His Sinful Secret (24 page)

She didn’t, Julianne acknowledged silently, because she knew nothing of invading armies or bloody battles or wanton destruction. English history was steeped in the fight to keep the tenuous hold of sovereign rule, but not in her lifetime—at least not on English soil. She was widely read, but not able to directly empathize. “At least it is over,” she said inadequately, because how
could
one adequately address the loss of a nation, even if it had been, in the end, regained?

“Spain as I knew it is no more. Do not fool yourself, Lady Longhaven. It
isn’t
over.”

Taken aback, their conversation so far removed from whatever had the other ladies laughing and whispering, Julianne stared at her companion. “Bonaparte is disposed.”

“A war is fought along many fronts. In this case, there is a clear loser, but the cursed Corsican is only one man. He did not take half the world alone. Not all of them have paid for their soulless crimes.”

The vehemence of the speech was not lost on Julianne. She sat back, not precisely stunned, but certainly shaken. Was Michael still involved in this ongoing “war”? He certainly seemed to have duties that occupied him almost constantly.

If so, why hadn’t he simply told her?

“What, precisely, does my husband do for the Crown?” she asked sharply enough that a few heads turned.

“I have said too much.” Antonia Taylor grimaced, and even in that unladylike action she was still compellingly lovely. “Ignore me. When I speak of my native country, I become quite passionate. Now, then, perhaps we should change the subject. Tell me, Lady Longhaven, what do you think of the new display of Italian paintings at the National Gallery?”

 

Charles Peyton pushed a piece of paper across the desk with a forefinger. His expression was regretful but not apologetic. “I have six names and a possible seventh, taking into consideration many factors, not the least of which is your assumption that Roget is English.”

Michael scanned the list. “One of them is yours,” he pointed out with wry humor.

“Based on your criteria . . . yes. I fit.” Charles sat back behind the table and folded his hands. “Loyal servant of the Crown, privy to the most confidential information. Note I didn’t omit Lord Liverpool either. Not sporting of me to leave out such an obvious suspect, is it?”

“The prime minister?”

“Your outrage is unflattering. I would think
my
name would give you more pause.”

A muffled laugh escaped Michael’s lips, though his only other response was to scan the list again. Then he murmured, “I am surprised at two of them. Only two. What does that say of our profession, Charles? I could believe easily enough any of the other five could be Roget’s source of information.”

“I won’t ask if I am one of the two or one of the five. Anyway, what it says of our profession is that we keep our secrets and do it well, especially if one of us is guilty. How would the rest of us not suspect?”

“Ah, see. There’s the trouble.” Michael tapped the document. “What am I to do if Roget’s accomplice is on this list?”

“Apprehend him. The proof had better be irrefutable, I warn you.”

“In theory, that sounds possible. In actuality, I am not so sure.”

“My lord, it is your only recourse if you wish this matter settled, and we both know you do.”

The little room was in a deserted part of Whitehall, musty and dark, with a single burning lamp and the chill of fall air giving a dank feel to the square, unappealing space. This wasn’t Charles’s normal office—Michael had never been to that part of the official building. And maybe it was years of subterfuge, or maybe it was his responsibilities as a marquess, or even his status as a married man, but the intrigue of it all didn’t appeal as it once had.

Perhaps he was just tired.

Perhaps it was Julianne. Never before had he entertained the notion of settling into a more sedate life. Not—God help him—the life of a gentleman farmer that his father wished, but a more conventional existence actually held a glimmer of appeal. He would no longer have to worry over her safety, and he couldn’t deny the idyllic interlude in the garden the other afternoon could certainly stand a repeat performance. The huge ducal estate in the countryside had a lovely secluded park around it. . . .

“It is possible I will retire after we corner Roget.”

“You’ll be bored.” The chair Charles sat in creaked loudly as he shifted his weight. “And you are quite good at your job. England needs you.”

“I didn’t want it, but I am now the heir to a dukedom. My
family
needs me.”

