A Code of Love (The Code Breakers 1) (3 page)

She had definite plans for educating Edward on the relationship between women and men, to shatter the male balderdash that women needed to be protected and thus excluded from the workings of the real world. With Michael’s departure to France for intelligence work, the management of the entire household fell on her shoulders.

Edward chased Gus over the grass and behind a tree. The dog came then waited for Edward to give chase again. The boy and dog ran circles around the giant oak.

Watching their enthusiastic play, she felt a deep longing for something she couldn’t identify. When Edward and Gus came to a halt near her, she hugged her younger brother. “I’ll tell you about kissing. It’s delightful when you’re kissing someone you care about, like your younger brother or your dog.”

“Hen, I’m not talking about that kind of kissing.” Edward, appearing to have no interest in the conversation, drew away and threw a stick to Gus.

“Kissing between women and men is exactly like kissing between families, a sign of mutual affection between people who care about and respect each other.” She shook her gardening gloves, carefully choosing her words. “Women want to know men respect them for their minds, their wit, who they really are, before they share their affection.”

Why was she thinking of a man whose kisses wouldn’t be the least respectful?

“May I go to the park now?”

“You may go to Hyde Park. But, Edward Michael Ormond Harcourt, you aren’t to go near the Serpentine.”

“I never meant to scare you.”
Edward hung his head and kicked at the grass.

“I know you didn’t plan what happened but it will take a while to forget our dunking.” And the man who rescued her, the man who pressed her to his chest and held her tenderly in his arms. “Please walk Gus on a lead. Remember what happened last time he was off.”

“It wasn’t Gus’s fault. The lady had no control of her horse.”

“Edward, promise me you’ll keep Gus on his lead near the horse trails.”

“Yes, Hen.” Leading Gus out of the garden, Edward called to his tutor, Mr. Marlow.

“And be back for teatime,” she reminded him. The Harcourt men had no sense of time. They could forget to eat and sleep when they focused on solving a knotty problem. They relied on her to maintain their expected routines.

A breathless, frantic Mrs. Brompton hailed her from the steps. “A letter…a letter from France.”

The stout woman continued talking during her descent of the brick steps. “I hope this is a letter from Lord Michael. I can’t believe he would forget to write just because he’s having a jolly time there in Paris.”

Mrs. Brompton was unaware of Michael’s work for the Abchurch office, delving clandestinely into French code breaking. Under the guise of visiting French relatives, Michael, a renowned linguist, was to develop a scholarly relationship with Gaston Le Chiffre, France’s secret code master.

Henrietta tore open the blue envelope. The letter, marked with the stamp of the Paris Ormonds, was from her cousin Genevieve, not from Michael. Scanning the letter quickly, she spotted a postscript in Michael’s hand at the bottom of the page.
I’m in a
McGregor
, sending a package.

Henrietta’s heart thudded against her chest. She reread Michael’s scrawl. How could Michael be in a McGregor? He was no longer a ten-year-old doing silly pranks or a young buck at Oxford causing mayhem. He was in France on a covert mission, doing dangerous work.

“The letter is from my cousin Genevieve, an update on her darling children and their escapades. Michael added a postscript that he is too busy to write but will soon.”

Mrs. Brompton chortled. “He’s up to his old tricks, getting into trouble. I’ve got to check on Cook. Tell Uncle Charles fresh crumpets with strawberry jam for teatime.”

“Uncle Charles will be delighted.”

Michael’s position was vital in uncovering how the French were changing their codes in anticipation of Napoleon’s next aggressive attack on Europe. If the French were to suspect Michael—her stomach churned with the possible danger, twisting into knots. Her plants had lost their allure. She didn’t linger in the gardens.

* * *

Entering the house, Henrietta walked down the passageway to the library. Sunlight gave the book-covered walls in the expansive room a new patina. Particles suspended in the air sparkled like fairy dust. Uncle Charles was bent over a heavy tome at his desk. His glasses, propped on the top of his head, pushed his white hair into clumps.

