Emma Jensen - Entwined (17 page)

"You have my solemn oath on the matter, madam." He, too, was smiling

"Have no fear. It will all be over in no time."

Well, that was not precisely true, but he had chosen the element of surprise. She would forgive him. It was simply her nature.

The carriage rolled to a stop. In the moment before a footman rushed forward to open the door, Nathan satisfied his urge to touch his wife.

Reaching forward, he grasped her hand with strong and surprising ease. It seemed there was no fumbling when his skin met hers. "You are all I could ask for, Isobel. You will be fine."

As seemed only natural to him now, her fingers tightened briefly around his.

As they made their way, arm in arm, up the townhouse stairs, he was strengthened by her presence at his side. Oh yes, they would be fine.

Nathan could hear his father's voice the moment they entered the hall.

Waving off the butler, he guided Isobel toward the dining room where he knew his parents would be found. Had not the bellowing announced his father's location, the hour would have. London could set its clocks by his father's eating habits.

"Steady on," he murmured, and pulled his now lead-footed wife toward the lion's den.

The Duke of Abergele was holding a gun. It was not a big gun, perhaps, but a gun nonetheless. Isobel noted this very important fact well before the next: The Duke of Abergele looked very much like his son. There was more silver in the dark hair, and the amber eyes were clear, sharp, and shrewd.

They were also now fixed directly on her face.

She swallowed, half convinced there was a lead ball in her immediate future. As she watched, one black eyebrow, so much like Nathan's, rose a fraction. The hand not holding the gun tapped a quick pattern on the tablecloth.

"I expect you're damned proud of yourself," he growled.

"Now, Frederick..."

Isobel darted a quick glance at the other figure in the room. The duchess, she noted, was tall, fair, and impeccably garbed in a turquoise dress.
The peacock and the pigeon,
Isobel thought as she considered her own appearance. Much as she wanted time to ascertain just how regal her new mother-in-law was, she turned back to the duke: A wise woman never took her eyes off a pistol.

"Well?" he demanded. "What have you to say for yourself?"

Isobel swallowed, having nothing whatsoever to say at that moment.

She would have preferred a more traditional form of greeting, but she could not fault the duke. His question, rude though it might have been, was fair. A penniless Scottish spinster would be damned proud indeed to have snared a marquess. She wondered how Nathan's father would react to the truth.

Well, Your Grace, it happened this way: My father is a thief you see,
and your son caught me with a pouchful of gold.

"Well..." she began.

"I apologize for not alerting you sooner, sir." Nathan addressed his father evenly. Isobel sighed. Of course the duke had been speaking to his son and not to her, but it was rather difficult to think clearly while that disconcertingly familiar bronze gaze was fixed on her. "If I may be allowed to remedy the matter now, I would like to present my wife, Isobel."

"Ah, yes. Isobel MacLeod, late of Skye, Scotland, daughter of James MacLeod." The duke's brows snapped together. "We've seen the
Times."

"Frederick, please." The duchess moved forward then, hands extended.

"Nathan," she said softly, a wealth of emotion in her pale blue eyes. Her pain was evident as she watched her son limp across the rug toward her.

"We are so very glad to have you back. And Isobel. Welcome."

Perhaps that greeting was a bit stiff; perhaps the perfect brow was now marred with a faint frown of confusion. Perhaps the very beautiful, very elegant Duchess of Abergele was engaged in a mighty struggle as she tried to comprehend just what her son had brought into her palatial home, But Isobel's own heart opened to the woman instantly. She had no doubt that this was one mother who was, ridiculous aristocratic reserve aside, stirringly glad—and grateful—to have her son back.

"Your Grace," Isobel said gently, "this must be quite a shock to you."

"A... not-unpleasant one," the duchess managed. "We are delighted that our son has married."

A plain Highland nobody? Of course you are.

Isobel allowed herself a silent sigh, then allowed herself to be led to a seat at the massive table. The beginnings of a meal were spread there, and a footman hurried in to lay two more places.

"Now, Frederick, put the gun away." The duchess, cool as water, settled herself in her chair, her eyes still soft on her son's face. "I do wish you would refrain from bringing it to the table."

