Queen (Regency Refuge 3) (13 page)

"I see you're not in chains, so the meeting must have gone well." Isabel met Owen as he left Westminster Hall.

He gave her a half smile and held out his arm to her. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.

"I'm ever so impatient, Owen. You'll need to tell me what happened before I perish from curiosity." Isabel was using her best American Southern Belle accent.

He chuckled, and she delighted at the sound. This man was becoming more important to her by the day.

"I had to leave the papers with the members. They'll review them before deciding whether any action should be taken regarding your parents."

She nodded. "I'm pleased they are considering any action at all. They could have scoffed and said it was all nonsense. Now tell me about you. Why aren't you in jail for your work in Gloucester and Bristol?"

"They've given me leave to complete the current investigation. I head out for Bristol at first light so I can meet the
Âne Hurlants
. I'm to meet with a rural agent already dispatched in the area and work with him on the retrieval of whatever package is aboard the ship."

"I'll be coming, of course."

"I never mentioned you, and as far as I can tell, they've no knowledge of your return to England. You can sit this one out if you'd prefer, avoid the attention, and disappear again once it's over. You don't need to take part in this if you don't want to."

Isabel's teeth worked at her lower lip for a moment before she replied. "Is it that you don't want me along or that you're trying to protect me from gaining Parliament's attention?"

Owen stopped walking and turned. His green eyes didn't waver from her face. "I want you to have the life you want. Once this is over, if you decide you want to return to America, then I want you to have the freedom to do so. Parliament need not know of your presence here."

"And if I want to stay?"

"If you stay in England, I'm afraid I may never be able to let you out of my sight."

"Hm. Quite a dilemma you've given me." She began walking again, tugging him along beside her. If her step was wobbly or her skin flushed, Owen was polite enough not to remark on it.

****

Owen arrived at the livery the next morning to find Isabel already sitting atop Buttercup, this time in a riding habit of amaranth with deep purple trim.

Mounting up, he gave her a mischievous nod. "You don't plan to slow me down this time, do you?"

Isabel pretended to tip her hat to him before she flew out of the livery's doors. She couldn't help but smile at the expression on Owen's face as she rode past him and
Despiadado
. It was good for him to know he wouldn't get any ordinary miss if he chose to pursue her.

A quick glance over her shoulder told her the man in question was indeed in pursuit. Feeling lighter than she had in a long time, Isabel threw her head back and laughed.

****

Another night at Chakal Manor. Isabel enjoyed the entertainment throughout the meal. Each time Owen glanced at Mrs. Burnham, the older woman pointed her knife at him. Isabel pretended to notice nothing as she waited to see what Owen would do. After the tenth time, he held his silence no longer.

"Now, Mrs. Burnham, it's not nice to threaten your dinner companions. Surely you feel safe enough with me that you've no need to brandish a weapon."

Isabel made a choking sound before bringing a napkin to her mouth. "What on earth are you going on about, Owen? The poor woman's done nothing of the kind!"

"Why, Mr. Loring, have you been drinking? No sane or sober man would accuse a helpless old woman of such maleficence." Mrs. Burnham gave him a wide grin as she held her dessert spoon in a shaky hand.

Having her fun, Isabel murmured, "Mrs. Burnham couldn't be more feeble if she were…" An adequate comparison escaped her. "Nevertheless, you're being ridiculous."

From the corner of her eye, Isabel watched as Mrs. Burnham picked up her knife and made a jabbing motion in Owen's direction. She fought to keep her expression severe.

Owen set his napkin on the table. "My apologies. I must be more tired than I'd realized to be hallucinating so. Good evening, ladies. Isabel, I shall see you at first light."

He gave Mrs. Burnham a wide berth as he stepped out into the hallway.

Mrs. Burnham cackled. "Someone's got to keep that boy on his toes."

Isabel chuckled. "Oh, dear. I'm going to have to apologize to him tomorrow. I practically accused him of lying."

Owen stood in the hallway. He should walk away. Listening in was beneath him. And yet…

"Mr. Loring is a bit too big for his breeches, if you ask me. Better to keep him guessing about where he stands."

Isabel sighed. "He's a good man."

"Maybe so, but if you tell him all doe-eyed like you are now, he'll know you're in love with him, and where would the fun be in that? Lead him a merry chase, my girl. Make him earn your devotion."