“Henrietta, hieroglyphics are the key. Egypt holds the secrets for this new code from Abchurch. Didn’t I just break one using the ancient symbols?” he asked.

“It has been several months since we’ve broken a code with hieroglyphics.”

She had hoped Uncle Charles would not return to his obsession with Egypt. Increasingly, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the flow of his thoughts. There were days when he was brilliant and other days when he slipped into one of his previous sixty-five years. He had been a man with great focus.

“Perhaps you should rest before teatime? You’ve been working a long time. Cook has promised hot crumpets with strawberry jam.”

“It might be a good idea for a little lie-down. I’ll get back to this code straight away after tea.”

Her uncle attempted to push himself up from his seat, but he faltered and fell back into the chair.

Henrietta placed her hand under his elbow and helped him to stand. His waist coat bulged with his collection, an odd assortment of scraps of paper mixed with melting wax and a penknife. His best notes scattered like his thoughts in a holy disorder.

Uncle Charles looked up quizzically. “I do appreciate the help with these old bones. I was remembering when Stephen and I were both courting you. I always thought you would marry me.”

“Uncle Charles, it is I, Henrietta.”

Her uncle searched her face, his eyes blank, lost.

“Therese and Stephen are both gone,” she said.

He studied her face as if it held the clues to unlock the newest code. “Was I wandering?”

“Just a little bit, you were remembering
Maman
.”

The same bright Harcourt smile as her brothers’ softened his wizened face.

“It has been two years since
Maman
died. I miss her, too.”

Tears pooled in her uncle’s eyes. “You’re like Therese, the same lilt in your voice, your hair, the color of wheat fields.”

Brompton stood at the door waiting to enter.

“Here is Brompton to help you, Uncle Charles. At teatime, you will need to tell me about your first dance with
Maman
.”

Uncle Charles grasped her hand and nodded then shuffled out of the library.

Henrietta returned to her desk, lowered herself into her chair and opened the gold locket she always wore around her neck. She gazed at the portrait of her loving mother, smiling back at her. Melancholy filled the empty spaces around her heart. She missed her mother and her guidance on how to take care of all the Harcourt men.

Her mother would’ve supported Henrietta’s decision to protect Uncle Charles by taking over his code breaking workload. She didn’t know how long she would be able to keep up the deception from the Abchurch men. The possibility of discovering that their codes weren’t deciphered by the legendary Charles Harcourt but by his niece was highly entertaining to her and Michael.

She missed her older brother and wished she could’ve gone with him to France. If she weren’t a woman, she would’ve been the right choice for the assignment: brilliant linguistic ability, impeccable French connections, and a seeker of adventure.

The ever-growing uneasiness about Michael’s safety expanded and spread through her body like her mother’s wasting disease. No matter how she analyzed and reanalyzed his message, the deduction was the same: her brother’s insatiable curiosity had gotten him into a mess. He’d pursued a lark with an unexpectedly dangerous outcome. Except this time the result wouldn’t be a beating by his nanny. A spasm of anxiety twisted her gut.

She wished there was someone to talk with, someone who understood Michael, someone to share her worries about her impetuous brother.

She had been tempted to speak with Uncle Charles since he had seemed to be in one of his lucid periods earlier in the morning. But by teatime, he had reverted to his obsession with hieroglyphics.

Lord Ramston, the Head of the Abchurch offices and a long-standing family friend was the only person who could address her concerns. As a gentle bred lady, she was not supposed to know about Lord Ramston’s position with the office. She was doing high-level espionage work but wasn’t allowed to enter the office. She took a slow, deep breath, trying to release her frustration. She was not going to wait another month to find out about Michael. Tomorrow afternoon she would speak with Sir Ramston at Abchurch, the sacrosanct center of code deciphering.