Nathan took a seat. "How gratifying to see things have not changed in my absence."

"House could've crumbled to dust in that time," the duke muttered, but he thrust the pistol at the footman. The servant, clearly accustomed to such a task, discreetly tucked it away. "A damned year, boy, with not so much as a visit. And now what do you do? You show up on our doorstep with a wife in tow."

"Frederick, please," the duchess said again. Then, to Nathan, "You are...

well?"

"Splendid, madam. As you can see, my injuries bother me little."

"Oh, I am pleased to hear it." Quietly, the duchess added, "So pleased.

Now, you will not rush off again, will you? We would so like the chance to see you—and to become acquainted with Isobel."

"As it happens, we will be passing the Season in Town. You will have ample time with us both."

"Ah. Good."

Isobel looked from the duchess, with her transparent hope, to the duke, with his fierce scowl, to Nathan's unreadable mask. There were ghosts of old wars here, and she could only imagine what the battlegrounds had been.

She could only trust there would be some advance warning should cannonballs start flying again.

"Your Grace," she addressed her mother-in-law, "Lord Oriel has spoken much of you." It was a lie she was certain would be forgiven. "He has been so looking forward to being with his family in Town."

"Has he? I am so glad."

The duke grunted.

"Tell us something of yourself, my dear." The duchess actually smiled at her. "I understand you are originally from Skye. That is just north of the border, is it not?"

A choice comment or two came to mind, but Isobel wisely dismissed them. It did not matter that the only acceptable Scot was one who had once been allied to the English at the borders. She wanted this woman to accept her, if only to make Nathan's life easier.

"Nay, madam. Skye is a western isle, somewhat to the north of the Borderlands." Again, she was confident that the matter of a few hundred miles would be divinely forgiven. " 'Tis a lovely place."

"I am certain it is. You must tell me all about it and about your family.

Your father is a gentleman, I assume?"

Oh, aye. By birth, perhaps. By nature...

Her response was stalled by Nathan's movement. Confused, she watched as he pushed back his chair and stood. "You may quiz Isobel all you like, madam. I entrust her to your care."

"I beg your pardon?" the duchess asked.

"What?"
Isobel gasped.

"I am afraid this must be a brief visit on my part. I have an appointment.

If you would be so kind as to escort my wife to Lady Winslow's this evening, I will meet you there."

Isobel leapt to her feet. "You are leaving me here?"

"In capable hands, my dear. I arranged for Madame Hervey to send some of your purchases here. I will join you at the soiree this evening."

"But you cannot... I cannot... Concern for his well-being, wherever he was going, was fast lost to images of bloody murder. "My lord, this is not what we had planned."

"Oh, did I not inform you of my change of plans? How careless of me.

Forgive me, my dear." While Isobel gaped, Nathan bowed to his mother.

"Until later then, madam. Sir." Then, with a wholly insolent wink at Isobel, he headed for the door.

She regained her wits just in time to see him exit, not so much as clipping his sleeve against the doorway.

"Well, dearest, it appears we are to have time to become acquainted sooner than expected." The duchess nodded to a footman, who approached with a wine decanter. "Now, you must begin at the beginning. How did you and my son meet?"

Isobel, trapped as surely as if by steel, sank back into her chair. She aimed a weak smile at the glowering duke, then turned to the duchess. The urge to spite her husband, curse his sneaky hide, by telling the whole miserable tale was strong. But not strong enough.

"We met, Your Grace," she began, wondering if there was a spot in heaven set aside just for Scottish martyrs, "soon after he returned from the Peninsula...."

Nathan, upon hearing about the death of yet another member of the Ten, had to resist the urge to slam his fist into the nearest wall.

"Damn it, Matthew, he should not have been there!"

Behind the familiar desk, in the very familiar office, his former superior was slumped in the deep chair, well into a bottle of brandy. "Don't you think I have been telling myself that since yesterday?" Gerard lamented.

"He was so intent on going to Barcelona. I never thought—could not have imagined—he would be followed."

