Unmasking the Spy (33 page)

“I like it,” Ian admitted. “I
hope my sisters feel the same.”

“I’m sure they do. They’re lovely
young women. And healthy. Nary a cough among them.”

“I hope you’re healthy as well…
fresh country air has strengthening qualities,” he added, feeling the
conversation falter. After a moment gazing at his beautiful wife who wore the
most mysterious smile on her face, he asked, “Where is everyone?”

“Poppy is out painting, Julia is
in her room writing letters, Mavis is in the library scowling at the
bookshelves, and Carlotta is out in the garden with Aunt Beatrix.”

“Oh,” Ian answered and then the
impact of her words dawned on him. “Wait. What?”

“Poppy is–”

“No, tell me about Beatrix. What
Beatrix? Your great-aunt Beatrix?”

Alicia graced him with another
sunny smile. “The very same.”

“She’s here for a visit?”

“She’s here for good.”

“Oh.” Ian blinked at her, unsure
of what to say next. Apparently, avoiding one’s wife was a very unwise
activity. Additional family members might move in while a man was out riding
his horses.

“That’s fine, isn’t it?”

“Of… of course,” Ian answered,
unable to say anything else when his wife peered up at him from under her long,
thick lashes.

Promising not to touch her had
been a particularly poor decision on his part. Just being alone in the hallway
with her made him want to press her against the wall and… Ian glanced around
the hall in dismay. There would be no pressing of wives against the wall in
this
hallway.

Boxes piled upon boxes in
waist-high stacks from halfway down the hallway until almost the front door.

“What happened?” he asked, afraid
of the answer. Was she leaving him already?

“We happened,” she replied with a
dainty shrug. “These are wedding gifts.”

“But there was nobody
at
our wedding.”

“Precisely. That’s why they had to be sent
afterwards.”

“I see,” Ian said, although he
didn’t see. He crept up to the first box, lifted the lid and peered inside.
Handkerchiefs? Some friend or relative of his wife’s thought he might deprive
her of handkerchiefs? He slammed the lid shut and raised his eyebrows at
Alicia, who just smiled her enigmatic smile and said nothing.

Ian stared back at her, lost in
thought. Despite his ill-advised declaration against making love to her again,
she was a woman and he was a man. And they were married. He hadn’t courted her
before the wedding, and he doubted he’d been much of a husband ever since. He
ought to woo her. Bring her flowers. Stir her passion. Make her love him.

When Alicia’s expression turned
quizzical, Ian snapped himself out of his reverie and continued down the hall,
peeking in random boxes as he went.

On the last box sat two fluted
glass vases. In a glance, he recognized them as matching the description of the
vases Chadwick had bought back when they still suspected him of trafficking
jewels. These vases had all but proved his innocence, since they were not the
item at the pawnbroker’s shop with the stolen jewels inside.

“Did your father send these?” Ian
asked, holding one up toward Alicia. He frowned when she rolled her eyes.

“Hardly. Those are courtesy of my
cousin Louis.”

Ian advanced toward her, holding
the vase out between them. “What do you mean, ‘hardly’?”

“My father thought they were
beautiful
objets d’Art
or somesuch, and bought them for Louis. What a
row that was.”

“What do you mean, ‘a row’?”

She shrugged a slim shoulder. “Louis
wanted some other vase. Or maybe not a vase at all. Although how he’d know what
the pawnbroker had in his shop anyway is beyond me, since he hadn’t even
bothered to go with Papa on his trip. Besides, beggars can’t be choosers, as
they say. And my cousin, I’m ashamed to admit, is a beggar of the worst sort.
He’s just greedy.”

“Your father bought these, but
Louis wanted him to buy something else?” Ian repeated, feeling like a parrot.

Alicia nodded. “That was always
the way of it. Papa’s the expert in antiquities, not Louis, so I wasn’t
surprised at all to see him mind his own preferences, but you’d have thought he
left behind a thousand pounds in gold, the way Louis carried on. He’s always
like that, though. He gets the same way when his Waterfall looks more ‘fallen’
than ‘folded,’ and the time I criticized his purple-striped waistcoat – oh! –
you wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere near him that day.”

Ian stared from his wife to the
glass vase and back again. Somehow, he managed to close his shocked-open jaw
and set the vase back where he found it. Unbelievable.

“I’ve got to go,” he muttered and
took the stairs to his chambers two at a time. Louis Larouche. Who’d have
thought it possible? As fast as he could, he dashed off a note to Caspian and
gave it to his steward to post.

Ian rang for overnight baggage to
be packed and his carriage to be brought ’round. Within minutes, he’d changed
into more comfortable traveling clothes and grabbed both his swordstick and his
gun. Louis may be a self-important fribble, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t an
armed fribble.

Castigating himself for his own
stupidity, Ian set off down the road on the twelve-hour ride to London.

*          *          *

The sun had already risen by the
time Ian pulled into London, his legs leaden with exhaustion and his eye
twitching with irritation. He considered swinging by his townhouse for a few
hours of sleep, but decided to ride straight to Larouche’s residence instead.

Shaking the last remnants of
sleepiness from his head, Ian leapt from the coach and sprinted up the walkway
to Larouche’s front door. He picked up the heavy brass knocker and banged
several times before stepping back and waiting. After a few moments, Ian
grabbed the metal handle and beat the knocker against the door until he thought
his arm might fall off.

Nothing. 

Ian frowned. It was one thing for
Larouche to be out somewhere, and quite another for his staff to not answer the
door in order to turn away visitors. Surely Larouche employed a man for just
such purposes? Or even a humble maid-of-all-work. Or hell, a cook would do.
Couldn’t someone, anyone, answer the door?

