A Reckless Beauty (23 page)

Both men watched as the marching troops began to take on the look of people who at last understood the concept of moving together, as a unit. Even now, they were forming two squares made up of triple rows, the first line going down to one knee as the second row aimed their broomsticks in four separate directions.

“Edmund Beales is a very organized man,” Courtland said at last. “He plans, prepares, and only then does he strike. What he did to us so long ago took months of planning, possibly years. Ainsley knows him best, knows how the man thinks. He’ll have pieces to pick up, new alliances to form, now that Bonaparte has abdicated. He’ll first and foremost protect himself. It isn’t like him to rush off halfcocked. He’s methodical, and very thorough.”

“Thorough in what way?” Valentine asked, trying to better understand their now common enemy.

“Well, we’re going to assume Rian didn’t live long enough to tell them anything, even if…even if they tortured him. But Beales, armed only with the name
Becket,
still will search us out, sooner or later. He’ll dispatch several of his men to England, to investigate in any area where the Red Men Gang attempted to control the local smugglers. The gang operated in a large area, stretching from Kent to Hampshire, and beyond.”

“A considerable area, I grant you. But he’ll search the coast first.”

“Possibly, but not probably. We’ve given this a lot of thought, Valentine, in order to prepare for any eventuality. Beales would consider the smugglers themselves to be pawns in a larger game, just as they were to him. He will probably be more inclined to look among those who finance the smuggling efforts, those who distribute the goods once they’re off-loaded and moved inland. In other words, he’ll be looking for the head, not the body, just as we did when Jack went to London.”

Valentine thought about this for a few moments, and then agreed. “There are more than a few peers who’ve dabbled in free-trading for the considerable profit involved. Peers, and bankers, others. I can even name a few who have blatantly bragged of the fact.”

“Which explains why Beales will more probably have his men begin their search in London, and then work outward, toward the coast. They may already have begun. That’s why Ainsley has warned Chance to leave London, set someone to manage his estate, and then bring his family here. Once Beales’s agents have exhausted themselves searching London for us, they’ll begin to look along the coastline, among the smugglers themselves.”

“Which is when you’ll eventually be discovered.”

“Eventually, yes. Valentine, let me assure you that locating anyone within thirty miles of us willing to speak to a stranger will not be an easy task. Beales can’t have his men simply stroll into a tavern and inquire if the patrons know of anyone in the area with the name of Becket. Not if those men aren’t prepared to be dropped down a dry well, and then stoned from above until they’re dead. The local free-traders know that to be found out is to be transported at the least, and hanged in chains at Dover at the most. In addition, we’d like to think they feel loyal to us for our help to them over the years. The moment someone does inquire about us, we’ll be told.”

Valentine, who had been contemplating the shingle beach at his feet, looked up as Spencer rode by, gave them a jocular salute as he continued to the shoreline, probably to inspect his
troops.
“Everything you’ve mentioned takes time. Possibly considerable time. Now, tell me what happens once Beales’s people have located Becket Hall.”

“He’ll be surprised, we hope, to discover that Ainsley Becket is actually his former partner, Geoffrey Baskin. That will stop him for a while. He’ll fall back, regroup, adjust his plans, consider his enemy. He may want us all dead, but he’ll need Ainsley alive, and that will take planning. Beales couldn’t have taken us by surprise all those years ago without help. Help, I’m afraid, from some of the people we assumed loyal to us. That may be what he does again—puts a cat among the pigeons as it were. A spy.”

“To tell him how many of you there are, the limits of your defenses, the lay of the land, the best way to attack for effect. Your strongest positions, your weakest points. Even ingratiate himself in some way, in hopes of gaining your confidence, and your secrets.”

“My congratulations, Valentine. That was almost word-for-word what Jack has already told us.”

“A spy is a spy,” Valentine told him, his smile wry.

“And a traitor, a traitor,” Courtland added. “Considering the danger from both traitors and spies, we looked long and hard at your Sergeant-Major Hart when he first arrived here with news of Rian, Valentine. Long and hard.”

“And then accepted him.”

“And then accepted him for the good man he is, yes. He seems to feel almost fatherly about Fanny. Ah, and speaking of my reckless, wayward sister—there she goes, across the beach.”

Valentine turned around to see Fanny, dressed in a plain black gown that only emphasized her tall slim figure and white-blond hair as it filled with light in the sunshine. She walked slowly across the sands, stopped for a moment and then ran ahead, straight into Sergeant-Major Hart’s open arms. The two stood on the beach, holding each other tightly.

“Seeking comfort, the both of them,” Courtland said sadly. “Hart is of the opinion that he pointed those men straight at Rian. We helped him into a bottle, too, as we did with you, and then Spence and Clovis took him in hand, gave him something to do.”

