“It isn’t like the French to come after a child.”
“Because it’s not the French. It’s Paxton himself.”
Which was why Paxton had been the one to find the ransom note, how Meri had disappeared without struggle or shouts…because he had been the one to take her.
“That’s why I came here, to place myself between the diary and Paxton,” Morgan explained. “He had to believe that he was being given the true diary, or the French would never stop looking for information against LeFavre or leave my family alone.”
Morgan’s involvement was more self-serving than that. “They would also know that they had a double agent in their midst.”
“That, too. So the exchange had to go on as planned. I’m very good at copying my father’s handwriting, so I made a forgery of the diary and switched it out last night during the festival. I’d hoped that by the time Paxton realized he’d been had that Diana would be safely home and that he would be arrested. But his men were too quick.”
“Now they have Diana,” Kit murmured. “They’ll want to ransom her for the real diary.”
“And we’ll hand it over, just as they want. I’ve already sent messages to the Foreign Office in London to inform them of what’s happening.”
“So you’re not a traitor,” Kit drawled, his eyes narrowing. “Just a murderer.”
Morgan stiffened. “I had nothing to do with Fitch-Batten’s death.”
“You were there, God damn you,” Kit muttered, his hands drawing up into fists at his sides.
“I was in that alley, but he was dead by the time I found him. Your partner was investigating routine communications, not knowing that Paxton had used those same channels himself to contact the French. Or that Fitch-Batten’s contacts were pointing him directly at Paxton. When the major learned of it, he wanted to silence any chance of being discovered, which meant killing Fitch-Batten.”
Or Kit, if he had been there as he should have been. With no warning that any of this had been going on, that the Foreign Office had been closing in upon Paxton and making him desperate enough to murder an operative, it so easily could have been him.
“I had no option but to walk away. Doing anything else would have revealed my position and destroyed all that we’d put into motion. More good men would have died, others forced from their posts—I made the decision to remain silent, and I don’t regret it, knowing the alternative. It’s the same thing you would have done. As any good agent would have.” Morgan fixed a hard gaze on Kit. “Direct your anger at Paxton where it belongs. You’ll have your justice when we arrest him.”
“And Diana?” he demanded.
“Paxton’s holding her on a ship anchored in the harbor.” Morgan pointed a finger at the map. “We know exactly where she is, but we can’t get to her. If we try to take her by force, they’ll see us coming, raise anchor, and sail away.”
“Or kill her,” Kit added quietly.
“That, too. So we have to make Paxton bring her to us.” Morgan murmured as his eyes scanned the map, “And we use the diary to do it.”
“No.” Absolutely not. “I won’t make this into a trap for Paxton. I don’t give a damn if the French get away with the diary. This will be an honest exchange for Diana, that’s all. I will not put her at risk.”
“Neither would I.”
“Then we’re clear on that point.” He placed his palms back onto the table and leaned toward Morgan. “Let’s be clear about something else, then, too. You don’t like me, and I sure as hell don’t like you.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed for a beat, but the man wisely said nothing.
“But I will do whatever it takes to keep Diana safe, understand? Including handing you over to the French, if I have to.”
“Good. Because I would do no less with you.”
Clenching his jaw, Kit straightened. “Then call your men back. We have a rescue to plan.”
Chapter 24
Kit stood alone on the end of the empty pier and stared out across the blue-green water of the bay through the small spyglass. Overhead, seagulls rose and fell on the afternoon air, calling to each other and frantic to capture the small fish and shellfish carried into the harbor on the rising tide, while boats bobbed at anchor across the bay. Despite the sunshine, the sea breeze carried a small chill. It stirred his blond hair as he stood there hatless so his face would be easily seen and brushed his black greatcoat around his legs. Nothing else about him moved.
His eyes never left the little dinghy as the boy slowly rowed it across the harbor toward a ship anchored near the mouth of the harbor. The ship where the French were holding Diana. The lad’s red hair shined beneath his blue sailor’s cap and made it easier to gauge his distance as the boy conveyed the message from Kit that he’d been paid well to deliver.
I know that you have Diana Morgan.
The boat bumped into the hull of the ship as the boy finally reached it after half an hour’s rowing, with Kit standing there on the dock, unmoving, the entire time.
The lad called to the sailors on the deck and gestured for them to unfurl a rope ladder so he could climb up. Shouts were exchanged, but the boy didn’t give up and pressed the sailors again. But of course he did, because Kit had told him that he wouldn’t get paid unless he delivered the message to the men on the boat and brought back a response.
I am offering a trade—the diary for Miss Morgan.
Through the spyglass, Kit watched as the sailors onboard finally tossed a rope ladder over the side. The boy scurried up the swinging rope rungs like a creature born to the sea. When he reached the top, one of the sailors grabbed him by the back of the breeches and hauled him up and over the rail, to unceremoniously drop him onto the deck amid hoots and jeers.
