A Lady's Secret Weapon (4 page)

“Good day, Miss Hunt,” he said finally. “My staff will be ready for your visit tomorrow.”

“Of course, my lord.”

The twins followed Lord Danforth out, leaving Sydney alone to deal with her humiliating weakness. Covering her nose and mouth with her cupped hands, she strode to the window overlooking the street below and waited for his crown of sable-colored waves to appear. When she realized what she was doing, she whirled away and leaned against the wall near the window. She dropped her arms to her sides and tilted her head back, knocking it twice against the wallpapered surface, thankful no portraits hung above.

What had she almost done? Fallen prey to a man who consumes women like one feasts upon a favorite treacle tart? On what was, for all intents and purposes, their first meeting? She let out a derisive laugh. What had she been thinking? He was not interested in her in that way. His lordship choreographed the entire scene to loosen her reserve and draw out her weaknesses.

She recalled the day Mac had given her the beautiful silver bell, the day after a rather frightening encounter with an angry groomsman. Mac had given her the thoughtful gift along with strict instructions to keep it within reach anytime she was alone with a man. Any man. It didn’t matter if the gentleman was young enough to be her son or old enough to be her grandfather.

She had given in to Mac’s demand because she trusted him in the same way she trusted Jonathan Pratt. Mac had never let her down, and if her keeping a bell within reach brought him comfort, she would gladly do so.

The area between her eyes pounded with tension. She pressed the pads of her fingers against the throbbing flesh and rubbed in a circular motion. But the action had little effect; the pain had advanced too far. Her fingers curled into balls of frustration. She couldn’t afford this distraction now. With his lordship sniffing around her heels, she needed all of her wits to stay two steps ahead of him.

She pushed away from the wall, leaving thoughts of Lord Danforth behind, and made her way to her bedchamber. After many bouts of stubbornness that only resulted in prolonging her misery, she had finally learned not to fight the megrim and to take the laudanum sooner, rather than later. She despised the sluggish effects of laudanum almost as much as she hated the megrims themselves, but she knew no other way to reduce the fury in her brain.

When she rose from her bed, Sydney would have to face a new fury. One that, if she did not handle in the correct fashion, could cripple a nation. She had to find Lord Latymer. After his recent failure, he must be desperate now, and desperate people do desperate things. She refused to dwell on the possibility of her own failure. The last few years, she had navigated through worse odds and had emerged the victor.

She would do so again.

If
she could keep one handsome viscount at bay.

“Tanner.” Ethan stormed into the entrance hall of his Hill Street town house in Mayfair. “As of this afternoon you’re retiring.”

His butler blinked. “I am, sir?”

“Yes.” Ethan handed over his hat and gloves. “Can you pull it off?”

“Of course. Am I to retire in conversation only or must I make myself scarce?”

“Conversation only.” Ethan led the way to his study. “See that Mrs. Tanner understands the situation, would you?”

“She would serve me up boiled toast every day if I didn’t.” Tanner stopped just inside the study door. “Might I ask for how long and for whom?”

“A sennight and Miss Hunt.” Ethan poured himself a fortifying glass of brandy. “For reasons I can’t explain, I’ve hired her agency to find a replacement butler. Unfortunately, she feels the need to visit here and ask you some questions. She wants to prepare the new chap, or some such.”

A fleeting image of Miss Hunt wavered before his eyes. He had wanted desperately to break through the iron casing surrounding the proprietress and had resorted to what he did best: flirtation. The result had both amazed and dismayed him. Passion had softened her pretty green eyes moments before the panic had set in. That alarm had haunted his thoughts all the way home. He stared at the drop of brandy rolling around at the bottom of his glass. Still haunted him.

“Quite understandable, sir,” Tanner replied.

Ethan glanced up from his brandy-induced contemplations. His butler was a marvel, as was Mrs. Tanner. The couple had come with the estate when he’d inherited his title over a decade ago. Of course, his old retainer didn’t understand the reasons behind such secrecy and would never ask. While under the protection of Ethan’s father—the former Lord Danforth and Chief of the Nexus—Tanner had learned it was better to simply follow along.

When the former Viscount Danforth was murdered, Ethan had been too young to take his father’s place as chief. Not so now. Ethan had spent the intervening years preparing for this moment. Had taken on some of the most dangerous missions, like stealing behind enemy lines to rescue prisoners of war, to show Somerton his mettle. Somerton had taught him everything he knew about protecting England and himself from their ancient enemy, France. Moreover, as his legal guardian, the man had raised him from the age of fourteen, the year his parents were murdered, the year he became the next Viscount Danforth.

Some might think Ethan’s efforts heroic, brave, and noble. But he would never give so honorable a label to the savagery he’d had to commit. In order to save English prisoners, he’d been forced, at times, to sacrifice the lives of others. Some had been innocents or, at least, ignorant of what went on right beneath their noses. Others had likely been aware and simply not cared. He had killed for the greater good, as they say. Who could ever call that heroic? Ethan couldn’t.

