To Love a Spy

by Aileen Fish

  He was unaware they’d stopped. Her borrowed blue skirts were disappearing out into the sunshine before he realized he’d closed his eyes in anticipation of that kiss. He decided to add that to her bill as well.

  Livvy stood inside her father’s foyer as if uncertain of being welcomed in her own home. Or perhaps she was merely afraid to hear word of her father. She jumped when North placed his arm around her. If he had to touch her a thousand times to erase the memory of Marquardt’s hands, he would do so and gladly. If she recoiled from him, he would stand at arm’s length for the rest of their lives if need be, but no further.

  To his utter relief, she pulled him tighter to her. He could have shouted for joy. Instead, he shouted for Ashmoore.

  His friend ran out of the drawing room in stockinged feet, sliding for a bit on the marble floor before changing direction and launching himself at Livvy. No doubt the woman was as shocked by his friend’s appearance as he, for she allowed the man to take what embrace he would.

  Northwick cleared his throat and when that failed to end that embrace, he flicked his friend’s ear. “What the devil is wrong with you?”

  Ash finally stepped back. His eyes were rimmed in red. He wore no cravat. More than one button was missing from his black shirt, and his curly dark hair looked as if it had never known a brush. All this since last night?

  “What is it, Ash? What’s happened?”

  Ashmoore looked at Livvy with all the pity in the world swimming in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again.

  “Good God!” Stanley’s voice rang out from above. North turned to find his other friend collapsing on the stairs. “That runner of yours told us Livvy was safe, but I refused to believe it until I saw her for myself. He also reported that Lord Marquardt died from a sudden gain in weight, so of course I knew he had his facts wrong.” He waved his fingers. “Welcome home, Livvy. Such as it is.”

  “Thank you, Stanley.” Livvy gave him a weak smile. “I take it my father is not at home?”

  “Not yet!” Harcourt beamed from the head of the stairs. “I would put nothing past the old man. He is Livvy’s father, after all.”

  “That is true, Presley. Thank you.” Livvy’s smile remained sad and North wished he could run back and kill Marquardt all over again.

  Harcourt frowned at North in confusion. “Did she just call me Presley?”

  “I fear she did,” Livvy said. “Now, where should we look for my father?”

  North dropped his chin to his chest. If their children took after their mother, his life would be a constant goose chase—a glorious goose chase, but exhausting just the same.

  “I would turn the house upside down. He absolutely must be here somewhere.” Lord Telford stood grinning while a footman took his heavy coat from his shoulders.

  “Papa!” Livvy walked delicately toward her father. Her body jerked a bit with each step, but she waved North away when he attempted to support her.

  The older man frowned and pulled her carefully into his arms. “Daughter. What have they done to you?”

  “I’ll be happy to tell you the whole of it just as soon as you tell me where you’ve been.”

  Telford looked none too repentant.

  “I was busy slaying your dragon, Princess.” His eyes glistened over a mischievous smile. “I insulted Lord Gordon. He failed to imagine what a marksman an old soldier might be. I quite surprised him. Just before he died, of course.”

  “Papa!”

  “I’ve been with the constable for most of the day. But I’m afraid it hasn’t been a very good day, Livvy dear.” He winked at his daughter then. “Hard to put a doddering Peer in prison for dueling. Especially when he doesn’t even remember his own name, let alone the duel.”

  Harcourt was the first to laugh. Stanley next. North was sure his outburst was due to relief alone, that the last known danger to His Livvy had been removed. Lord Telford led her into the drawing room and the gathering sobered as they each found a seat—all but Ashmoore who struck a familiar pose, glaring into the fire. North sat far too close to Livvy to be proper, but the only acceptable alternative would be for her to sit upon his lap. He was being far too generous to Lord Telford as it was; if Livvy did not need some time to recover from her ordeal, they would have traveled first to Gretna Green before returning to London. It was too bad of him to have asked for her hand while she was so grateful to be rescued, but a man clever enough to keep up with The Scarlet Plumiere had to take advantage where he could.

  Hopkins stood at attention near the door looking as if blinking caused him pain. Hung over, no doubt. Poor man. North could not help but laugh, but stopped when Ashmoore glared at him. Was he hung over as well? Then a thought struck.

  “Ash? Did you happen to get the drugged tea meant for Telford?”

  Telford laughed. “He did not. My tea went in the chamber pot. Hopkins is a terrible actor, if you must know.”

  Ashmoore rolled his eyes, then came to stand before North.

  “I have been of some service to you these last weeks, have I not?”

  North nodded. “You have, and I’m grateful of course. But why do I have the impression you are about to offer me a proposition I will not like? You cannot have Livvy, Ash. She has agreed to marry me. You will have to find another.”

  “I would like payment for services rendered.” Ash crossed his arms and waited.

  “Payment? Of course, my friend. Name your price. Any price but Livvy.”

  Everyone laughed but North. His gut remained clenched while he waited for the guillotine blade to fall.

  “The Scottish Property.” Ash lifted his chin as if expecting a challenge.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I am certain you heard me correctly.” Ashmoore blushed—before God and man, Ashmoore blushed.

