His Sinful Secret (34 page)

When she loved, it was with the same intensity.

Lawrence wanted her to love
him
.

“I can tell you who might wish to sail to France instead of India. Someone who wanted to come back to England easily,” Longhaven said thoughtfully. “It isn’t a long passage. How did she convince you?”

The question was asked in a conversational tone, but Lawrence understood that was not the sentiment behind it.

This next bit would be tricky.

“How did she convince you to not have her imprisoned?” Lawrence countered, steadily meeting Longhaven’s appraisal.

The marquess answered readily. “You were there. She gave me information on Roget.”

“Not very much. Just that he was in England—in London, in fact—but otherwise she told you nothing.”

“On the contrary, she told me Roget was an Englishman.”

Yes, she had. But she’d outright refused to give them the man’s identity, under pain of imprisonment and probably the gibbet if they could prove she was a traitor spying for Bonaparte. Lawrence said evenly, “His name would have been more helpful. In reality, I don’t think she helped you much, my lord.”

“I doubt she ever knew his real name anyway.” Longhaven rubbed his lean jaw. “And that is part of the reason I let her go.”

“I could have gotten more information out of her,” Antonia said with conviction. “You men are soft when it comes to females. A few moments alone with me, and take my word, she would have talked.”

“Perhaps.” The marquess’s voice held a hint of amusement. “But I saw no need to be so bloodthirsty and torture is not my usual method. Besides, she was trapped and at least claimed she wished to leave England quite badly. So, Lawrence, may I reiterate the question? Why did you let her choose the ship to France instead of following the agreed-upon plan?”

“A woman’s tears can move mountains.” Evasive—and yet so true. Not that it was why he’d let Alice Stewart board a different ship. “She had already booked the passage to France and wept at the thought of India. It terrified her, she claimed, and I believed her. After all, she had spent a good deal of the war in France, and if she stayed in England, she would most probably hang. Why would I ever think she’d come back?”

“I never cry,” Antonia declared derisively, reaching for the claret decanter and pouring a glass. The ruby liquid exactly matched her gown, and she lifted the goblet to her lips, taking a dainty sip.

“Why should you? You can move mountains without tears,” Lawrence told her, his smile wry.

But she lied. He’d heard her crying once or twice in the middle of the night. No sobs—she wouldn’t allow that—but small, subtle, shuddering breaths that held such sorrow it was all he could do to not reach for her and tuck her close into a protective embrace.

He would die to protect her. If it was possible, he’d die gladly to obliterate her memories. But it wasn’t, and the past was what it was, and all he could offer was a future.

If she would consider it after he had put her precious Longhaven in danger, even if it was inadvertent. He was telling the truth. He never thought Alice Stewart would set foot on English soil again.

“Do you know how to find her?” the marquess asked him, his gaze speculative. “Operating, of course, under the hypothesis that Alice Stewart might have slipped back into England.”

“No,” Lawrence said with as little inflection as possible, “but from previous experience with the lady I know where to start.”

“As in?”

“Where is your wife?”

In all of his experience, he’d never seen Longhaven react with other than perfect composure to any situation, but he could have sworn the man paled slightly. “She accepted an invitation for the Marstons’ traditional autumn ball. My parents are also going, and Fitzhugh is going to drive them. I promised I’d join them later. Tomorrow I am sending her to the family estate in Kent, where she will be safe until we clear this up.”

Lawrence spoke the truth when he said with hard-earned practicality, “There is no such concept as safe, my lord.”

 

Little Chloe was sweetly asleep before they departed, but Julianne couldn’t resist tiptoeing across the room to gently touch her tousled curls. The nursemaid, already dressed for bed and wearing a simple wrapper over her nightdress, and doing some sewing by the fire, smiled encouragingly. There were several bedrooms to choose from off the nursery, and Julianne had picked one for Chloe with a garden view that would be sunny in the mornings and had charming pictures of framed woodland scenes, completed with fuzzy flop-eared bunnies and cavorting lambs in green meadows. Chloe had stared at them in rapt concentration, her precious doll clutched in her arms, and then she had smiled.