Rotating his left hand, palm up, he splayed his fingers wide, revealing the cobweb of small and large creases marking his flesh, the fine scars and building calluses. So many times he had done this exact same exercise, hoping—no, praying—he would no longer see the blood of his victims stained within the deep recesses of his skin. He set his empty glass down. Out of habit, he rubbed his hands together, desiring soap and water to help cleanse away his sins. The stain gleamed brighter.

“Do I have any plans after my retirement, my lord?”

Ethan poured himself another drink and belted it back. The slow burn down his throat helped take his mind off the heinous images flooding his sight. “How the devil should I know? It’s my job to come up with a far-fetched plan, and yours to execute it.”

“Quite right, sir. That particular nuance slipped my mind.”

Ignoring his butler’s gibe, Ethan said, “You can expect an appearance from Miss Hunt sometime tomorrow.”

“Are you speaking of Miss Hunt from the Hunt Agency?”

Shev was right. “Yes, you know it?”

“The agency is known for providing hardworking and trustworthy servants in exchange for a few concessions from their potential employer.”

“Such as?”

“An adequate wage—based on the individual’s experience and prior performance—and one and a half days off each week.”

Ethan blinked. “One and a half days off?” The extra day seemed rather generous, to his mind. What would the servants do with all that extra time on their hands? He made a mental note to discuss the issue with Miss Hunt.

“That’s what I’ve heard, sir. They’re limited to a twelve-hour day, too.”

“How many hours a day does my staff work?”

Tanner’s chin rose. “As many as it takes, my lord.”

Guilt wrapped around Ethan’s chest and squeezed.

“Do you need anything more at the moment, sir?”

“No, Tanner. I suspect I’ve inconvenienced you enough.”

The study door closed softly, and the quiet that followed felt like the death knell of a judge’s gavel. He knew the life of a servant was difficult, but until this moment he never considered they might wish for something more than serving their master. An image of Miss Hunt’s disappointed countenance surfaced, and the band of guilt around his chest tightened.

Thoughts of the proprietress drew forth their earlier conversation. The memory picked at his mind like a surgeon removing splinters from a festering wound. Raw and painful.

No matter how hard he tried to woo information from her, she hadn’t yielded. In fact, she seemed to anticipate his probing questions. But the most frustrating part was his inability to place her. Her unusual height, voluptuous build, and dark hair created a memorable image, one not easily cast aside like that of so many other ordinary women.

And then there was the issue of the alias she used while visiting Abbingale Home. Why? Why would a respectable businesswoman feel the need to shield her identity? What possible reason could she have for visiting the boys’ home under such pretense?

He glanced at the clock. His appointment with Somerton wasn’t for another forty minutes. Even though he had arrived home only a quarter hour ago, he felt a restless need to be off again. Perhaps Somerton would be available to see him early. If not, he would make his way up to Somerton House’s attic. His sister Cora had mentioned that their old target area, where they used to practice throwing their knives, was still there. He had never mastered the skill like Cora, but he could hit any target he aimed at and achieve the desired result.

His palms tingled, though he refused to fall prey to their call. Focusing his mind on the tight rings of a target might be just what he needed, especially if he wanted to be at his best during his audience with Somerton. The course of his life would likely change in the next hour, and he wanted to be prepared for the arrival of his dream.

Whirling about, he left the study and, when he gained his butler at the entrance, he plucked his gloves and hat from Tanner’s grip. “I’ll be at Somerton House if you should need me.”

“Will we see you for dinner, my lord?”

“Tonight’s sugar puff night, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“I’ll be here, unless someone carts me off.”
Again
.

“Pardon, sir?”

Ethan closed the door, warding off further questions. He jogged down the few steps to the pavement and then turned toward Charles Street.

Not long ago, he had attempted to hunt down the French bastard who had kidnapped his sister Cora and tortured her for information about the Nexus. He’d followed a trail of information to the London Docks, where he met up with three bears of men. The hired footpads had grabbed him in broad daylight and then hauled him to a deserted area near the docks and proceeded to beat him senseless.

But sometime during the night, a cloaked figure had moved him from the wretched, damp alleyway to an abandoned warehouse, where a dark-haired maid had looked after Ethan for several days. She had kept him in a laudanum-induced fog so he could sleep and heal. A state he appreciated at the time. Now, though, he had trouble recalling anything of significance of his stay in the warehouse, including a clear picture of either of his saviors.

Once the threat to Cora had passed, he’d returned to the docks and made inquiries about the two strangers who had helped him, to no avail. Why had they disappeared? He wanted to thank them and possibly return the favor in some way.

The more time that slipped by, the more Ethan’s agitation grew. Their avoidance only made him more driven to track them down. When he found them—and he would—it would be a toss-up as to whether he would express his gratitude or hang them up by their big toes.