“Thank you for that. Now
I
need something to do. My estates can manage without me for a while longer,” Valentine said, watching as Fanny stepped away from the Sergeant-Major, wiping at her eyes. “You said Beales may send men Becket-hunting in London.”

But Courtland shook his head. “No, my friend, not that. Fanny needs you here, and we need her somewhere she won’t be getting into more mischief. Callie told me Fanny is still blaming herself, as if she’s responsible for what happened to Rian. When she’s done kicking herself from one end of Becket Hall to the other, she’ll begin to convince herself that Rian is still alive somewhere in France, and she should take herself off to find him. She may be your wife now, but I know my sister, Valentine, and that moment
will
come.”

At this, Valentine whipped his head around to glare at Courtland. “But that’s not possible. I saw him, Court. Men with lesser wounds would be dead by now, even with careful care. He’d lost so much blood. Rian was feeling his life slip away even as he spoke with me.”

“I know that, Valentine, much as it pains me to say the words. My brother’s dead. You know that. Ainsley, Jacko, all of us—in our minds, we know that. Now make Fanny believe it.”

Valentine turned back to look at Fanny, saw that she was now holding both of Hart’s hands, and was deep in conversation with him. She’d followed Rian to Belgium. She’d followed him onto the battlefield. She was stubborn, brave, determined and, yes, as Courtland had said, reckless.

“Christ,” he swore under his breath.

“You wanted to know what you could do, Valentine,” Courtland said, putting a hand on his new friend’s shoulder. “Do what you first suggested. Take her away from here with you, take her to your home, at least for a few months. Give her something and someone else to think about until she’s calmer, until she has accepted Rian’s death. We’ve got at least a few months. Ainsley thinks three, maybe more, and then it will first be the cat in with the pigeons before Beales feels confident enough to strike more directly, with what he thinks will be the killing blow. Once he knows Ainsley is in his sights, we’re all in for it.”

Valentine nodded his agreement before asking one last question, for Courtland had said something that still nagged at him. “Just tell me this, please. Why would Beales want Ainsley alive?”

Courtland didn’t answer for some moments, then said, “None of us knows the answer to that for certain, except Jacko. Beales wants something Ainsley has. We thought that something was Isabella, and she was certainly a part of it. But not all of it. Not all of it….”

F
ANNY PLEADED
a poor appetite and left the luncheon table set up in the morning room while the others were awaiting the next course, avoiding Callie’s suggestion that the younger girl go with her, Mariah’s questioning glance and the disapproving tilt of Eleanor’s head.

Honestly, for such a huge house, it was sometimes depressingly impossible to be alone. Checking behind her as she went, Fanny made her way to Ainsley’s study, knowing that her papa and the other males of the family were taking their luncheon in the main dining room in order to talk strategy, or whatever it was they said they weren’t discussing.

She tiptoed across the room, to the large table where Ainsley kept his maps and charts, searching through them to find maps of Europe, and most especially Belgium and France.

What she found first were several hand-drawn maps, all the same except for Ainsley’s neat hand with a pen—he’d written names and dates on the maps, as well as drawn lines here and there in both red and blue ink.

Poor Papa, locked up here, both by his own choosing and by circumstance, hiding his face from the world, yet unable to leave it entirely.

She’d seen maps like this before, brought to her by Rian after his lessons on the great battles of Caesar, Alexander the Great, even Nelson’s tragic victory at Trafalgar. He’d sit with her, refight the wars, explain strategies to her, just as Ainsley had explained them to him.

Fanny also spared a moment to castigate herself for not listening more closely, for not seeing the lines drawn on the various maps as more than interesting puzzles to solve. She knew now, for certain, that neither she nor Rian had understood the reality of war.

Fanny looked behind her, toward the open doorway, and then turned once more to the maps, knowing what she was planning would upset everyone, if they knew. Brede, most especially.

She’d made so many worthy resolutions last night and early this morning. She’d be good, for Brede. She’d be his supporting prop as he recovered from the horror and trauma of war, mourned the friends he’d lost. All of those fine, generous, unselfish things. She owed him that, and much more. She longed to give him so much more. Give him
all
of herself.

Except…

Except that Rian was out there, somewhere. He had to be. If he truly had died, she’d know it. She’d feel it. Wouldn’t she?

Still arguing with herself, her burden of guilt still pressing down hard on her slim shoulders, Fanny bent over the tabletop.

Ainsley had depicted Wellington and the Allied troops in red, Bonaparte’s forces in blue, their positions marked on each of the maps, day by day. The names of all the small towns were also there, and Fanny had little trouble locating both the Duke’s position on the day of the last battle, as well as that of the Prince of Orange. She slowly traced a line to the South with her index finger.

They wouldn’t have been able to travel very far, not with Rian so badly wounded. Not if they wanted to keep him alive. So where would they go? Where would they be safe as the Alliance fanned wide, moved South, relentlessly pushed the remains of Bonaparte’s army back onto French soil?