Owen's breath caught in his throat. In love?

Isabel's groan pulled his attention back to the room. "I have a life and a job and people who depend on me. Love isn't for people like me."

"Everyone has room for love, dear." Mrs. Burnham sounded so kind. Maybe it was just him she disliked so.

"Your husband died in this business. Did you ever regret staying in the job? I don't think I could be married to someone whose life is in danger all the time."

If he'd had any remaining doubt, it was gone. Mrs. Burnham was clever, calculating, and sneaky. Not to mention she had a distinctive bent toward violence. Owen imagined what the older woman might do should he ever dare call her Pigeon. If he did, he'd have to make sure her cane was out of reach first.

Owen left his hiding spot outside the dining room door and climbed the stairs to his bedchamber. He stepped into his room, and the rest of Isabel's words came back to him. "I don't know if I could be married…" He sat heavily on the bed and stared at his hands. Was Isabel serious about marriage? She had no one to sign betrothal contracts for her. The choice would be her own whenever she was ready, and he wanted that choice to be him. But give up his life with the Agency of Foreign Constabulary? Did he love her enough for that?

He waved his hand through the air as if to swat away the L word. He loved her and would die to protect her, but could he give up that part of who he was? Would he even be the same man then? And what would he do for a living? Owen fought down a gag reflex at the thought. Could he face life if he had to become an
actual
bookkeeper?

He didn't mind pretending to be a bookkeeper while he was doing so much more, but if he left the
so much more
behind, what would remain?

Could he give up who he was for the sake of a woman? Ah, but Isabel wasn't just any woman.

She was a woman who still kept secrets and who had told him almost nothing about her life in America.

Owen couldn't help but sigh. Isabel had more layers than a grand dame's petticoat.

He continued to mull over the subject as he readied for bed. When he finally lay down, he stared at the ceiling. "Are you there, God? Silly of me. Of course you are. Is Isabel the one? My heart says yes, but… I wish I knew what tomorrow held. How can I plan for a future filled with questions and uncertainty? But you've already got a plan for me, I suppose. Mind sharing it? A little bit? She deserves someone who will put her first. She's suffered too much already. What if she asks me to settle down to a quaint life in some small country hamlet? What shall I do with myself?"

A knock at the door broke into his prayer. "Is everything all right?" Isabel's sweet voice. "I thought I heard you talking to someone."

Owen grabbed his dressing gown as he rushed to the door. He opened it and peeked out. She was a vision of beauty and grace. "I'm fine. I was… ah… talking to myself."

Isabel quirked a brow. "Do you do that often?"

How much worse could it get? He might as well admit the truth. Owen ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "I was praying, not talking to myself, but I didn't realize I was doing it out loud. My apologies for disturbing you."

It wasn't much done in polite society. People didn't speak of God. Matters of religion were considered private, and conversing with God ought not be openly declared. Isabel's eyes widened at his admission, but he saw no disdain or reproof.

"All right, then," she said, a smile touching her delectable lips. "I shall leave you to it. Cook prepared a basket of food for us to bring and will leave out a light breakfast in the kitchen for us."

"Mm. Sounds appetizing." A rock would be more charming than Owen at the moment.

Isabel circled away and walked down the hall. Owen closed the door and leaned his back against it, and he knew.

He would give up anything to be with her. The agency, his family, his identity, his country. If he had to change his name and move to a foreign land to be with her, he would do it.

He loved her that much.

They arrived in Bristol late the following night. After boarding the horses, Owen picked up their bags in his right hand and offered his other arm to Isabel.

"Who shall you be now?" He assumed she would opt against returning to the role of Iola after hastening out of town and leaving Hank without a barmaid.

She shrugged. "We need to find out how long until the
Âne Hurlants
returns. It may be time for me to establish an identity as Giselda Fairweather."

Owen's step faltered momentarily before he found his way again. "Working with a partner is going to take some getting used to. I hadn't thought of using you to gain access to the ship."

"What was your plan, then? Brute force?"

He smiled. "I'd thought to pose as a customs official or some such."

"Hm. Not bad, but you'd be better off posing as my man of business."

Owen had to ask. "You've never told me how you gathered the information you sent in that coded message to Rutherford."

"I investigated. What more do you need to know?"