  “Do you know something about this property that I do not? Have they perhaps found gold in the fleece?”

  “I know nothing about the place, other than it is far away from you lunatics. I need a rest. I cannot remember the last time I truly slept. If the estate is merely infested with The Plague, it will be a welcome change.”

  “How soon would you go, Earnest?” Livvy looked at her fingers, which were entwined with North’s.

  Ashmoore frowned at her, but ignored her sudden use of his given name.

  “I will not miss the happy event, if that is what you ask.”

  Livvy raised her head and gave him a generous smile. “And how long will you be gone from us?”

  Ash looked at his stockinged toes and put his hands behind him. “A year perhaps.”

  “A whole year? But what if... That is to say...” She looked at North for help.

  “Worry not, Livvy. We will send him word when... Er...” Dear lord, how did one word such things?

  “No!” Ash rolled his eyes and spun away from them. His hands came ‘round to dig themselves into his hair. “Do not send word when you find you are with child, Livvy. I will not return until it suits my purpose.”

  Stanley laughed. And he kept on laughing until North was sure the man had lost his senses. Finally, the future duke spoke.

  “Ashmoore has been infected, but not with the plague.”

  Ash growled in warning. Stanley pointed an accusing finger at him. North worried that finger might not be strong enough to hold the darker man back.

  “All this romance has turned his head. He only wants to go to Scotland—”

  “Stanley,” Ashmoore warned.

  “He wants to find that Scottish lass who stole his heart in France.”

  Ashmoore pounced, laying His Grace low, then sitting on him and pounding on his shoulder. They were boys in the dormitory again. Lord Telford laughed until he had to wipe tears from his eyes.

  When North could breathe again, he took pity.

  “Yes, Ash. You can have The Scottish Property. Since it was your lot that was drawn, it rightfully belongs to you. And do not forget the thousand pounds from me, and a horse from Stroth
sbury.”

  “I will take it all, thank you.” Ashmoore grumbled. “I assure you, I do not go in search of that Scotswoman who led us to you. She is still in France for all I know. I seek only rest and a bit of diversion.”

  North suppressed a smile. “You said she wore a mask?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds like another Scarlet Plumiere to me, Ashmoore. Heaven help you if you find her.”

  About the Author

  L.L. Muir lives in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains. Like most authors, she is constantly searching for, or borrowing pens.

  Bones for Bread, the sequel to Blood for Ink, is available now. Find details on the L.L. Muir website—www.llmuir.weebly.com .

  Anna and the Conductor

  Bess McBride

  Copyright © 2015 by:

  Bess McBride

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Cover art by Tara West

  This book was built at IndieWrites.com. Visit us on Facebook.

  Dedication

  This story is dedicated to my great-great-grandfather, Charles Logan Douglas Crockwell, who was most likely a stationmaster on the Iowa Underground Railroad in Jones County.

  And to Steve Hanken, who brought to my attention a newspaper article written in the eighteen hundreds about great-great-grandpa Charley, who was apparently a stationmaster for the Underground Railroad. Steve’s revelation and enthusiasm for the railroad in Iowa gave me the idea for this book when I was asked to include a story in a historical romance collection about spies. All historical errors are mine, not Steve’s.

  Dear Reader

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for purchasing Anna and the Conductor. Anna and the Conductor was written as part of a collection of sweet historical romances called To Love a Spy.

  When I discovered I would have a story included in the collection, I had no idea what I would write about. But as it happened, I had just come into contact with a man named Steve Hanken, who brought to my attention a newspaper article written in the eighteen hundreds about my great-great-grandpa Charley acting as a stationmaster on the Underground Railroad in Anamosa, Jones County, Iowa. Steve’s revelation and enthusiasm for the railroad in Iowa gave me the idea for this story.

  Anna and the Conductor is the story of Anna Douglas, a young woman who helps her father, a stationmaster on the Underground Railroad. When a mysterious conductor arrives on their doorstep to deliver escaped slaves in April 1861, she has no idea how her life will change. Throughout the Civil War, her love for George Damon, the conductor turned Union spy, endures, as does her commitment to the freedom of all slaves.

  Thank you for your support over the years, friends and readers. Because of your favorable comments, I continue to strive to write the best stories I can. More romances are on the way!

  You know I always enjoy hearing from you, so please feel free to contact me at bessmcbride@gmail.com, through my website at http://www.bessmcbride.com, or my blog Will Travel for Romance.

  Many of you know I also write a series of short cozy mysteries under the pen name of Minnie Crockwell. Feel free to stop by my website and learn more about the series.

  Thanks for reading!

  Bess

  Chapter 1

  Anna heard the knock on the door downstairs just as she readied for bed. She had been to a book reading at Mrs. Emerson’s house and had arrived home late—too late for a girl who needed to help her father out in his store the following morning.

  She snatched up her warm brown shawl and slipped it over her shoulders, picking up her candle as she ran down the stairs.

  “Anna!” her father called out in a low voice from behind her on the landing. “Do not open the door until I arrive.”