A village? A town? A city? Perhaps a private estate?

Or would they take him to the coast, put him on a ship? Going where? France? England? North, farther into Belgium?

Fanny pressed her palms on the table, looking from map to map, chart to chart.

Where would she take him?

Home. I’d bring him home….

She shut her eyes tight, shook off her melancholy, because that wouldn’t help Rian.

She’d set herself an impossible task. The world was so large. Becket Hall had been her home, but it was only an infinitesimal spot on a much larger map, not even large enough to be depicted on any map at all. How on earth could she find Rian? Where would she begin?

“You need to consider him
not
wounded. Consider a plan, already formed before the abduction, an escape route already in place. A destination, a rendezvous point previously chosen.”

Fanny turned about so abruptly, her trailing hand swept several of the maps to the floor. “Brede! You know what I’m—That is, um…you
know?
”

“Your penchant for stating—stammering—the obvious bids to lessen my high opinion of your intelligence, my dear. As does realizing that you might actually seriously consider the madness I know you’re considering.”

“Oh, stubble it,” Fanny said, bending to pick up the maps, pretending not to notice that her hands were shaking. “I’m not in the least impressed with your supercilious remarks.”

“Supercilious, am I?” Valentine asked, going down on one knee to help her collect the maps. “Arrogant, condescending, disdainful? I’m all of that? You cut me to the quick, madam.”

Fanny glared at him as she got to her feet, dumped the maps onto the tabletop. She was frankly amazed to see him looking so well after the night he’d had. He was perhaps slightly
worn
about the edges, but that was only to be expected, she supposed. Mostly, he was still the most ridiculously attractive man she’d ever seen…in his own strange way, of course. Not handsome—almost pretty, the way Rian was—but so uniquely himself. She’d never tire of looking at him.

Then he smiled at her in that lazy, heavy-lidded way he had, and she longed to box his ears for him!

“Yes, Brede, you are all of that, and more. You’re also patronizing, pompous, odiously high in the instep, and…and
maddening.
But you no longer frighten me, not even a little bit.”

“Now, there’s a pity,” Valentine said, pulling one of the maps closer to him, to look at Ainsley’s notations. “Lucie would be shaking in her expensive slippers, if I were to speak to her that way.”

“That’s only because your sweet, shallow sister sees no more than you want her to see,” Fanny told him. “I know better. And then I feed you. Admit it, Brede. You didn’t have your luncheon with Papa and the others, did you? So now you’re
chewing
on me.”

“Now who is being patronizing? Although you’re correct. Courtland and I were otherwise occupied until just now, and didn’t have any luncheon. Or breakfast, for that matter. Are you happy now, to be proved right?”

She looked up at him curiously. He was being more than usually smug. “I believe I’d be considerably happier if you told me what kept you and Court
otherwise occupied.
”

“All in good time, sweetings.” He longed to take Fanny into his arms, kiss her senseless. Except that doing so might be the one thing he could do to frighten her. So he merely put a fingertip to the map and said, “Here. All things considered, I’d take him here. Valenciennes.”

Fanny leaned over the map, her head close to Valentine’s. “Why?”

“It’s just across the border, for one thing, and I, for one, would much prefer to be clear of Belgium and the proximity of the Allies, hoping for Bonaparte to be victorious, but prepared for either victory or defeat. It’s a fairly fine city, and I doubt your Beales stays anywhere the inns tend to present travelers with damp sheets. After all, he could have had to cool his heels there for a week, a month—he would want to be comfortable as he waited for the battle everyone knew was coming, waited for news on Rian’s capture.”

“Because
you
would have wanted to be comfortable.”

“That annoys you?” Valentine asked, smiling at her. “And, importantly, Valenciennes is approximately one hundred miles almost directly north of Paris. Close enough, if Bonaparte were to be successful, far enough away if he should fail. With the coast even less than one hundred miles to the West, he’d be within three days’ striking distance of where the wind blew fairest. I imagine, listening to Ainsley’s description of the man, that Beales is the sort who would feel the need to prepare for all eventualities. Valenciennes is central. Civilized, the Athens of the North, some say, although I’m not among them.”

“But, as you said when you first barged in on me, he would suppose that Rian wouldn’t be wounded,” Fanny said, turning her head, putting herself almost nose-to-nose with Valentine. He was being nice. Why was he being so nice? Well, nice for
him,
at any rate. But why was he being so helpful? Why wasn’t he berating her for being a silly, foolish dreamer?

“True. He would have moved Rian somewhere more private to him as soon as possible, some place where he could put questions to him at his leisure.”

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.

“Torture him, you mean.” She felt suddenly dizzy, as if she might faint. “We have to find him.”