A sigh slipped out before Owen could stop it. He'd thought they were making progress, but she still held herself back. "How do we know there won't be a woman on that ship named Giselda Fairweather?"

Isabel, not normally one to fidget, twined her fingers together. "My information is sound. The investigation told me the shipment — whatever it is — was being sent unaccompanied under that name. It seems they felt that was the least conspicuous way to get their merchandise onto English soil."

"What if someone on the ship knows Giselda Fairweather? What of your ruse then?"

She shook her head. "I did some asking whilst I was in Gloucester. I don't think she's a real person."

"It's too risky."

"Danger is what we do, is it not? I'll do the talking. You'll keep me safe. We can do this. As partners."

Much as he wanted to, he couldn't argue. "Certainly. But I don't think you should give too much lead time to building your identity."

"Agreed. Check in with Hank, get your old room back, and listen to the chatter."

Isabel started to walk away from him, but after a two steps, her movement faltered. She looked back over her shoulder, her blue eyes brighter than should be possible in the fading light. "Why did the prince let you live?"

Owen's breath caught in his throat. "What?"

Turning fully to face him, Isabel asked again, "Why did the Russian prince let you live? You told me he had his reasons. I'd like to know what they were."

Heat built up in Owen's chest. Isabel seemed determined to uncover every part of his life that he'd rather she not. Why couldn't she be content to simply think him the hero and leave well enough alone? No, of course not. She needed to dig until she learned how ordinary he truly was.

Owen forced his jaw muscles to loosen so he could answer. "The prince gave me full access to all of his ledgers. I hoped to find something that would tell me why his wife had been targeted. Since money is almost always the cause, it seemed like a good place to start, especially when I learned that his wife made a habit of reviewing said ledgers on a regular basis."

He paused, remembering the devastation on the prince's face when he'd informed him of his findings. A glance at Isabel found her leaning in, lips parted, eyes bright. Much as he didn't care to relive the next part, Owen knew he would tell her everything.

"The prince employed a number of people to oversee his various estates. The man of business at his primary residence, though, had begun stealing from him three months before the princess's death. It turns out that she uncovered the theft and confronted the man. The prince himself was away on business at the time, or she'd have gone to him. As it was, she showed mercy and banished the man from her husband's land. The prince would have had him executed. In banishing him, though, the princess allowed him an opportunity to hire an assassin. She was killed before she could report his misdeed to her husband."

Owen scrubbed a hand across his face. This wasn't a part of his past he particularly liked to recall. "I told the prince about the discrepancy in the books. He was able to put a name to the misdeeds. I'd thought he would bring the man in for questioning or — foolishly — that there would be a trial. Instead the prince tortured him until he got the full story, including the name of the assassin. So, while I may have failed to bring him the assassin, I gave the prince the man who'd hired him."

Isabel's eyes were in shadow now. How he wished he could better read them. Her voice moved softly through the night. "And the man of business? What was his fate?"

Owen's jaw clenched involuntarily, and he had to again force it loose. "Executed at the prince's hand."

She nodded. "The form of justice bothers you, or that you played a role in it?"

"I thought the prince was trying to frighten him into revealing more information. Then the sword flashed, and before I could get a single sound out, the man's head lay there next to his fallen body. I should have expected it, but somehow I didn't."

Isabel stepped close enough to rest her hand on his arm. "We all see things in this business that we wish we could undo."

"Yes, well…" The words hung between them, and she allowed it. Owen was again struck by what a still person Isabel was. It wasn't just her physical movements, either. Everything about her, including her words, was calm and still.

With a shake of his head, Owen tried to dislodge the mood and images the talk of Russia had brought with it. "How shall I get ahold of you when I know something?"

She gave him a saucy wink and grin. "I'm sure you'll figure it out." Then she was gone, slipping down a side street and out of his view.

Owen rubbed his jaw, thoughts of Russia replaced by much more pleasant ones. Any man lucky enough to win Isabel's favor would never have a dull day in all his life.

He smiled to himself. Owen abhorred boredom.

****

A note was waiting for Owen the next morning as he made his way above stairs to break his fast. Hank handed it to him with a glare. Despite his protests to the contrary, the barkeep still believed his barmaid Iola had run off with Owen. The rate for Owen's room had even been doubled in retribution for the perceived wrong.

Owen couldn't blame the man. After all, he
had
run off with the barmaid. Not that he had any plans to admit it.

