Elizabeth Thornton (23 page)

God help him, he’d even woven fancies of the deeply satisfying life they would have together when they were married. She would share his life as few women shared their husbands’ lives because she was interested in the same things as he. They would go on digs for Roman ruins, and when they had children, they would instill a love of history in them too. And at night, when he and Abbie tumbled into bed, they’d share the sweetest passion he had ever known.

He must have been out of his mind. She’d lied through her teeth. Even her sweet surrender was a lie. And now that he’d found her out, he couldn’t believe how blind he’d been—falling for that seduction that was so out of character for Abbie, believing her touching words
at the end. She’d wanted him to trust her so that he would become careless and she would be free to get the book by herself.

Careless wasn’t the word for it. He’d
stupidly
handed her the perfect opportunity to slip away. She wouldn’t be waiting for him to return empty-handed from her bank vault, because she’d know that the game was over.

Tom would be no match for her and maybe it was just as well, because he knew now where she had hidden the book, and the rules of the game had just changed.

One part of his mind flinched from thinking the worst of Abbie, but he’d been through this before with his first wife. He’d convinced himself that Abbie was different, when he, of all people, should have known better. But the sense of betrayal he felt with Abbie was far greater than anything he’d felt with Estelle.

From the very first, the evidence against Abbie had been damning, and he had chosen to ignore it. Alex Ballard had tried to warn him, and Alex was dead. Maybe Abbie hadn’t struck the blow that killed Alex, but her accomplices had, and that made her an accessory. He’d come damn near to losing his own life as well, and still he’d continued to believe her lies. She’d lied about the friend in Hampstead, lied about her brother, lied about the men who had attacked him. And the final lie, the most bitter of all, the grand seduction and the passion they’d shared.

He should hand her over to Langley and walk away without looking back. But treason was a capital offense and he wasn’t prepared to go that far. That didn’t mean she was going to get off scot-free. Miss Abigail Vayle would be taught a lesson she would never forget.

Harper was waiting with the horses right outside the
bank’s front door. He took one look at Hugh’s expression and said quietly, “What do we do now?”

When they were mounted, Hugh said, “First we see Langley and make a bargain with him.”

“But you don’t have the book.”

“No, but I know where to find it.”

“How do you know?”

“At Endicote, I searched her belongings and came across a receipt for books she had purchased in Paris, books that are at this moment, impounded by English customs. I thought at the time that that receipt struck an odd note, but I got caught up in her lies and forgot about it.”

“I see.” When Hugh didn’t elaborate, Harper said in a puzzled tone, “And after we see Langley, what then?”

“Then,” said Hugh, “we go down to Dover and wait for Miss Vayle to come and collect the book.”

“What if she don’t come?”

“She’ll come,” said Hugh harshly, then he wheeled his horse in the direction of Whitehall and moved off.

Harper gave one short expletive under his breath and went after him.

Colonel Langley’s office was at the Horse Guards, only a five-minute ride from Pall Mall. Harper stayed in the street to look after the horses while Hugh went up to see Langley.

The colonel was standing at the window looking down on the parade grounds when Hugh walked in. He turned, a slow smile spreading across his face when he saw Hugh.

“I was sure,” he said, “that the stories I’ve heard about you must be grossly exaggerated. How are you, Hugh?” and he came from behind his desk to clasp Hugh’s hand.

Hugh saw immediately that Langley already had a visitor. Richard Maitland, looking as if he’d ridden all night to get there, was slumped in an armchair in front of the fire.

Ignoring Maitland, he grasped Langley’s hand. James Langley did not look like a chief intelligence officer, but like the proverbial, absent-minded professor. He was in his mid-sixties, tall, with stooped shoulders and a limp that came, not from battle, but from a nasty fall he’d taken while digging for Roman ruins on his property and had fallen through the roof of an old, underground icehouse that he’d forgotten existed. The colonel, like Hugh, forgot everything when he was searching for ancient relics.

“Colonel,” said Hugh, “I’m happy to see that the rumors of your retirement are grossly exaggerated as well.”

Maitland was on his feet and he and Hugh nodded coldly to each other.