“I see your lovely young wife is having a predictable effect on your priorities.”

The drab room was suddenly oppressive. “Julianne has nothing to do with this decision.”

What a lie.

Charles knew it too, and usually Michael could deceive so well.

“I’m a married man,” his colleague informed him softly. “Happily so. I have three children, and my wife is the love of my life. I adore her. But, unfortunately, the world is not a perfect place. Were it not for me—and men like you—England might not be a safe place to raise my family. I serve a very distinct purpose and I recognize it. Once, just after I married, like you now, I realized I was no longer risking only my life by choosing my line of work, but the well-being of my family. I respect your reservations, believe me.”

“If I wanted a lecture, my father would be most willing to deliver it.” Though Michael did his best to interject dry humor into his voice, he didn’t quite accomplish it.

“But I’m not your father. Nor am I lecturing. I am pointing out the salient facts as one who knows the challenge you now face.”

It wasn’t particularly the advice he wanted to hear. “My job is not involved with my personal life.”

A soft chuckle followed that declaration. “I think you need to come to terms, my friend, with the realization that your personal situation is going to affect everything you do. You now have a wife, and soon children will follow, and as much as you would like to detach yourself from it, take my word: it contains you. The man who once routinely performed missions hundreds of miles behind enemy lines does not exist any longer.”

Perhaps that was true. He considered a moment. “My priority is to handle this as discreetly as possible. How much latitude do I have?”

There was a small clock on a dusty shelf and it ticked loudly as Charles frowned in contemplation. His pale eyes were somber. “A trial would be messy and embarrassing for the British government.”

“I’m not an assassin, Charles.”

“No, but you know a few. I trust you to, as always, take the appropriate action. I give you carte blanche.”

It was about what he expected. Michael nodded and rose to his feet, his smile cynical. “Which essentially means nothing, for if matters were to go awry, you would deny any knowledge of it anyway. Am I correct?”

“Of course.” Charles reached for his pipe and tapped it on the table before he dipped into the small tobacco jar. “How perfectly we understand each other.”

I
t was raining, coming down in cold, thin sheets, the turn in the weather abrupt and making Julianne shiver, even while wrapped in her cloak, as they slogged along muddy roads.

This particular evasion had been more difficult than most. First she’d had to invent a reason to keep Fitzhugh from going with her, which was becoming increasingly difficult. Since telling falsehoods did not come easily, she’d had to resort to having her maid distract her husband’s valet. To say she felt guilty was putting it in a mild slant, but she had no idea what else to do.

The situation was becoming more and more of a problem.

The house looked dismal as she pulled up, the gray sides of the structure streaked with moisture, the street a mess of sodden pedestrians and puddles. Julianne alighted, pulling the hood of her cloak up over her head, and ran up the steps.

The first unanswered knocks made her irritated as she shivered on the stoop. The second sharp series of raps were more urgent, and yet still there was no response.

Leah always wanted her money.

A sense of panic caused her to pound on the door, her heart beginning to thump in her chest.

Nothing. No sound of movement in the house. The windows also, even on this dreary afternoon, were dark.

This had been her fear all along. That Leah would one day take Chloe, disappear, and just leave her . . . bereft. Julianne slammed her fist against the door with even more force until she realized that no one was going to respond.

It couldn’t be. Leah needed her.
Needs my money,
her mind corrected at once, and she’d paid so faithfully ever since she had found out about the child . . . .

Through the wet, her hood down, she ran down the sidewalk and around the front of the hired hack. The driver was elderly, sitting patiently, and if he was surprised at a well-dressed lady visiting such an address, he didn’t show it.

She didn’t care about the clandestine nature of her visits at this crucial point. She was too worried about Chloe. “Please,” she said, trying to catch her breath, she was so agitated, “I need your help to get into that house. I’m the Marchioness of Longhaven. My husband will reward you.”

Was she allowed to make promises in Michael’s name? In this case, she’d have to concern herself with that issue later. She was beginning to truly panic at the moment.

