Once Tempted (4 page)

“Because in all likelihood she was the one who decoded the message for your cousin.”

“Pymm, you’ve had too much of that wretched swill.” Robert sat back in his seat. “You’re telling me some seventeen-year-old miss just out of the schoolroom deciphered the most important document in the course of Spanish history? Those directions were written by one of the most brilliant and learned minds of the eighth century, not the gossip columnist of the
Morning Post
.”

“That probably only made it easier for her to understand,” Pymm insisted. When still faced with Robert’s disbelief, he continued, “Miss Sutton had been decoding messages for the Foreign Office for years—albeit unwittingly. Her father was Sir John Sutton.”

Robert knew that name. “The linguist?” he asked. “The one who hanged himself after he was caught selling secrets to the Dutch?”

“The very same,” Pymm said. “His daughter learned everything at his knee. And she was a damn sight better at it than he was. Sutton thought it quite a lark that she could decode what the so-called experts in the Foreign Office found unintelligible.”

“And Bradstone learned of her talents and . . .” Robert’s statement trailed off as he put together the obvious conclusion to the story. She’d thrown her lot in with his nefarious cousin to gain a measure of the legendary ransom for herself. And then she’d murdered the agent who’d tried to stop them.

No wonder Pymm had such a keen interest in finding her.

“Wellington knew all this?” Robert asked.

Pymm nodded. “Now you see why you were chosen.”

Wellington had known that once Robert learned Miss Sutton lived, nothing would stand in the way of his finding her and bringing her to justice. “Damn her traitorous hide.” Robert slammed his fist down on the table.

Pymm scrambled to right his tottering drink. “Yes, like father, like daughter,” he said in what could be called companionable agreement, but there was an underlying tone to the man’s words that suggested he wasn’t quite sure.

Robert eyed him but decided not to press his suspicions. “What do you suggest?”

“The same tack that worked the last time,” Pymm said, his words sharp and sure for a man who looked well into his cups. “You join forces with the girl.”

“And how will I do that, when no one knows where she is?”

“My suspicion is that she’ll find you. And when she does, court the girl, lull her once again into your confidence. Seduce her if you have to, just get what we need.”

“Seduce
her
?” Robert shook his head. “Are you mad?”

Pymm rose from his seat. “No, just practical.”

Robert followed suit, and the two men went to the door. Once outside, Robert asked the other man, “Suppose I do find her and get what we need from her. Then what do I do with her?”

Pymm smiled, a cold, bitter twist to his mouth. “Whatever you consider fair revenge.”

Chapter 2

Finch Manor

The Kent countryside

“K
eates! Keates, where are you, you faithless girl?” Lady Finch clamored and bellowed from her wheelchair, the one she’d confined herself to for over twenty years and honestly didn’t need. “I want to see those London papers Jemmy brought down from town this morning before Lord Finch carts them off to his potting shed.”

Her ladyship’s tirade was punctuated by the clanging of a cowbell she kept at the ready for those trying situations when it seemed the entire house ignored her.

Keates, the target of Lady Finch’s tirade and her hired companion, hurried down the front staircase in answer to her mistress’s strident cries.

Most of the servants felt it a cursed shame that such a kindly woman had not only been widowed at such a young age but had been left with no choice but to work for such a harridan.

But then again, they all felt much that way about their own positions in the Finch household.

At the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Keates was met by Lord and Lady Finch’s only child and heir, Mr. James Reyburn. The pride and joy of Finch Manor, Jemmy, as he was affectionately called by one and all, cast a furtive glance down the hall toward the room where his mother held court and was currently bellowing out another chorus of demands for the newly arrived papers.

“The old bird is in rare form this morning,” he whispered as loudly as he dared. Even at nineteen, Jemmy still regarded his mother with an unholy terror. That probably explained why the young man hightailed it back to London every chance he could. “Got to warn you, she’s in one of her moods. She’s been calling for you and the papers ever since she heard me ride up.”

Mrs. Keates sighed. “And why didn’t you just deliver them?”