The lad climbed to his feet and brushed himself off. Then he reached beneath his black peacoat to pull out the folded note. One of the sailors approached him quickly and snatched away the message. When he grabbed the boy by the collar to warn him about playing games, the boy jabbed a finger back toward land. Right at Kit, who didn’t lower the spyglass or look away.
I have the real diary. I have had it on me all along, not trusting you to keep to your word. I suspected a double-cross and so prepared a forgery, and that is what you did last night by approaching the woman without warning or notifying me. Now, I expect a proper exchange.
On the ship, the sailor let go of the lad and reached for his own spyglass hanging from a leather belt loop at his side. He pulled it open and looked across the harbor, his gaze coming to rest on Kit.
Kit put down the spyglass and picked up the lit lantern burning its small flame at his feet. To make a show of exactly how real his threat was, he flicked open the small glass door, then reached inside his jacket and withdrew the diary. He held it up over his head, to be certain that the sailor recognized it. Then he placed it into the flame, letting the edges of the pages singe brown before pulling it away and beating out the flames against his thigh.
If you do not agree, I will burn the diary, and then you will never have what you want. You will never discover who in the French court is sending information to England.
Kit tucked the diary back out of sight, lowered the lamp, and picked up the spyglass once more. Once more keeping an unmoving watch. Onboard the ship, the sailor lowered his glass and hurried away toward the stern, down the stairs, and below deck.
A short time later, he returned. He held a message in his hand that he shoved at the boy, then pointed at the pier in Kit’s general direction. The lad nodded, tucked the note beneath his cap on his head, and headed back down the rope ladder to his little boat, to begin the long stretch of rowing back across the harbor to the docks.
Kit lowered the spyglass, smacked it with his palm to retract it, and tucked it into his breast pocket, not bothering to look through it again as he waited patiently. His heart pounded off the seconds with dread, although he forced himself to not show one bit of emotion on his face.
Bring Miss Morgan to the old boa
thouse at midnight for the exchange. I will not negotiate other terms. The diary for the woman. That is all.
After an interminably long wait, the boy reached the pier, right where Kit was waiting, his stance wide-legged beneath his caped greatcoat, his left fist pressed into the small of his back. He didn’t move, not even to reach a hand to help the boy onto the pier when he tied the boat to the iron ring between Kit’s feet.
You know who I am and what I am capable of doing. You also know that I am a dead man with nothing to lose. Do not cross me.
The lad panted hard, exhausted and out of breath from the exertion of rowing, as he climbed up onto the pier. He yanked off his cap and handed the message to Kit. He didn’t bother to pull back his hand, waiting for Kit to place the sovereign coin onto his palm.
The lad closed his fist around the coin, gave the brim of his cap a tug of appreciation for payment as he returned it to his head, then walked away, shrugging out his tight shoulders as he went.
Kit broke the wax seal on the note, unfolded it, and read the short message. They had agreed to his terms.
Crumpling the note in his fist, he threw it into the harbor. He turned on his boot heel and strode off, down the long pier toward the village. He didn’t look back.
If you harm her in any way, I will slaughter you. Every last one of you.
Chapter 25
In the dim light of a candle lantern that swayed slowly in time to the ship’s gentle rocking, Diana slipped the tip of the knife into the narrow gap between the door and the frame.
Undoubtedly, this wasn’t at all the way that Kit had expected her to make use of his knife. Not to wiggle it into a latch but to slice it into a man’s gut. And yet…
“A woman has to do what a woman has to do,” she whispered and slid the knife along the side of the door, feeling for the cabin hook on the other side.
In this case, a woman working to free herself.
When one of the men who had shoved her into the cabin brought her dinner several hours later—a dinner she took one glance at and had no intention of eating—she listened carefully to the door when it closed. Not the clink-click of a padlock locking her inside, but the clank-clink of a falling hook. Which told her that a cabin hook secured the door, the kind she remembered on the doors of the ship from India. The kind of hook-and-eye latch that could be pried open if she could just lift the little arm out of its eye, if she could slip something between the door and the frame to hold it open.
So she’d been patient and bided her time, until the right moment came to free herself.
Just as she’d listened carefully to the sound of the door when it had closed, she’d also listened to the sounds of the ship around her. The sun had set nearly six hours earlier—she’d kept track of time by the tolling bell of the parish church, which could just barely be heard across the water—and in that time, the ship had grown quiet and still. Only the occasional groan of boards, flapping of sailcloth, and the slapping of waves against the hull broke the evening calmness. Even the sailors had all settled below deck for the night, retiring to their bunks and hammocks. No one stood in the gangway, guarding her. Why would they? Where could she possibly have gone?
But she’d had all day to make plans, to run through scenario after scenario. And now it was time to act.
This ship was similar to the one her family had traveled on from India, and during those long weeks when she’d had nothing to do but mourn John’s death, feel sorry for herself, and pace the length of the ship while her belly grew beneath her dress, she’d come to know that ship well. She could still remember where the crew kept the rope ladders they used to climb on and off the ship and to the little dinghies tied to the side of the boat or trailing behind the stern. She also knew where the crew stood to keep watch across the water and how to sneak around those places without being seen, not wanting to draw any more attention to herself then as possible.