  Anna knew better than to pull the front door wide. Had they not been doing this for years?

  She waited for her father to reach the foot of the stairs. He wore a robe over his nightclothes, the sash snug against his rounded belly. He set his own candle down on a sideboard and snatched up a rifle he kept by the front door, one that Anna often wished he would store in some sensible cabinet rather than simply prop it by the door. She thought the rifle much too large for her father, not a tall man by any means.

  Anna moved toward the window beside the door. A full moon revealed that a buckboard wagon pulled by two horses waited out front.

  “It is a wagon,” she whispered.

  Her father nodded grimly and unlocked the door and opened it slowly.

  “Yes?” he spoke in a hushed voice.

  Anna inched near the door to hear better, but she remained out of sight given her state of undress.

  “Mr. Logan Douglas?” A man spoke in a deep baritone.

  “Yes?” her father replied.

  “Are you the stationmaster?” the man asked.

  Her father’s hand on the door clenched, not an unusual occurrence during these late-night deliveries, which were always fraught with danger, the possibility of discovery.

  “Yes, I am the stationmaster.”

  “I have three bundles for you.”

  Anna drew in a sharp breath. Three? They had only previously received no more than two bundles at a time.

  “Three at once is excessive,” her father protested, albeit weakly. There was no doubt in Anna’s mind that her father would take delivery. He had never turned anyone away. How could he?

  “One of them is very small,” said the man. The resonance of his voice compelled Anna, and she stuck her head around the edge of the door to see him.

  A tall man dressed completely in dark clothing, the conductor standing on the porch wore a large broad-brimmed hat pulled low and a scarf across the lower portion of his face.

  “Who are you?” Anna couldn’t help but ask. He was not the usual conductor. “Where is Mr. Devereaux?”

  “The former conductor has retired. I am taking over for him,” he said, tilting his head as if to see her better. “I cannot stand out here all night,” he said brusquely. “Are you taking delivery?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” her father said. “Bring them.”

  The man turned, and Anna’s father addressed her sternly.

  “This man is a stranger, Anna! How many times must I ask you to stay hidden behind the door? What if this is a trap?”

  “I was curious,” she said, unabashed. “And surprised that it was not Mr. Devereaux.” At twenty-one, she hardly heeded her father’s scolding, though she loved him dearly. “There was something about his voice.”

  She peeked around the edge of the door again to watch the masked stranger unload the back of the wagon.

  “Three, Father,” she murmured. “Will the deliveries continue to increase in size, or could this be an isolated incident?”

  He shook his head and sighed, his eyes on the conductor.

  “I do not know, my dear. Some days, I wish they would deliver all of them, but I cannot imagine that there is enough infrastructure to store them all.”

  “Store them, indeed,” Anna said with a half smile.

  The conductor stepped up onto the porch again carrying a bundle. He thrust it in her father’s arms.

  A faint cry came from the bundle, and Anna gasped! She emerged from behind the door, lifted her candle high and pulled aside the drab blanket. A small face, golden brown with dark eyes, peered at her. A smile played on the baby’s mouth.

  “A baby?” she asked breathlessly. She peered around the bulk of the tall man and saw two bedraggled women on the porch behind him, both huddled in dark blankets.

  “Come in. Come in!” she said hastily. Her father seemed stunned to find himself holding a baby. Anna set her candle down on the small table by the door and took the baby from him.

  The women shuffled into the house, one of them eying the baby wildly.

  “Is this your baby?” Anna asked. “She is safe. We will take
good care of you. Do not worry. Everything is going to be all right.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the younger of the two said.

  “Do not promise them something you cannot deliver, Miss Douglas,” the conductor said in a gruff voice.

  Anna turned to him, both irritated and intrigued.

  “I am promising them because I will do whatever it takes to get them to their next station. A little bit of hope goes a long way,” she said.

  “Let us hope so,” he said. He tipped his hat in her direction. “Until next time.”

  “Come away, Anna,” her father said. “We must close the door.”

  “Wait! What is your name?” she asked the conductor.

  “No name,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “If that is how you wish it,” Anna said, reluctant to see him go. “Thank you for the delivery.”

  “You are quite welcome.” He strode down the porch stairs, jumped into the wagon and drove away before she could juggle the baby and shut the door.

  Mrs. Brickman, their housekeeper, had heard the commotion and come into the hallway, fully dressed in a serviceable dark-blue taffeta dress.

  “Come along, girls,” she said, guiding them toward the kitchen. “Is that a baby in your arms, Anna?”

  “It is, Mrs. Brickman,” Anna said, following them, her father bringing up the rear. “And he is just beautiful!”

  “She, ma’am,” the younger woman said in a hoarse whisper. “She’s a girl.”

  “Better yet!” Anna said. “She is beautiful.” She beamed at the baby, who responded in kind.

  “You will stay in the attic while you are with us,” Mrs. Brickman told the women. “You will be safe there. Miss Douglas will see you comfortable, and I will prepare some food and tea for you.”

  “I ain’t never had no tea, ma’am,” the taller and older of the two said.