He sat down to his meal and opened the intricately folded note.

Tonight. Usual place. Q.

Owen wanted to laugh. In three small words she'd made him want to bow and say, "Yes, m'lady, whatever you say." Maybe he was projecting, but since he knew the Q stood for Queen, he couldn't help but find an imperial tone in the missive.

After his meal, Owen set out for a walk that landed him at the door to the harbor master's office. He stepped through, but nobody paid him any heed.

Owen wandered over to the board where estimated arrival dates were posted. It took him a while to locate the
Âne Hurlants
, and the minute he did, he let out a low whistle.

"Aye! There y'are! I was wonderin' if you'd show yer face 'round here again. That boat yer so interested in is comin' asooner'n anybody thought. Latest update says day af'er tomorrow."

"Thank you. I'll be back two days hence with my client. We'll need to get onto that ship as soon as it docks."

A gap-toothed grin was his answer. "Aye. I'm sure they'll be jus' thrilled with that, gov'nor."

As soon as Owen shut the door behind him, he glanced at his pocketwatch and hurried toward the center of town. He had orders from Parliament to meet one of their rural agents and work with him for the remainder of the mission. With the
Âne Hurlants
arriving in two days' time, the need to meet and assess this other agent grew in importance. Owen had hoped to put it off and avoid the man for several days, but he couldn't — not if he wanted to remain in Parliament's good graces.

****

Owen arrived at the Hotel Belafort, one of the more elegant establishments in downtown Bristol. He approached the mahogany front desk and nodded to the gentleman behind it. "I'm here to see Phineas Kitteridge."

The man behind the counter had a nasal voice dripping with disdain. "I would be pleased to let Mr. Kitteridge know he has a visitor. Who should I tell him is calling?"

Owen made a show of patting himself. "I'm sorry. I must have forgotten my cards. He should be expecting me. The name is Oscar Lanford."

The man gave a delicate sniff before giving the smallest of nods to a nearby staff member.

A part of Owen enjoyed the obvious discomfort of the man behind the counter. He could have gone and sat down in the nearby tea room, but that would have been too easy.

"Ah, Mr. Lanford, there you are." The voice gave condescending a whole new meaning.

Owen wheeled to see the man addressing him. He was the sort of Englishman who set tongues to wagging in ballrooms and at house parties. Phineas Kitteridge was tall and slender with blond hair young debutants would sigh over. The stair banister practically preened with the privilege of being allowed to show off his long, delicate fingers to advantage. The man had grace and elegance in a way that undermined any ability he may have had to appear masculine.

Phineas held out a hand, and Owen grasped it, fighting off the urge to shudder at the wholly feminine handshake the man gave. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kitteridge."

"How nice of you to say."

So much for, "The pleasure's mine, I assure you."

Phineas strode past him and into a private lounge. Two men shadowed him, each with a fierce appearance and menacing scowl. A small wave of Phineas' hand sent the two men to stand outside the lounge door.

"Shall we get down to business, then?"

Owen sat and stared at the man, not at all thrilled at the idea of doing
business
with him. "You aren't quite what I expected."

"Oh? Would you prefer I be a giant brute with no manners, then?"

A serving girl brought in a tea tray. Owen expected Phineas to pick up his napkin and delicately tap the corners of his mouth. Instead, the man ignored the girl as if she weren't even worthy of his notice. Then, once she left, he picked up the pot of tea and asked, "Sugar? One lump, or two?"

One lump, or two.
That was the code phrase Owen had been hold to expect. He was speaking with Phineas Kitteridge and not some imposter. Owen suppressed a shudder. He'd give almost anything to find out the man across from him was anyone other than Kitteridge. His time with the War Department and the Russian prince before that had put him in position to work with many different types of people, but this one… this one was going to be more irksome than most. He could tell already.

"No sugar. The ship we need to intercept…"

"Now, now. No need to discuss business yet. Let us enjoy the repast and the niceties of civilization. Shall we talk about the weather, or would you prefer to discuss the latest fashions at Almack's?"

"I'd prefer neither." Owen bit the words out. "We need to discuss the upcoming mission, get the details sorted out, as it were. Then I’ll be on my merry way."

Phineas waved a hand through the air. How could a man be so graceful?

"I see you prefer the ignoble approach. I, on the other hand, refuse to abandon myself to such base behavior."