It was a beginning.

The duchess had already expressed concern over the child possibly being a mute, but Julianne didn’t think so. She was hardly a physician, but she suspected the silence was more an innate sense of self-preservation, and she hoped that once love, warmth, acceptance, and safety became a reality in the little girl’s life, she would start to speak.

For the moment, she’d been so happy to see that unself-conscious smile of childish delight, she had felt a hot tightening in her throat.

“If you think she needs me,” she whispered to the nursemaid, “you may bring her to my room. We won’t be out terribly late.”

“The little one will be fine, my lady,” Bryn said in her soft accent. “I’m going to sleep right here, and we are getting along right well. Do not worry, and enjoy your evening.”

“I will.”

As ever, Julianne thought as she left the room and went toward the stairs, Rutgers was beautifully efficient in his selection, and she would have no objection at all if the girl was put in the position permanently. Bryn had acted as if she were pleased they’d be going to the country for at least a short stay. Julianne was still not sure of Michael’s plans, but she wasn’t resistant to getting away from London until all had been settled with Leah. The odd events of the past few days still had her off balance.

Especially that kiss after she’d told him she loved him.

It hadn’t been skillful seduction or simply physical passion. She’d felt the emotion in that impetuous embrace.

“You look stunning, my dear.” The duke smiled at her as she gained the foyer, rather impressive himself in his dark evening wear. The duchess was resplendent in emerald green satin, her hair upswept and a glittering diadem worth at least a small fortune accenting her perfect coiffure.

“Thank you.” She wished Michael was there to accompany them, but saw with wry humor that the ever-faithful Fitzhugh would be also attending the event in the guise of driver, his livery perfect and his face expressionless as he opened the door of the conveyance with a small flourish. Her personal watchdog on duty yet again, and banished off to the countryside in the morning with her. Just how dangerous was all this?

A ridiculous question to ask, of course. Michael had been attacked twice.

“You have many talents, I see, Fitzhugh,” Julianne murmured as he handed her into the carriage.

“Absolutely, my lady.”

She paused on the step, her skirts gathered in her hands, her voice low. “I hear you will be coming with us to Kent.”

“I hope that doesn’t displease you.”

“I think,” she said with a faint smile, “I am getting very used to your company.”

I
t was just as well he’d enlisted help, for Luke was able to give him the address of Mrs. Stewart’s last residence in London. It was for let, Luke informed him, and when he’d inquired—in the most influential way possible: for a bit of coin—the agent had confessed he did have the address where to send the remittance for the rent.

Nicely done,
Michael thought. Now he had a destination, but he also had an uneasy premonition. It happened now and then . . . and usually was accurate. He swore steadily under his breath as the carriage clattered down the wet street in the cold rain.

It was the same address that Fitz had given him after following Julianne. Where little Chloe had been left alone.

At least he had a connection, but it wasn’t a particularly welcome one. More than ever he was convinced Alice had stumbled upon his brother’s secret and used it to get to Julianne.

Why the devil hadn’t he forbidden his wife to leave the house this evening? In his defense, while he’d been distracted by the attempts on his life, he hadn’t known about the blackmail until so recently that it required a great leap of assumption to connect the two.

At least he knew they
were
connected, and Mrs. Stewart was the common thread. The convoluted thought process that had hatched the plan was not easily followed, as far as he was concerned.

“Why can’t I be dealing with a man?” he muttered.

Across from him, Lawrence grunted in agreement. “It isn’t at all the same, is it? They think differently. This woman who is your enemy has cleverly found a way to gain access to your wife. I imagine every time Lady Longhaven visited that child, her life was in danger. No one knew where she was, and Stewart could, at her leisure, select the time to do what she wished. Perhaps she was waiting for your marchioness to become pregnant before she killed her. That would be revenge indeed.”

