The Perfect Princess (36 page)

On that thought, she pushed back the covers, got up, and began to dress. Ten minutes later, she crept from the
house and slowly made her way to Richard’s cottage. There was no light shining from any window, and she imagined him tossing in his bed as she had tossed in hers. She felt very contrite when she used the key he had given her to unlock the door, and pushed inside.

“Richard?”

No answer. She knew at once something was wrong. The cottage was ice cold and there were no embers in the grate. She felt her way to the fireplace, found the tinderbox, and soon had a candle lit.

The bed was stripped bare, and there was nothing in that small room to show that someone had recently occupied it. She went quickly to the dresser and opened every drawer. They were all empty.

Heart thundering against her ribs, she went outside and crossed the cobbles to Harper’s cottage. It was unlocked. When she entered it, she was met by the same frigid temperature that had met her in Richard’s cottage.

Slowly now, in something of a daze, she retraced her steps to Richard’s cottage and sat on one of the chairs.

He had left her without a word of farewell.

The villain had left her without a word of farewell! Maybe she had walked out on him before he had the chance to say anything, but he could have come after her, forced her to listen to reason. Something.

I’m going, you’re staying
.

“Hah!” she told the empty room. “That’s all you know, Richard Maitland!”

He was going to London, he’d said, but had not told her where she could find him. It was obvious he did not trust her, obvious he did not think she could help him clear his name. After all they had been through together, he should know how capable she was.

Well, it just so happened that she had a house in London. She didn’t have the keys yet, but she could stay at the Clarendon until the lawyers settled things. She’d
make Richard come to her, and then she would tell him exactly what she thought of him. He was treating her as though she were a useless ornament, something that had to be left on the shelf because she was fragile, the kind of woman, so he always said, he had no use for.

And now neither did she.

She walked back to the house, dry-eyed and with a straight spine.

G
eorge Withers was taken aback when Major Digby and Captain Whorsley were shown into his study. It had always been understood that they would meet on neutral ground—at one of the gentlemen’s clubs or at social events. He didn’t want anyone to get the impression that their connection was anything but casual.

On the surface, he was welcoming, but behind the mask, he was livid. Anything that connected him to Richard Maitland was a cause for alarm, and Digby was still in charge of the search for Maitland. Withers had done his part by advising Digby where to look and whom to interview, but he’d done it under the guise of a curious bystander who picked up interesting tidbits of gossip in his social circles and passed them along as any law-abiding citizen would. It worked two ways. Digby kept him informed on how the investigation was progressing, but it was done at a distance, and that’s how he wanted to keep it.

For all the good it had done him. There was no progress, and that’s what enraged him. Three weeks had gone by, and there was still no sign of Maitland. He wouldn’t be lying idle, not the Richard Maitland he knew. Once before, he’d left a trail for Maitland to follow, and he’d bitterly regretted it. He’d be a fool not to learn from that lesson.

“Sit down, sit down,” he said, indicating chairs.

As Digby and Whorsley seated themselves, he went to the window and looked out. It was late afternoon, and Bond Street was at its busiest. Carriages of every description slowly wended their way to either Oxford Street or Piccadilly. Well-dressed pedestrians strolled from shop to shop. He could not detect anyone or anything out of place, no one watching his door to see who might be visiting him.

Digby said, “No one saw us enter the building. We used the back door.”

Withers fixed a smile on his face as he turned from the window. “I’m glad to hear it. Do you know, Major Digby, I’m beginning to regret that I ever got involved in this Maitland affair? I don’t think I understood the kind of man we were dealing with. I’ve heard since that he deals brutally with anyone who betrays him—well, of course, we know that from the trial. I hope to God you’ve been discreet. I wouldn’t want a man like that to think of me as an enemy.”

There was a distinct edge to Digby’s voice. “Rest easy, Mr. Withers. I never betray my sources, or those sources would soon dry up.”

That’s exactly what Withers wanted to hear. He looked at Whorsley, who vigorously shook his head. “We have many sources of information,” he said, “and we keep all of them confidential.”

“Anyone I know?”

Whorsley laughed at Wither’s little joke. Digby remained stony-faced.

“You’ll have refreshments?” Withers offered. “Coffee? Brandy?”

“Thank you, no,” replied Digby.

Withers seated himself. “Then how may I help you?”

Digby breathed deeply. His face taut with anger, he said, “I have two days to find Maitland, and if I don’t, I’ll be replaced.”

“That’s absurd!” exclaimed Withers, and his shock was genuine.

“Nevertheless, that’s what will happen. The deputy minister called me into his office not an hour ago and told me straight-out. They think I’ve bungled the job.” Digby’s right hand curled into a fist, as though he wanted to strike someone. “What they won’t accept is that I’ve been ambushed by the very people who want to see results.”

He began to suck air into his lungs as his anger mounted. “I begged them to bring Lady Rosamund in for questioning, and Harper, too, but Romsey has the minister’s ear, and he insists that if they’re to be questioned it must be at Twickenham and in the duke’s presence.”

“You think Lady Rosamund and this Harper may be concealing something?”