Chapter Three

Henrietta hurried down the crowded streets of Mayfair. She tried to mince her steps and walk as a lady, but after her disastrous morning of the fireplaces smoking up the library, she was late for her friend Amelia’s final gown fitting. She longed to be in Paris solving secret codes with her brother, not solving household problems.

Henrietta broke her brisk stride at the sound of a man’s groan from the alley to her left. A loud thwack followed. She peered down the darkened alley, trying to track the noise.

An older lady, dressed in a bright coquelicot dress and a green bonnet, was attacking a man, whacking him over the head with an umbrella. By her dress, the older woman was a lady, although her choice in colors was abominable. The lady didn’t appear threatened or intimidated. She raised her knee quickly and delivered a blow to the man’s nether region, bringing him down to his knees. The brutish looking man moaned in pain. The woman hit him on his back one last time then turned and marched away.

The unusual lady turned the corner at the far end of the alley. The man started to rise from his knees. A sneer crossed his face. Henrietta hurried on to the modiste.

When she stepped into the shop of Madame De Puis, the cloying scent of cloves and roses overwhelmed her. Everything in the shop was done in billowing white with accents of gold on the chairs, frames, and vases holding bouquets of heavily-scented, scarlet roses. Swatches of cool white silk hung on the walls and on the entrances to the changing rooms.

Amelia, her slender, winsome friend, stood with her back to Henrietta. At tonight’s Wentworth Ball, Amelia would wear a ball gown she had designed and Madame De Puis had constructed.

“Amelia, I’m sorry for my tardy arrival, but I must tell you about the incredible thing I just witnessed.”

Her friend turned with a big grin and brought her finger to her lips. “Shhh…listen”

Bursting to tell Amelia about the lady’s assault, Henrietta found it difficult to stand still. A voice from the dressing room was barely audible. Henrietta strained to listen. Amelia’s violet eyes were bright with mischief.

“It certainly leaves little to the imagination.” The woman behind the curtain spoke with a French accent.

Henrietta didn’t recognize the voice, although she knew many of the French émigrés. Madame de Puis’ response was muffled.

“I want his focus right here, with the promise of what is to follow.” Her laugh was husky and deep.

Amelia blushed at hearing the lady’s sentiments expressed in a public manner.

Henrietta didn’t blush. She was trying to suppress a giggle. Both she and Amelia leaned toward the dressing room, waiting for the lady’s next comment, assuming she was a lady.

Madame De Puis emerged. Shock registered on the modiste’s face. “Lady Henrietta, Miss Amelia. You’re early…for your appointment. Please, ladies. Let me take you to a dressing room.” Madame de Puis pushed firmly against their backs, trying to prevent them from seeing or hearing the daring lady.

Neither of them budged. Henrietta dropped her reticule. Amelia bent slowly to retrieve it.

“Who made this fabulous reticule?” Amelia asked in an innocent voice.

Henrietta snickered. Amelia had made the reticule.

Madame de Puis, aware of their stall tactics, gave one more discrete push. “Mademoiselles, please, let us adjourn to the dressing room.”

A stunning woman with dramatic black hair and catlike eyes threw the curtains back. The woman’s dark eyes raked over Henrietta, missing no detail of her simple, countrified dress. With the household problems, she had no time to change into one of her nicer gowns.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselles.” The woman pitched her silky voice low. She spiced “Mademoiselles” with a sardonic twist.

Henrietta didn’t recognize this woman, but by her revealing décolletage, Henrietta recognized they should never be introduced to her. “I’m Lady Henrietta Harcourt, and this is my friend, Miss Amelia Bonnington.”

“Harcourt?” The woman paused. “Lady Henrietta Harcourt?” Her vivid eyes rescanned Henrietta from her unadorned bonnet to her Nankeen half boots. The woman’s full crimson lips turned down in a moue of distaste. “What a beauty, with a country complexion and an air of innocence.”

Henrietta was stunned into silence. Why would this woman direct unseemly comments toward her?