“The rumors are not exaggerated, Hugh,” said Langley. “The war is over. I’m not getting any younger. It’s time I was put out to pasture.”

He moved to a tray of decanters on a table between two long windows, poured out a glass of whiskey and handed it to Hugh.

Hugh sat in the chair the colonel indicated. “Pasture, sir? That doesn’t sound like you.” Hugh was deliberately engaging in the kind of aimless conversation that he knew would annoy Maitland, whose mind was always firmly fixed on the business at hand.

Langley sat at his desk. “You’re right, of course. I may be an old war-horse, but there’s plenty of life in me yet. However, Mrs. Langley thinks it’s time I spent more time with her and our daughter.”

Hugh mentioned that he had met Mrs. Langley and Henrietta in Marlborough. Langley responded by joking about the expense of introducing a daughter to society.

Maitland couldn’t take it anymore. At the first pause in the conversation, he said, “Colonel, sir, may I remind you that this man is a fugitive from the law? Shouldn’t we—”

“Yes, yes, Richard! I was coming to that.” Langley’s face lost none of its good humor. “You see how it is, Hugh,” he said. “I can’t resign until this wretched business is cleared up.”

In a sudden transformation that was characteristic of Langley, his good humor died, and his eyes became cold and determined. “So give me one good reason,” he said, “why I should not have you hauled off to Newgate as a traitor.”

“Because,” said Hugh, “I have the book you want, and I’m willing to strike a bargain with you.”

Langley sat back in his chair. “You have the book?”

Hugh met Langley’s eyes unflinchingly. “I know where it’s hidden.”

Maitland was standing now. His tone was scathing. “What did I tell you, sir? He’s in it up to his neck.”

Langley studied Hugh for a moment, then said gently, “Sit down, Richard, and let’s listen to what Hugh has to say.”

Hugh went over everything that had happened during the last several days. He told them about Ballard’s visit, and how Alex had tried to recruit him; he told them that Abbie had become involved to help her brother. But he did not tell them everything. In fact, he deliberately gave the impression that Abbie and George were a couple of innocents who had not weighed the
consequences of their actions, and were now in over their heads.

“She’s on her way to get the book now,” he said finally. “Once she has it, she’ll pass it on to her brother. If we move quickly, we can intercept her.”

In the silence that followed, Langley searched Hugh’s face. “And you want amnesty for this girl?”

“No, I want amnesty for the girl and her brother. As I told you, they are innocents who have got in over their heads. They are no threat to national security, or they won’t be once I give you the book. So make up your mind. Do you want the book or don’t you?”

Langley’s eyebrows rose slowly. “What if I were to call your bluff, Hugh? Would you really allow the book to fall into the hands of our enemies?”

“I’d have to think about that,” said Hugh, “and time is wearing on.”

The glacier gradually melted. “So that’s the way of it.” Then, without taking his eyes off Hugh, “Richard, what do you advise me to do?”

There was a silence, then reluctantly, “I want that book.”

Langley smiled. “Then it’s settled. You have your bargain, Hugh, and not because of your empty threats. And when we have the girl and the book—what then?”

“I leave that up to you, sir. I know you’ll have to question her, and I’m not asking you to make it easy for her.”

Langley’s eyelids drooped. “I see,” he said.

Of course Langley saw. And so did Maitland. A blind man could have seen that the woman had duped him, was continuing to dupe him or there would be no need to intercept her when she went to get the book. If she had confessed everything to him, he would have been the one to get the book.

Langley gathered some papers on his desk. “I have an appointment with the minister before he keeps his appointment with the Prime Minister, so I must excuse myself. Richard, bring the girl and the book back here. But don’t wait for me. Short of torture—and that’s a joke Hugh, as you know very well—I want you to give her the scare of her life.”

When Langley rose, so did Hugh and Maitland.

“Sir, what’s in this book?” Hugh asked. “Why is it so important?”

Langley shook his head. “Until today, I would have said the book was unimportant. But events have proved me wrong.”

“But if it was unimportant, why did you send Ballard down to Bath?”

“I didn’t send him. He was taking his wife to be with her mother. That’s what he told me. Of course, he lied. He had to know about the book. What other reason could there be for him to turn up dead in Miss Vayle’s room? My theory is that he got hold of Miss Vayle’s letter before it reached Richard’s desk.”