Before he began to annoy the
neighbors with his incessant knocking, Ian stalked back to his coach and rode
off a short distance before circling around on foot to the rear of the row
houses. After ascertaining which belonged to Larouche, he made use of the
windows and found his way inside.

All was silent and dark.

“Anyone home?” Ian called,
neither expecting nor receiving a response.

He yanked open the curtains,
letting sunlight filter through the dirty glass, and stared in disbelief. It
seemed he stood in some sort of drawing room; that is, one that had been
misfortunate enough to have a tornado tear through it.

Chairs lay on their sides, shelves
stood stripped of their possessions, and rubbish littered the floor. The hearth
was cold and uninviting. Ian passed from room to room, throwing open the
curtains for light and discovering each area to be in equal or worse condition
than the last.

Either Larouche didn’t bother to
employ any staff, or his household had quite the shoddiest service Ian had ever
seen.

“Damn it,” he muttered and jumped
when someone’s heavy hand thumped at the rear door. Before Ian had a chance to
move elsewhere, wood cracked and splintered and the door flew inward, swinging
on its hinges and banging against the wall.

Two large, burly men darkened the
doorway, their faces in a scowl and their fists at the ready. From behind them
stepped a small, slender man, dressed in natty garb and carrying a small
pistol.

“Mr. Morrissey,” drawled a low,
careless voice.

“Mr. Porter,” acknowledged Ian,
hoping his abject idiocy didn’t show on his face. He’d pitied Porter for
getting trapped in Larouche’s company at parties. Either he’d come to put a
permanent end to Larouche’s painful prattling, or Ian had been an even bigger
fool than he’d supposed. He should never have dismissed the vicious little
fribble based on his repulsive sense of style and regrettable tendency to flit
from place to place on the tips of his toes.

“I can only assume you’re here
for the same reason I am.” Porter gestured with his pistol. “Where might I find
my ridiculous protégé?”

“Gone,” Ian answered. “I suspect
he’s fled for good.”

“Damn. That’s the first sign of
intelligence he’s shown since I met him.”

“Maybe ’e knew we was gonna break
more than ’is legs this time, boss.”

“I was gonna break ’is whole
head,” agreed the other thug, cracking his knuckles for emphasis.

“Quiet, fools,” snapped Porter,
rolling his eyes at Ian as if to say, “See what nonsense I must endure?”

“Might I ask why you’re here?”
Ian ventured.

Porter cast a weary look about
the townhouse and put his pistol back in his pocket. “I’ve just come to have a
bit of a chat with the fellow about some debts I’d hoped he’d settle today. And
you?”

Ian schooled his features into a
bland expression and replied, “Oh, I came for a certain set of jewels he
claimed to have.”

“The devil you did!” exclaimed
Porter, color infusing his pale face. “The little bastard!”

“Hey… I thought them jewels was
for you, boss.”

“And I thought I told you to shut
your cakehole,” Porter responded, his hands twitching at his sides.

Ian lounged against one wall, one
leg bent at the knee and his boot flush with the wooden paneling. “I don’t
suppose he owes you a bit of blunt for gaming, does he?”

“You don’t suppose he–” Porter
goggled at him. “Good God, man, who doesn’t he owe?”

“Reputable gaming clubs,” Ian
answered. He’d checked every legitimate betting book within the city limits for
anyone with suspicious wins or losses.

“His debts aren’t written anywhere but the vowels I
hold in my pocket.”

“And he was supposed to repay
them with some stolen jewelry?”

One of the ruffians chuckled.
“That or his cousin’s dowry. ’Course, I’d be just as happy for a minute or two
with that bit of fluff. That yellow hair and them big–”

Porter slanted Ian an apologetic
grimace before whirling on his men. “For the love of God. Keep your traps shut,
or I will shut them myself.”

Both swarthy cutthroats crossed
their thick arms across their barrel chests and glared sullenly. After a
moment, Porter nodded and turned back to Ian.

“What good would come of Larouche
marrying her?”

“Are you kidding, man? She was
good for at least eight thousand up front and an annual income besides. And
once she inherits…”

“Even if he married her, she
wouldn’t inherit until her father died.”

“Be that as may be,” replied
Porter with a smile cold enough to make hairs rise on the back of Ian’s arms.

Christ. Larouche planned to marry
one cousin and kill the other just to repay some gambling debts? Chadwick was
worse than innocent – he’d been badly used and might be in danger even now.

Ian’s gaze flicked toward the
door and discovered it still blocked by two towering masses of brainless brawn.
“I should leave you to your business, then. I hope you find him.”

Porter motioned his men to clear
the doorway and handed Ian a card. “Should you find him first, Morrissey –
would you be so kind as to forward me his location?”

Ian inclined his head, ducked out
the door, and loped across the lawn. He had to get to Chadwick House as soon as
possible and warn the Baron before it was too late.

*          *          *

For the fifth straight day – in
fact, every morning since she’d been married – Alicia awoke alone. The very
last effect she’d expected to cause by forcing Ian to speak to her was to chase
him from his own house and have him vanish into the night through a cloud of
flying dirt and a flurry of horses’ hooves.

There was no telling what went on
in men’s minds, but she sure hoped his flight was temporary. With a sigh,
Alicia dressed and went down to breakfast. She’d just have to seduce her
husband when he returned to Heatherley. When he came back home to her.

She just hoped he returned soon. 

The morning vanished somewhere
between meeting with the housekeeper, walking in the garden with Carlotta and
Aunt Beatrix, and taking her marital frustrations out on the poor pianoforte.
It was during this last that Poppy stormed into the music room, waving a wet
paintbrush instead of her usual fan.

“You play very well,” Poppy said
through clenched teeth, clearly struggling for diplomacy. “However, may I also
state that you play very loud? Would you mind overmuch if I begged you to play
just… a little… softer? I can hear you outside!”