Michael briefly closed his eyes. That possibility chilled him through and through.

Lawrence went on grimly, “Roget is not behind this. All along it has been done too clumsily, probably because Mrs. Stewart dared not let anyone suspect she is back in England, so her resources were limited. She had to disguise herself, hire others to do what she could not get close enough to try herself, and I am going to guess the blackmail was an indication she might need funds. To put it plainly, she is hiding from two dangerous men: not just you, but also Roget. She is as much a liability to him as she is to you, for she knows the man and could betray his identity, if not his true name. I would wager he didn’t realize she was back in London any more than you did.”

Michael removed his pistol from his jacket, checked it, and replaced it in the special pocket sewn in the lining. “I’ve wondered from the beginning what I was dealing with. It has all been too . . . unprofessional.”

“True.” Lawrence’s gaze held ironic amusement.

“You are good, Longhaven, but if Roget truly wanted you dead, I think there is every chance you would be.”

“We have to find her.” Michael wasn’t too concerned over that difficulty now that he knew what—and who—he was dealing with. London was a big city, but after tracking the enemy through foreign countryside, locating Alice Stewart was not such a daunting task with a trail to follow. “If you are right, and I suspect you are, she won’t be able to tell us Roget’s location.”

“He is more ghost than man,” Lawrence murmured, relaxed in his seat, his long legs extended, his damp greatcoat carelessly fastened. “Forget him.”

“Should he meet Antonia, he truly will be a ghost.”

“I agree. She isn’t reasonable on the subject.”

“No.”

Michael could try to point out gently to her once again that there was no proof Roget had anything to do with the massacre of her family, but he’d done so before and knew it was useless. There was no doubt that the infamous French spy had provided the intelligence that allowed a small French force to slip past British lines, but what the soldiers had done in the name of conquering Spain could not be directly laid at his doorstep. God knew Michael was also indirectly responsible for the deaths of many by obtaining information and passing it along. It was his job, and it had been war. Yes, Roget was a thorn in his side, but he did not hate the elusive man like Antonia did.

He found he was much more interested in a quite different emotion.

Had he handled such a sincere declaration of love well? Perhaps not. A passionate kiss was not the same as a verbal response, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. And, oddly enough, he thought Julianne understood full well.

Maybe that was what a man truly desired in his life.

He’d known scores of beautiful women—Antonia was beautiful, for that matter—but though they’d shared a brief passion, all of them were very different from his wife.

Julianne brought a unique serenity to his life. He was adjusting to the new concept. He could manage chaos. Contentment was different.

“The house is dark,” he noted as they rolled to a halt. “It’s all too possible she isn’t here, but let us be prepared. The lady has killed before.”

“So have I,” Lawrence said with equanimity as he alighted from the vehicle.

 

It was a formidable crush, but at least the weather was cooler so she didn’t have to swelter. And the Viennese orchestra, enticed by a no doubt very generous incentive, was the same one that had played at the palace the week before. The lilt of the beautiful music vied with hundreds of whispered conversations and the rustle of silk skirts against dark trousers as the dancers moved through the huge ballroom in the rhythm of the waltz.

Michael, Julianne observed, her hand on the shoulder of a young man whose admiring stare was disconcerting, had not made an appearance yet. As avidly as she watched the doorway, she would have noticed his arrival, though the affair was quite the crush and it felt like everyone else in the
haut ton
was in attendance. The sophisticated and vibrant Lady Taylor
was
there, to be sure. She’d seen the lady an hour or so before, twirling in the arms of an obviously smitten blond young man, their disparate coloring making them a striking couple.

Well, whatever was detaining Michael, at least she knew it wasn’t his former paramour.

It made no sense that she wasn’t more jealous. Julianne wasn’t worldly, but she knew, even without direct confirmation, Michael and Antonia Taylor had once been lovers. Moreover, she understood that Lady Taylor wasn’t detached about the affair, but Michael . . .