“Wouldn’t he have mentioned it to you, sir?”

“Not necessarily. I think Alex was onto something but was keeping quiet about it until he had gathered all his facts.”

Maitland said, “It’s possible that Ballard was up to no good. Maybe he and Miss Vayle were in this together and had a falling out.”

Hugh gave a snort of derision. “Are you implying that Alex was a traitor?”

Langley retorted, “Of course not! But he shouldn’t have been working alone. That’s not how I trained him.”

When Langley left them, his shoulders seemed more stooped than usual. Hugh knew that there would be hell
to pay with the minister and wished he could take part of the blame on himself. But that’s not how it worked. A commander was always held responsible for his subordinates’ mistakes.

When they were alone, Maitland said, “I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be caned than see our chief like that.”

“We both made a mess of things, didn’t we?”

“You don’t have to worry about it. You’re no longer in the service.”

“No,” said Hugh bleakly. “What do you think is in the book, Maitland?”

Maitland’s eyes bored into Hugh’s. “I think the book will tell us who murdered my agents in Paris, and if your Miss Vayle had any part in it, amnesty or not, I warn you, I’ll find a way to make her pay for her crimes.”

Hugh’s voice was lethally soft. “Do you want the book or don’t you?”

A tight-lipped silence, then, “I want the book.”

“Then we’ll do this my way. Agreed?”

After a moment, Maitland nodded.

They descended the stairs in silence.

It was late afternoon when Abbie’s hired chaise entered the outskirts of Dover. To the east, on the summit of the highest cliff, the castle soared above the huddle of small dwellings that clung to the hillsides. This dark and forbidding fortress was, Hugh had told her, the first line of defense not only for Kent but for the whole of England.

That was months ago, when Hugh had still been her best friend. She’d been in a temper, having just come
from customs after being told of the exorbitant duty she had to pay on her books. Hugh had distracted her by taking her inside the castle to see a relic of the original Roman fortress that had once looked out over the English Channel. They’d been happy then.

She tried to shake off her despair by reminding herself that for once on this ill-fated journey, things had gone right for her. With Hugh and Harper out of the way, it had been easy to deal with Tom. She’d pretended to come down with a raging toothache and had sent Tom to fetch a doctor. Then she’d slipped away.

They would know by now that she’d lied about everything. What must they think of her?

It didn’t matter what they thought. The only thing that mattered was saving her brother.

How simple it had all seemed when she’d set off from Bath. She would get the book and trade it for George. Now, everything was a nightmare. She’d been delayed by the storm, and time was running out. She was on the run from the law. They thought she had murdered a man; they believed she was a traitor. They would be looking everywhere for her, at Vayle House in London, at the homes of all her friends.

She focused on the one thing that gave her any control over the situation: the book. The book was the key to everything, the key to saving George.

In contrast to the last time, Abbie was quiet and subdued when she entered the customs house. One of the postboys went with her, to help carry her box of books to the chaise when she’d paid the duty on them. The packet from Calais had just docked, and Abbie felt inconspicuous
among the many people opening their bags for the customs officers to examine. She said as little as possible, and after watching most of her horde of precious sovereigns disappear into the customs officer’s strongbox, was free to collect her books.

The postboy carried her battered box to a table that the officer indicated. Abbie undid the leather straps and opened it. Homer’s
Iliad
, a slim dark green leather volume, was right on top, almost the first book she saw. Her hand closed around it as though she were touching the Holy Grail. Tears welled up, and she was afraid to let out a breath in case she started bawling like a baby. Until that moment, she had not admitted to herself how terrified she’d been that the book would not be there.

When she could breathe again and her fingers had stopped trembling, she opened the book. On the flyleaf, just as Olivia had described, was the inscription to Mr. Michael Lovatt from his wife, Colette. She stared at that inscription for a long time before going on. At first glance, she would have said that it was a schoolboy’s book. There were notations penciled in the margins, but as she studied those notations, she could make no sense of them, though she was quite fluent in French. A code, she thought, and her pulse, which was already racing, began to throb unpleasantly.