slower than she would have liked. The weather was not helpful, either—since she and Hetty had returned to Mandeville Manor that afternoon, a storm had moved in and Tess now had to contend not only with a smothering blackness, but with a driving rain as well. The only light that pierced the darkness was the occasional silver flash of lightning that snaked across the starless sky. It was not the sort of evening she would have chosen for a midnight ride.
Normally Tess considered herself a fairly confident and self-assured young woman, able to command any situation with which she was confronted, but this evening's disturbing events had badly shaken her. Raised as a proper young lady of good family, she had seldom been entirely alone. Always there had been a relative or a servant somewhere within call. As she rode down another overgrown lane, her isolation from everything she had ever known suddenly hit her.
With every mile she traveled, the fury of the storm increased, and gusty winds tore at her sodden habit and cloak. Fireball behaved badly, snorting and shying every time lightning flashed or thunder boomed in its wake. Doggedly Tess pushed onward, hoping during the illuminating streaks of lightning to catch sight of a barn or hay shed in which to seek temporary shelter.
Amid the noise and frenzy of the elements, she never heard the sounds of pursuit. When the darkly garbed figure suddenly rose up in front of Fireball, both Tess and the horse screamed in terror, and the gelding reared. Tess clung to Fireball's back, her fingers tearing at the reins that the apparition had grabbed.
As Tess and Fireball fought to escape the relentless grip on the reins, another figure appeared on their other side, and a second later Tess was swept effortlessly off the plunging horse. She struggled like a wild thing, her clenched fists beating against the powerful figure that held her. Despite her efforts she was easily subdued, as one big hand held her wrists together and a heavy arm lay against her breasts.
“Well, bugger me blind!” a coarse voice ground out near her ear. “It's a female!”
“Don't matter!” his companion replied testily. “It's the bloody horse we want! Knock the mort in the head and let's get out of here!”
Tess realized that she had fallen into the hands of a pair of smugglers procuring horses to transport their illegal goods to London. Then a flash of lightning gave her a glimpse of a third man joining the other two, a tall, slim figure wearing a many-caped greatcoat, his face and hair hidden by his hat and muffler. The stunning notion crossed her mind that she was in the presence of a gentleman.
Her suspicion was confirmed when the greatcoated figure said in a cultured voice full of ice, “You fools! I thought the point of this undertaking was to avoid detection! I'm certain there must be plenty of other horses, horses whose owners are safely asleep in their beds, that will serve our purpose. We are not so desperate that we need to attack travelers and steal their mounts!”
“It's a good horse, a blooded animal, Mr. Brown,” sullenly replied the man who held a nervously dancing Fireball. “We thought it'd be good to have a fast horse, if the dragoons was to come after us.”
“You
thought,
” came the scathing retort. “I doubt that you are capable of even that much brain activity.”
In the rainy darkness Tess could tell very little, but she suddenly had the impression that the man called Mr. Brown was looking in her direction. Instinctively she shrank against her big captor, thinking she'd rather be subject to his rough mercy than that of the “gentleman” who spoke with such open contempt to his companions.
“Well, go ahead,” the arrogant voice said. “Before any more damage is done—get rid of her!”
Terrified, Tess renewed her struggles to escape. There was a wild flurry of violent motion that ended when pain suddenly exploded in the back of her head and a heavy blackness rushed up to meet her. Knocked unconscious by the man in the greatcoat, she slumped pitifully against the smuggler who had first caught her.
“You didn't have to hit the little thing that hard. You might have killed her,” grumbled the big man who held her.
Lightning lit the blackness, and the man in the greatcoat stared dispassionately down into Tess's pale, lovely features. “I intended to—we don't need any witnesses, especially with you two dolts calling out my name every second! Leave her somewhere out of sight and let us be gone from here. We've wasted enough time as it is.”
Lifting up Tess's limp form, the big smuggler disappeared between the hedgerows and laid her beneath a huge oak. If she was alive, he thought, she was going to have the devil's own headache when she woke.
 
When she finally regained consciousness many hours later, Tess felt half dead. Her head ached abominably, she was starving, her clothes clung wetly to her, and as she sat up and looked around groggily, she had absolutely no idea where she was. With a groan, she sank slowly back against the ground, wondering bitterly if she should be grateful that she was alive.
Squinting up at the gray, cloudy sky and the position of the watery sun above her, she realized that it was well past midday. From the appearance of the sky, she concluded gloomily that another storm was in the offing. Struggling once again into a sitting position, she tried to fight her way clear of the thick cobwebs that seemed to clog her thoughts. She glanced around again to get her bearings. The hedgerows and gently rolling, tree-dotted fields told her nothing. As she sat there, her thoughts moving sluggishly through her aching head, a tiny niggle of unease began to gnaw at her. She looked at her clothing, at the sodden black velvet habit and the crumpled black cloak, but the sight of them did nothing to still a growing sense of numbed disbelief. Not only did she not know where she was, but she had absolutely no idea who she was or how she had come to be lying here!