“Me?” Jemmy asked in mock disbelief. “And face the dragon before dinner? Not bloody likely.” The cowbell clamored again. He winked at her and held up the bundle of posts, newspapers and cards he’d brought down from town, while in his other hand a pair of pistols dangled. “Why not ignore her and come shooting with me? For old times’ sake.”

Mrs. Keates smiled at the handsome young man. When she had first arrived at Finch Manor, Jemmy had been only twelve, and such outings had been quite acceptable. But in the last few years, she had tried to put a distance on their once chummy relationship.

It was better for both of them, she knew, especially when she saw the fond light in Jemmy’s eyes sparkling at her in invitation.

“They’re brand new,” the young man explained, “and all the rage with the Royal Fuzileer officers I met last month in town. When mother relents and allows me to buy my commission in the Seventh, I will be ready for those demmed Frogs.” His gaze filled with youthful passion for his dream of making a military career. “But for now, come out and see how accurate they are. I’ll even let you have the first round—much more fun than spending your day with her dragonship.”

“Keates!” Lady Finch bellowed.

“Yes, your ladyship,” a resigned Mrs. Keates answered. “I’ll be right there.”

“What is holding you up, girl? Is that miscreant son of mine out there? If he is, bring him in. I will have an accounting for this bill I received from his tailor.”

Jemmy blanched at his mother’s wrath. He put a finger to his lips and shook his head furiously at Mrs. Keates.

“I haven’t seen Jemmy, my lady,” Mrs. Keates told her, “but he left the papers and letters here in the hall for you.”

“Harumph,” the old girl sputtered. “Well, what are you lolling about for? Bring them in.”

Smiling at his savior, Jemmy put one of the pistols on the highboy and whispered, “In case you get a chance to escape. Come join me in the east meadow.” He winked and then retreated down the corridor toward the kitchen, where she knew he would hide out until the coast was clear.

Picking up the bundle, Mrs. Keates sighed. Once the London news was delivered to her ladyship, she knew the rest of her day would be spent listening to her ladyship’s outrage and utter dismay at the moral decay of good society.

There would be letters written to editors regarding their blatant disregard for the truth, notes dashed off to friends chastising them for their latest follies, and of course, inquiries made as to who exactly the “Lady S.” or “Mr. L.” in the gossip columns might be.

All of which was dutifully and patiently penned by Mrs. Keates.

“There you are,” the lady huffed, as Mrs. Keates entered the room. “I think this entire house has gone deaf.”

She smiled at her employer and laid the papers down on the table next to her ladyship’s chair. Picking up the cowbell, she held it aloft. “If that is so, then I can only guess as to the cause.”

The lady harrumphed again. “You’ve too much cheek. I should fire you, Keates.”

Mrs. Keates grinned. “Should I write my notice before your correspondence or after?”

“You’d more than likely demand your full day’s pay since it is almost noon, so you might as well earn it before you start packing your bags.”

Mrs. Keates nodded in agreement, knowing full well Lady Finch wouldn’t dismiss her for any amount of cheek. Catching the edge of the lady’s chair, she wheeled her over to the window so she would have better light by which to read. “What shall it be first?
The Times
or the
Morning Post
?”

The lady fluttered her hand. “The
Morning Post.
I want to see if they printed my letter.”

Sorting through the stack, Mrs. Keates organized the collected fortnight’s worth of copies into chronological order, handing the first one to Lady Finch. Then she settled into her chair at the desk nearby, taking up a pen and waiting for her ladyship’s first order of business.

It didn’t take long.

“Keates, will you listen to this! Lady Bennington has gone and delivered a son! And at her age. How unseemly.” The lady made several clucking noises that were harbingers of a long letter and a healthy dose of unwanted advice. “I suppose Lord Bennington is strutting about town, taking credit for the entire business himself. Why Miranda married that tiresome goat I’ll never understand.”

“How old were you when you had Jemmy?” Mrs. Keates asked, knowing full well Lady Finch had been at least five years older when the Finch heir had made his unexpected arrival into the world.

“Harumph! That is none of your business.” Lady Finch’s lips puckered with vexation, and Mrs. Keates knew only too well her employer was considering how she could at least convey some portion of her displeasure with the situation.