“Fanny, Rian’s undoubtedly dead. God knows I don’t want to believe that, as I’m the one who left him to his fate, even as I don’t want to believe Beales has him. But, of the two…Rian would be better off dead.”

“I’m going after him,” Fanny said as she searched on the tabletop for the best maps of Austria and France. “He’d come after me.”

Valentine took hold of her shoulders, ready now to tell her what he’d done, what he and Courtland had done. “No, Fanny, you’re not going after him. It’s probably futile. It’s definitely dangerous. And I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t
allow
it? And who are you to—Don’t look at me that way! I know who you are. But Sergeant-Major Hart agrees with me. We can’t be left with questions. We have to find him. We have to at least
try.
”

“And we’ve agreed as much ourselves. Ainsley, myself, the others,” Valentine said, taking the maps from her hands and placing them back on the tabletop yet again. It was like a tug-of-war, one he was determined to win. “Come to the window, Fanny.”

She considered making one last stab for the maps, but then gave it up as a futile effort and allowed him to take her hand, lead her to the window. “What am I supposed to see?”

“It’s what you’re not going to see, Fanny.”

She looked at him, frowned and then turned back to the window. Her gaze passed over the terrace and beyond, to the empty shoreline, and then once again beyond. “Where’s the
Spectre?
Chance’s sloop—it’s gone.”

“And with it your brother Courtland, Sergeant-Major Hart, Clovis Meechum, Billy and a small crew, yes. Thanks to Ainsley’s prudent preparedness, any of the three ships is ready to sail at a moment’s notice. We only needed to bring fresh food and water on board.”

Fanny closed her eyes and let her body sag back against Valentine’s. “You did this? You did this for me? I thought…I thought I was the only one. But Court’s looking for him now. And he’ll find him. I know he will.”

Valentine slid his arms around her waist, choosing not to tell her that what Courtland would be looking for was evidence of a body, which would be damned difficult to find, or information that might lead them to Beales or his men. Also difficult to do.

But, as Ainsley had said, what Fanny needed now, what they all needed now, was to feel that they were doing something. Anything.

Rian’s death had lent a new urgency to the Beckets, increased their need to find Beales before he found them. There wasn’t much of a chance of that, but at least, with Rian, they had some sort of starting point. And it would pass the time as they waited for Beales to find them.

“And now, sweetings, you’re free to travel with me to Brede Manor, aren’t you?”

Fanny felt an instant panic. She wanted to run, even as she was careful to remain where she was, softly cradled in Valentine’s arms. He’d done so much for her. But was she really ready to begin moving forward? When all she could think about was the past? “Brede Manor? I…I hadn’t thought…Well, of course. Where else would we go?”

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and turned her to face him, his hands on her upper arms. “We have a life to begin, Fanny. It’s time we began to look for our future. Earlier, Callie volunteered to help the maids pack up your things, and Ainsley has kindly offered me the loan of his traveling coach. We can leave as soon as we’ve said your farewells. In fact, everyone is waiting in the drawing room.”

“Oh, they are, are they? What a busy morning you’ve had, Brede.” Fanny swallowed down hard, hating that she felt so nervous, and so
managed.
“You’ve, um, already decided that I’d agree? And everyone else has agreed with you?”

“Not to be immodest, but I do believe your family have rather taken to me to their collective bosom.” Valentine smiled at her look of exasperation. “But my congenial and appealing self to one side, Brede Manor is where you asked me to take you when we left Brussels, remember? Courtland’s doing all that can be done. A month, Fanny, and we’ll be back. A month, possibly two,” he promised her, and then watched as she narrowed her eyelids.

Had he overplayed his hand in his haste to get her away from Becket Hall and her memories, get her to himself? It was, he realized, one thing for her to suggest Brede Manor to him, and quite another to have her
portmanteaux
packed and the coach already ordered to the door.

Valentine carefully schooled his features into what he hoped was a look of pleasant neutrality. It seemed safer to do that. Not that he was a coward, but Fanny appeared none too pleased with him at the moment. Oddly, he was still feeling quite pleased with her.

Fanny looked to him for a long moment, opened her mouth to protest, and then finally turned up her hands in a gesture of surrender as she stepped out from beneath his lightly gripping hands. “Very well, Brede, if it’s settled, then it’s settled. I suppose I know when I’m beaten.”

“You
never
know when you’re beaten, sweetings. Perverse as it might make me seem to admit this, I find that to be a considerable part of your charm,” he said to her departing back, and then followed her down the hallway to the main drawing room, where her family was gathered.

He was, all in all, feeling as if the two of them were making progress together. At last, at last, he’d have her to himself for more than a few hours. They were still near-strangers, for all that had happened between them, and the time had come to remedy that situation.

Jack stepped forward to shake his hand as Fanny went around the enormous room Valentine had earlier admired, knowing it largely had been furnished with the prizes Ainsley had gathered while operating as a privateer.