Once she was free from this cabin, she would let down one of those rope ladders and climb down, cut free with the knife the dinghy tied below, and simply drift away into the darkness. By the time they realized she was gone, she’d be back on dry land.
“With Christopher,” she whispered. Because this wasn’t only about saving herself any longer. It was also about saving the people she loved. Which now included him.
Ding! The blade hit the bottom of the latch.
Holding her breath, she placed both hands on the knife handle and raised it straight up, slowly feeling the little iron hook lift from its catch on the other side of the door. With one hand keeping the knife in place, holding the hook freely in the air, she slowly opened the door. Silently, one painfully slow movement at a time, she carefully pushed the door open as she withdrew the knife in equal measure to keep it from jamming in the doorframe.
When the blade slipped free, the hook fell against the door with a soft jangle.
She froze. She strained for any sound that anyone was there in the gangway. But she heard nothing except the rush of blood pounding in her ears with every frantic heartbeat.
Deciding that it was safe to continue, she paused to tuck the knife back into place beneath her skirt, closed the door behind her, and silently returned the cabin hook to its place so no one would know she was missing. Then she glanced up and down the dark gangway. Pitch-black, except for a beam of moonlight falling inside through the hatch above the short set of stairs leading up to the deck.
The only way out.
She took a deep breath and started forward, feeling along the wall with her outstretched hand and keeping her eyes on the patch of moonlight. Each footstep was agonizingly slow, but she had to go carefully and silently, praying that any misstep would be mistaken for a creak of the boat in the changing humidity and temperatures.
When she reached the stairs, she grabbed the hatchway with both hands to help keep her balance and stepped up onto the deck. She flattened herself against the side of the aft cabin and glanced over her shoulder as she moved slowly toward the stern railing—
She smacked into a man’s solid body. She jumped back, startled. Before she could scream, the man’s face became visible in the pale moonlight, and the sound strangled in her throat.
Her mouth fell open. “Major Paxton?” Relief poured through her, so fiercely that she began to shake. “Thank God…” She reached for him, throwing her arms around his neck in relief as she choked out, “Thank God you’re here!”
She’d never been so happy to see him in her life. With a prayer of thanks to God, she immediately regretted every uncharitable thought she’d ever had about the man. Oh, she could kiss him!
“Are we safe here?” she whispered, still too wary to speak at full voice. Around them, the ship was just as dark and silent as when she’d left her cabin. “Have your men taken over the ship, then?”
“In a matter of speaking.”
A ragged breath fell from her lips with a soft little laugh that lay somewhere between hysteria and relief. Oh, thank heavens! She was safe. “And Christopher? Where is he?”
“On shore.” A cold smile pulled at his thin lips. “Waiting for you.”
An icy suspicion crawled up her spine. Something wasn’t right. The ship was too quiet, too still, for a rescue that would have required approaching over water, then overpowering sailors on watch.
The truth pounded through her as she fisted the lapels of his uniform coat in her hands. His red coat.
“It was you,” she whispered barely louder than the waves lapping at the side of the ship, stunned. “All along, it was you.”
She released him and stepped back, staring at him as the monster he truly was materialized in front of her eyes.
“You sent the note about Garrett being kidnapped, and you told that Frenchman where the general kept his diary.” Fury replaced her fear, and she struck at him with her fists, striking his shoulders. “You took Meri! You bastard!”
He grabbed her by the wrists and yanked her against him, forcing her to stop.
“You made me do it.” He clenched his jaw, and Diana gasped at the anger for her in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have had to take her away if you had handed over the diary like I asked.”
Hatred for him stung like acid on her tongue.
“I gave you opportunity after opportunity. You put your daughter in danger, Diana.”
Your daughter. Her stomach pitched sickeningly. “You…know?”
His eyes gleamed at her naïveté. “There’s nothing that happens at Idlewild that I don’t know about. Especially if it concerns you.” He brushed his knuckles over her cheek, and she flinched beneath his touch. “You’d do anything to protect your family, which is why I convinced you that Garrett had been kidnapped. You were supposed to have handed the diary to the French that night at the tavern. I’d have gotten my reward and left England then. But you brought the memoir pages instead, and the French thought I’d double-crossed them. They nearly killed me for it.”
“What a shame,” she drawled. She yanked her arm away and stepped back from him as rage burned in her chest.
“That’s why they came after you the night of the party. They didn’t want to wait for me to deliver it and decided to steal it themselves. When the Frenchman couldn’t find it in the cabinet, he thought he could force you into handing it over.”
She would have, too, and gladly, if she had known where it was, if she had known all that the general’s notes would place in jeopardy since that night. “Why not take the diary and give it to them yourself?” Her hands clenched into fists. “Damn you! Why did you come after an innocent little girl?”
“Because I didn’t know where your father kept it. He never brought it out in front of me. He didn’t trust me enough for that. So I had to get to it another way.”
He took a step toward her, but she stood her ground. She would never let him intimidate her.
After the Spy Seduces Page 24