Eventually her eyes lit with triumph. “Send Miranda a note of congratulations on the child’s safe deliverance along with that layette set we stitched last winter.” The lady glanced up at the hallway where Jemmy was in the process of sneaking out to go shooting. “Goodness knows, I’ll never live long enough to see my grandchildren wear any of these things,” she said, waving her hand over the basket of sewing that she always had at the ready.

Mrs. Keates smiled, as the sound of Jemmy’s pace doubled at the mention of setting up his own nursery.

“And don’t forget,” Lady Finch said, turning back to the paper at hand, “to make a copy of my instructions on the hiring of a suitable wet nurse and nanny, so that child is properly cared for.”

Mrs. Keates paused, knowing full well that wasn’t all the lady would be sending.

And of course, it wasn’t.

“And add to the note a word of caution,” Lady Finch said in an offhand manner. “Counsel Miranda that now she’s provided that no-account husband of hers with an heir, a separate bedroom with a good lock is entirely in order.”

Mrs. Keates nodded, holding back the smile that threatened to turn her lips.

Lord and Lady Finch still shared a bed, but Mrs. Keates thought better of mentioning that point of fact.

For the rest of the morning and afternoon, through a hasty tea and well past supper, Lady Finch continued to scour her papers. From her chair, she directed Mrs. Keates to send the necessary notes to the various acquaintances she read about, to copy instructions from Lady Finch’s vast repertoire of advice for those in need and to prepare admonishments for those whose deeds necessitated her immediate intervention.

Finally the lady drew to a close with the most recent paper Jemmy had brought up from town. Usually she skipped immediately to the gossip page, but this time she stopped at the front page.

“ ’Tis remarkable,” she finally muttered. “The man’s alive. And here I thought he was rotting in hell all these years.”

Mrs. Keates yawned, exhausted by a long day of unrelenting work, her head throbbing and her hand aching and stiff from all the copying and scribbling she’d done. She didn’t care if it was Nelson himself returned from the grave, all she wanted to do was to find a cold compress for her head and seek the quiet comfort of her bed.

“Listen to this, Keates,” Lady Finch said, before she began to read aloud: “It is said that miracles do not occur in these modern times, but one has to be astounded to hear the tale of the latest arrival in London. Declared a hero and being given a fête in his honor this Saturday, it is a story that will be oft repeated for months to come.”

Nodding, Mrs. Keates tried to force a smile and wondered if she shouldn’t order another brace of candles. She could see her correspondence spreading into the wee hours just by the glint of excitement in Lady Finch’s eyes.

“Oh, here comes the good part,” her ladyship declared. “After surviving a sea battle off the coast of Portugal and days adrift, our brave son of Britannia—” The lady stopped her narrative. “Brave son of Britannia, that has a nice ring to it, don’t you think, Keates?”

“Yes, quite,” Keates acknowledged without even knowing what it was she was agreeing to. Her mind was caught by the first part of the tale.

A sea battle off the coast of Portugal . . .

The remembrance of just such another story filled the pit of her stomach with cold dread.

“Now here’s the rest,” her ladyship said, drawing the paper closer to her nose. “Our brave son of Britannia endured nearly seven years—”

Seven years
? No, it couldn’t be. Disbelief rose in Mrs. Keates’s chest, leaving her unable to breathe.
He was dead. Dead all these years. All these seven long years.

“—as a prisoner of the French. Two months ago, our hero effected a daring escape from a garrison in Spain—”

Spain.
The very name left her heart hammering. Memories of that word, of that night filled her mind.

“Keates! Keates! Are you listening to me?” Lady Finch’s agitation cut through the shock clouding her ears. “Why, you look terrible! Call for Mercy to get you a tincture of my megrims cure.”

Shaking her head and hoping that her trembling didn’t show, Mrs. Keates braved a smile. “No, that won’t be necessary. Pray, go on, my lady.”

“Yes, well, if you say so.” Lady Finch straightened her paper, glanced one more time over the top of it, studying her companion with a keen and penetrating stare.

For her part, Mrs. Keates sat up straight and nodded for her ladyship to continue.

“Where was I?”

“Spain,” Mrs. Keates prompted, the word like a brand on her tongue.