Digby gave a mirthless laugh. “Maitland did a masterly job of convincing the girl of his innocence. I think she may know more than she’s saying. As for that turncoat Harper, I think he was in it up to his neck. He helped Maitland escape from Newgate, all right, but when he heard about the reward the duke was offering he saw a way to claim it and clear his name at the same time. I’m not surprised he’s thrown himself on the duke’s protection. I’ll bet he’s afraid to say too much in case Maitland catches up with him one of these fine days.”

Withers nodded sympathetically. He’d already reached these conclusions independently, but, unlike
Digby, he didn’t want Lady Rosamund to be questioned by the authorities. A week ago, he’d held the opposite view, but now he was worried. She was convinced of Maitland’s innocence. What did she know? What could she possibly know?

He said, “I hear there was an attack on one of Lady Rosamund’s guests the other night. Could that have been Maitland’s doing?”

“Hardly. Prince Michael was the target. One presumes his assailant was a disenchanted countryman.”

Withers had never had a high opinion of officers of the law or intelligence agents, but now their credit sank to a new low. At least he didn’t have to worry that they were closing in on the boy.

“What about Hugh Templar?” he asked.

“Whorsley?” said Digby.

Whorsley cleared his throat. “He and his wife have retired to their estate in Oxfordshire. All aboveboard. We have him under surveillance, though, so if he puts a foot wrong, we’ll be the first to know.”

Withers nodded. He’d forgotten that Whorsley was there. He was the kind of character who faded into the background. No one really saw him. But he knew as much as Digby. If he decided to do something about the major, he’d have to include Whorsley.

He looked at Digby. “I appreciate your frankness, but I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

Digby seemed not to hear. He uncurled his hand and held it out. “I had Maitland in the palm of my hand,” he said. His fingers closed and tightened. “But I was overtaken at the finishing post by Templar and Harper.”

“You think they let Maitland get away on purpose?”

“They might, for old times’ sake.” Digby paused, then looked directly into Withers’s eyes. “What I need is another Dunsmoor.”

Withers’s heart jumped. This is what he’d been afraid of. His connection to Richard Maitland was beginning to surface.

Digby went on, “I have no choice but to insist that you tell me who told you about Maitland’s house.”

Withers spread his hands. “I told you, I heard about it in one of my clubs. Does it matter?”

“It matters. I must have a name.”

“Well . . .” Withers looked down at his hands and fixed a rueful expression on his face. He looked up at Digby. “I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.”

Digby clenched his teeth. “No one is going to get into trouble. What I need is information. If your friend knew about Dunsmoor, he may know where else I should look for Maitland. Good God, man, I’ve only got two days.”

Withers shrugged helplessly. “I’d like to help, but this would be a betrayal. I won’t give you my friend’s name without his permission.”

“Now, you listen to me!” Digby sat forward in his chair, his whole body tense. “We’re talking about my career. If I don’t find Maitland, I could end up in some godforsaken outpost at the end of the world. This is too important for niceties, do you understand?” He got up. “You have until eight this evening. You know where to find me. Bring your friend or bring me something to go on, but don’t come empty-handed.”

The implicit threat had Withers’s blood surging to his face. No one had talked to him like this since he was a callow youth. Digby would pay for it, he promised himself. He would pay for his arrogance.

He forced down his temper, found his control, and said mildly, “Who else will be there?”

“Just Whorsley and I, so you can tell your friend no one but we three will ever know his identity.”

After seeing his visitors out, Withers returned to his
study. He was breathing hard and his lips were pulled back in a savage grimace.

Everything was falling to pieces. He hadn’t intended to hang on in London after Maitland was executed. He should have kept to his original plan and set sail for Charles Town. There would have been no tracks to cover then. He was beginning to feel trapped.

If the boy were here, he would be disappointed in him.

The thought gradually brought a measure of control. The boy looked up to him, thought he was invincible. But the boy was becoming a problem, too. He was getting too big for his boots, and he knew too much.

He breathed slowly and deeply. All he had to do was examine his problems one by one and the solutions would come to him: Lady Rosamund; Peter Dryden; Whorsley; Digby; the boy.

That was better. Eight o’clock in Digby’s lodgings. And there would be no witnesses. This was one problem he would enjoy solving.

As they strode along Bond Street toward Piccadilly, Whorsley said, “Do you really think a friend told him about Dunsmoor?”

“How else could he know about it? He hasn’t been in England that long.”

“Odd,” said Whorsley carefully. “Very odd.”

“What is?” demanded Digby, his patience thinning.

“Dunsmoor. That Withers should know about it when no one else did. I was wondering if, maybe, there’s more to Withers than meets the eye.”

Digby frowned. “It’s too late to think about that now. We’ve only got two days to find Maitland. And just remember, if I’m posted to some godforsaken outpost, you’ll be coming with me.” He let out a long sigh.
“Look,” he said, “let’s get Maitland behind bars first, then we’ll take a closer look at Mr. Withers.”

Later that same day, as dusk crept over the city, Richard and Caspar sat down to play a game of chess to while away the time until Harper got back. They were in the parlor of the suite of rooms they’d rented in the Black Friar, just off Covent Garden. Their first night in town they’d stayed at another inn, but Richard hadn’t liked the layout of the rooms. There was no back exit, and if it came to the worst, he said, they would be caught like cattle in a pen.

Caspar was concentrating on the game, but Richard’s mind was elsewhere and he wanted to talk.