The small man clambered down and dubiously looked at the run-down house, but then assessed her expensive gown and cloak and nodded. “I’ll do my best to help ye, madam.”

True to his word, he ambled up to the door, tried the knob, and squinted for a moment before he used his fist to make an impressive noise. When that didn’t work, he shouted and rattled the knob.

The lack of an answer was frightening.

Perhaps,
she told herself, taking in a deep breath, her cloak growing more sodden by the moment,
I am overreacting.
Maybe Leah had simply forgotten their appointment and was out.
Only,
a coldly reasonable voice pointed out with compelling logic,
Leah
never
forgets.
She wanted the money so badly, usually Julianne barely got in the door before she demanded it.

No, something was wrong. She
felt
it.

“I have to get in.” If Leah had really moved without a word, her belongings, such as they were, would also be gone. “Do you think you can force it open?”

The old man set his shoulder against the cheap door, but it didn’t move. Just her luck.

When he stepped back, she tried, throwing her weight against the panel, but it held. She let out a sob of frustration.

“Can I be of assistance?”

She whirled at the sound of the soft Irish brogue. Fitzhugh stood there, the dripping brim of his hat shadowing familiar features.

Later,
Julianne decided,
I will demand to know why he appeared so promptly.
For the moment, she was glad of his solid bulk and familiar, competent air.

“I need to get inside this building.”

“Allow me, Lady Longhaven.”

Her husband’s valet—whom she’d always had a sense might be a great deal more than just someone who pressed his clothes and saw to other small needs—proved to be most helpful. The door creaked, the lock snapped, and Julianne rushed in, brushing past the driver. “Leah?”

There was no answer and the place was cold, just a ghostly drift of old chimney smoke and the hint of stale, long-past meals in the air. With a sinking heart, she bypassed the foyer and checked the shabby drawing room, and then, because it was the last place she’d seen Chloe, the small room off the kitchen.

The house was deserted. It was so obvious, and not because of the empty rooms and the cold, but the utter silence. Not even the rude old charwoman who normally answered the door was in sight. Since Leah was not known for her reliability, maybe Julianne shouldn’t be so surprised.

So devastated.

But she was. She’d tried to do good. . . .

“She’s not here.” Julianne tried to stem the tide of flushed distress, but it was impossible. “I have made such a mistake. Oh, God help me. . . .”

“Who, my lady?” Fitzhugh asked the question somberly as he saw the twin trails of tears now streaming down her face.

“A small child . . . she’s this tall.” She held her hand near her midthigh. “There’s a woman next door . . . perhaps she has her . . .”

Then she heard the sound. It was faint, not even qualifying as a whimper, but it was there. Julianne swung around. “Chloe?”

“It came from there.” Fitzhugh was already moving purposefully toward the kitchen.

“I was in there already . . .” Julianne lifted her damp skirts and ran after him, stopping in the dark space, casting around. She said louder, “Chloe?”

Another sound. Tiny, almost inaudible. Julianne followed it, a fateful sense of horror mingled with relief when she pushed open the door to the dank little pantry and saw the small form huddled in the corner. She knelt by the child, unable to believe that even someone as resentful and irresponsible as Leah could possibly leave a child alone in what seemed to be an abandoned house.

“It’s Julianne,” she whispered, hesitant to gather the little girl into her arms.

“Who left this wee one here?” Fitzhugh asked in a raspy voice. “Of all the sights I dislike in London, it’s the abandoned children I hate the most. But this tiny one, locked in this cold place . . .” He stopped speaking and shook his head.

Huge eyes regarded her with their usual solemn scrutiny, but this time, when Julianne leaned forward, Chloe came to her without a pause, allowing her chilled, trembling body to be lifted, held close. Julianne said clearly, “We’re going back to Southbrook. Right now.”

“Yes, my lady.”

She looked him in the eye. “I suppose we will address later how you appeared so fortuitously.”