She closed her eyes and fought off the sheer terror that raced through her slender body. Of course, she knew who she was, she was . . . A horrible blankness filled her mind. She swallowed. Well, maybe this was just a dream—a very bad one! If she lay here quietly for a few minutes, this queer feeling of utter emptiness would pass and she'd wake up and everything would be normal. But as she lay there and the minutes passed, she came to the unpleasant conclusion that she was not asleep, had not been asleep, and that she certainly wasn't dreaming. She didn't know where she was, who she was, or how she came to be lying on the ground in the middle of the afternoon.
Her stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her that she was hungry—and that if she didn't want to spend another night in the rain, as she obviously had last night if the condition of her clothing was anything to go by, she had better get moving. Except she had no idea where she should go....
After a painful struggle, she stood upright, bracing a hand against the oak tree for support. The ache in her head was excruciating, and she swayed dizzily for several seconds before the worst of the pain lessened and she was able to look around without the world tilting at an odd angle. Obviously she couldn't remain here. As she stood looking around uncertainly, hoping desperately to catch sight of something that would trigger a memory,
any
memory, she became conscious of a strong sense of urgency. To run. As far and as fast as she could.
Instinctively she began to move, fighting her way through the hedgerows to the narrow lane that lay beyond. Half staggering, half walking, she continued down the muddy road, increasingly aware that it was imperative to keep moving, that some nameless dread stalked her, and that if she did not remove herself from this vicinity immediately, she would come face to face with a nightmare worse than any she could imagine.
 
Tess was not the only one to awaken that Wednesday with a splitting headache. It was nearly three o'clock that same afternoon before Avery awoke from the liberal dose of laudanum the aunts had put in his wine the previous evening. His tongue thick, his head feeling as if it were going to split, he lurched from his bed and impatiently rang for Coleman, his valet.
The man presented himself promptly, a silver tray laden with various food and drink to tempt his master's appetite carried in his hands.
Clutching his aching head, Avery glared at his valet and growled, “What the hell happened last night? What sort of damnable swill did that rascal Lowell find in the cellar to serve me?”
Putting down the tray on a carved mahogany table near the silk-hung bed, Coleman replied sourly, “Don't believe it was anything that
Lowell
served you. Think something havey-cavey went on last night.”
Avery's pale blue eyes kindled with wrath. “Of course! The aunts! I should have known they'd guess what I was about and try to protect their lone chick.” Shrugging into his elaborately embroidered silk robe, he said tightly, “They may have been able to postpone my plans, but they will not be able to protect her indefinitely.” His handsome face twisted. “And if they want a roof over their heads, they'll damn well stay out of my way!”
Coleman coughed delicately, and Avery's head swung in his direction. Not meeting his master's eyes, he said, “Um, no one but that pair of ape leaders has seen the dimber mort today.... They
say
she ain't feeling well and that they're the only ones she wants in her rooms.” He hesitated and then muttered, “There's a horse missing from the stables—that little chestnut she always rides.”
“
What
?” Avery ejaculated, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
Well used to his master's rages, Coleman took a prudent step backward. Glumly he added, “Don't believe the chit is in her rooms. Think she's done a flit and the aunts are hiding it.”
In one violent motion Avery swept the tray onto the floor, food, china, and glassware flying in all directions. Breathing heavily, his face almost ugly with rage, he fought to bring his temper under control. “Those conniving bitches!” he finally snarled. “If they think—” He broke off, took a deep breath, and snapped, “Find2 out more about that missing horse,
discreetly
—and tell the ladies,
all
the ladies, that I'll see them in my study within the hour. And clean up this mess and get my goddamn bath!”
Grateful to have escaped so lightly, Coleman scuttled about, swiftly cleaning up the broken crockery and remnants of food and drink. His task completed, he fairly bolted from the room, the expression on Avery's face making him distinctly uneasy.
As he paced the confines of his elegant chamber, awaiting Coleman's return, Avery's thoughts were not pleasant. He didn't doubt that his quarry had fled—nor that London was her destination. Casting a considering eye at the weather outside and seeing the dark, lowering clouds, he realized that even if he were to leave within the hour, it wasn't feasible for him to go tearing after Tess today. He did think about it, but a glance at the ormolu clock on the gray marble mantelpiece decided him against it. It was gone four o'clock, and if Tess had fled to London last night, she was already there—and out of his reach. His mouth thinned. And he had damn well better come up with a likely story to counteract the tale that she was no doubt pouring into her uncles' ears at this very moment!
BOOK: Lovers Forever
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