Brooke. Quiet, studious Brooke, had been meant for the Church before the lure of serving king and country had brought him to spy-hunting, into the Ten. Brooke, not yet thirty and dead in a Spanish alley.

Nathan paced the expanse of Gerard's office, each inch having been paced before so many times. "Why was he alone?" he demanded. "I thought Montgomerie and Brandon were still in Spain."

"They are. I do not know why he was traveling without them. I have been unable to contact Brandon since March." There was an audible clink as Gerard plied the bottle again. "God, Nathan, I should have brought Brooke home after Dennison's death."

"You couldn't have known what would happen to him, and it would not have been the right decision in any case." Nathan spoke reluctantly, even as he knew the words were true. "We all take risks.
Took
risks. We knew that, coming into the corps." Weary now, he lowered himself into a chair. "Have you any information at all? Anything that might be of use?"

"Nothing. No one could... or would tell Montgomerie anything."

Gerard's distress was palpable. "Whoever got to Brooke appeared like a ghost and disappeared just as completely. I hoped you would be able to..."

"What, Matthew? Realistically, what can I do here?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I should not have asked you to return to Town.

After Brooke..." There was a pause as Gerard emptied his glass. "They know who we are, Nathan, who you are. You would be safer in Hertfordshire."

"Rubbish. No one is coming after me."

"How can you be so bloody certain?"

In truth, Nathan wasn't quite so certain, not now. "I understand Rotheroe is back in Town."

"He is. I called him back in April. And I'll be damned if I'll let him die in his own land!"

Nathan thought of the Earl of Rotheroe with his quick smile, quicker mind, and useless right arm. "I'll find him."

Glassware rattled as Gerard slammed his glass onto the desk. "I will not have you setting yourself up like some wooden duck, damn it! Nor will I allow Rotheroe to put himself in danger. You've both been injured as it is.

Nothing will be served by having you dead."

"That, my friend, would depend on point of view. If, as you believe, someone is intent on dispatching the Ten, he is serving his aims well indeed."

"I was speaking of the active Ten," was Gerard's sharp retort.

"You activated me when you came to Hertfordshire. This was all your idea, bringing me back to Town. Don't go weak on me now, Matthew."

"You're married now, man, and are making a life for yourself."

Nathan grunted. "None of our lives ever made a difference before."

"Your lives were never as overtly threatened before. Oh, hell, Nathan. I have selfish reasons for my concern as well. You were a good soldier and damned good at gathering intelligence. England cannot afford to lose more of your kind and still hope to win this infernal war."

Nathan could imagine what he could not see: Matthew Gerard with his bloodhound's face and wiry gray hair, made wilder by constant tugging. He could envision the always wilted cravat and misbuttoned waistcoat. No one looking at the man would recognize the brilliant mind.

"Matthew, I sat back for nearly half a year, doing nothing. Brooke was my friend, Rievaulx more like a brother. You called me back, and it's too late for me to return to hide in my lair."

Too late, perhaps, but he was a mere day away from Hertfordshire, and he already missed it. Missed the days he had passed there—once Isobel had climbed through a window and into his life.

He recalled a proverb from his childhood, something about God opening a window when He closed a door. Nathan could not quite decide how it applied. By gaining Isobel, he had also been given a chance to close his own door, the door left ajar by Gabriel's death. The question, of course, was whether he was capable of turning his back on the past and looking only to the future.

Just think how jolly we will be once we're both back home. No limits,
Nathan, my friend. Damn but we'll take a good bite out of life in days to
come.

"How did they know, Matthew? How did they know Rievaulx and I would be in Lisbon that night?"

The question had plagued him endlessly in the past months. None of the possible answers sat well at all.

"That is the question of the hour, isn't it?" Gerard muttered.

Names and faces flashed through Nathan's mind. There were few to choose from now. "Where is St. Wulfstan? Have you located him yet?"

"As a matter of fact, I've heard rumors he is on his way back to England."

"He hasn't contacted you?"

Gerard sighed. "Remember you are speaking of St. Wulfstan. His communiques are, at best, sporadic." As if reading Nathan's mind, he added, "He is the very best at what he does. I cannot complain if ordinances fall somewhat low on his list of priorities."