Ethan rapped on the door at 35 Charles Street. A distinguished man in his early fifties answered.

“Hello, Rucker,” Ethan said. “I’m a little early for my appointment with Somerton.”

The butler stepped back. “His lordship has not yet returned. Shall I see if Mrs. Ashcroft and her mother are available?”

He glanced up toward the attic and wondered if he could indulge in a few rounds of target practice before imposing upon Somerton’s almost-betrothed, Catherine Ashcroft. “No need to disturb the ladies. I’m going up to the attic to throw a few rounds first.”

Rucker, who was even more accustomed to looking the other way than Tanner, didn’t miss a beat. “As you wish, my lord.”

Ethan had ascended no more than two stairs when Catherine Ashcroft appeared on the landing above him. Still dressed in mourning black for the death of her father and husband, she carried the quintessential features of many English women. Average height, blond hair, oval face, creamy complexion, slim figure. The only fissure in her classical landscape was a pair of piercing brown eyes that saw far too much for a country miss.

Her face brightened, and she held out her hand while giving him a warm, welcoming smile. “Ethan, how nice to see you.”

Her genuine pleasure helped assuage the sharp edge of anticipation gliding across his nerves. “Catherine.” He climbed the remaining stairs, kissing her cheeks. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I thought to keep myself busy in the attic until Somerton arrived.”

“The attic?” Her smile widened. “Whatever for?”

The widow’s run-in with a traitorous Foreign Office official gave her access to knowledge about the Nexus few outside the Alien Office had. Ethan had no way of knowing if Somerton had revealed details about their covert activities beyond that one incident, nor did he know if Somerton had discussed his role in Ethan and Cora’s unusual upbringing. Not everyone would understand why the young deBeaus were shown how to pick locks, lift goods from pockets, and use their bodies as weapons.

He decided to take the careful route. “Something Cora and I used to do as children. Perhaps you will allow me to keep you company until Somerton arrives.”

“Of course,” she said. “Rucker, will you ask Marston to send around a tea tray?”

“Of course, madam.”

She led Ethan to a small sitting room that appeared to double as a workspace. The writing desk near the window held a number of ledgers, and a low table in front of the sofa had an assortment of papers strewn across its surface.

The widow’s skill at developing task lists and charting out work schedules had brought her to Somerton’s attention, and Ethan doubted she would ever be free of the earl again, especially once her mourning period was over. Catherine appeared quite content with the arrangement.

“How goes your search for Giles Clarke?” she asked.

Out of habit, Ethan hesitated to reveal the details of his current mission. So much of what he and the Nexus did hinged on absolute secrecy. But, in this case, Catherine had been drawn into the situation from the beginning and deserved an update.

“I’m afraid I can report little progress. Right now, I’m trying to get a sense of the Abbingale’s operation and hopefully gain a visual on the boy. But you must trust that I will find him, Catherine,” he said. “I am very good at locating missing persons and retrieving them.”

She nodded. “Sebastian said as much. I don’t mean to imply otherwise. It’s just that—the woman obviously loved her son and would have done anything to keep him safe.”

Time for a change in topic, but Ethan was damned if he knew what. He still had another twenty minutes before his meeting with Somerton. What the devil was he going to discuss with Catherine in the meantime?

Then it struck him. “When we were all last together, Somerton had mentioned you’d noticed an unfamiliar maid at Sophie’s birthday celebration,” he said. “I’d like to know more about her.”

One delicate eyebrow arched high. “I wondered when you would get around to inquiring. You seemed inordinately curious about her at the time. Something to do with the warehouse incident?”

“Yes,” he said. “Can you provide more of a description? Her height, her build, any distinguishing features that might set her apart from other women? A scar, perhaps?”

Catherine’s expression turned thoughtful. “I recall her being tall, with a full figure. Not robust, mind you. Ladies would envy such curves and men would worship them.” Realizing what she’d said, the widow’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “Pardon, my lord. I doubt those were the types of distinguishing features you were inquiring about.”

“Actually, those are exactly the types of observations I’m interested in. Please go on.”

“She wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. In her early twenties, I’d say. Very dark hair.” The widow’s forehead knitted together. “I’m afraid that’s all I remember at the moment. She was some distance away when I noticed her.”

“Did you see her engaged in conversation with any of the guests?”

“Not that I saw,” Catherine said. “She appeared to be absorbed with clearing away the dirty dishes and eyeing the guests.”

“Eyeing the guests?”

She smiled. “It seems I have a knack for identifying such insignificant details. Sebastian learned early on the futility of keeping secrets from me.”

“Any thoughts on what the maid might have been searching for in the crowd?”

“No, sorry. Most of my attention was focused on my daughter’s whereabouts.”

“Quite understandable. She spoke to no one during the party?”

“Of course she spoke to the guests,” Catherine said. “But she did not engage any of them in conversation. At least, not that I noticed.”