* * *
Two days later
* * *
Shaldon had just buttered his toast and started on the pile of that morning’s post, when Kincaid burst into the breakfast room.
Lady Sirena raised her blonde head from the scandal sheet she was perusing and frowned. “Kincaid, should you be up and about with that wound not yet properly healed? Oh, do sit down, and our man will make you a plate.”
He and Kincaid had both been up half the night, moving from one likely haunt to another, and there was still no word of Jane. His few hours of rest had not been enough, and he took the paper Kincaid thrust at him with a meaningful glare. He had one just like it in his stack of morning newssheets.
“’Tis a fact that his lordship takes all the papers,” Sirena said. “And reads them also.”
“Yes, my lady.” Kincaid seated himself and began digging into the food placed in front of him by the footman.
Sirena laughed. “Well, and ’tis also a fact that I’ve a busy morning ahead.” She pushed away from the table and beckoned the footman. “Come along and close the breakfast room door so his lordship and Mr. Kincaid may talk without interference.”
Her cheek dimpled around her grin as the door closed. She’d no doubt be sending a servant out for another copy of the paper Kincaid had presented for her private review.
“’Tis news that you have, I suppose,” Shaldon said, copying his Irish daughter-in-law.
Kincaid rolled his eyes.
“An incipient insurrection? A spurious diplomat? A—”
“A rare painting for sale.”
He flipped to the advertisements, his pulse accelerating.
And there it was.
A rare seventeenth-century painting by a Spanish artist living in New Spain. Lost and recently found. Lovingly restored. Private bids only. Write for information.
The address given was the newssheet’s.
He tapped the paper. The Duque would never offer the painting for sale. So, it had not, as they’d feared, been the Duque’s men on that road. Then who?
And what of Lady Jane? Dread slithered through him. Perhaps she was lying dead between London and Yorkshire, while he’d been running after the long train of the King’s coronation robe.
“Any more news of Jane?”
Kincaid shook his head. “The only sighting has been that one of Ewan’s.”
He’d talked to Ewan himself. The description he gave was convincing, but what the devil was she doing traveling alone by coach?
“What word on the maid?” he asked. “Did she return to Charles and Graciela?”
“No answer to that yet. They’re on their way to London. Perhaps the maid will arrive with them.”
“And Barton?”
Kincaid chewed a mouthful of food and swallowed. “I sent a man in to talk to her. Swears neither she nor La Fanelle know aught of Jane’s whereabouts. She hasn’t left that shop except to make a delivery or two, with none to Lady Jane.”
Shaldon took a sip of his coffee. It had gone tepid.
“Perhaps she’s there at the shop, upstairs in the living quarters. Perhaps she slipped in without us seeing her.” He set down the cup. “Go in and have a look.”
“Marie will stick a knife in me again.”
“Wait until she’s gone out and talk to Barton yourself.”
“And you think she’ll not lie to me too?” Kincaid scoffed. “Why not search for the painting there, since that’s also gone missing.”
Unease threaded through Shaldon. Jane had sent Fox off promising to prepare the painting for transport herself.
He shook it off. She wouldn’t have—couldn’t have—hired men to attack his men. She didn’t have a mercenary bone in her body. Nothing her cousin said about her independence could change his mind about that.
“Might Cheswick be right, and she’s run off to Ireland?”
“Not without her clothing and personal effects. Let’s start again—if Lady Jane was to go to ground in London, where would she hide?”
And why? He couldn’t seem to shake the question, or the obvious answer. He’d pawed her. He’d teased her about marrying a man she found distasteful. He’d ordered her to stay in Yorkshire and miss a once in a lifetime occasion she’d been looking forward to.
She loathed him.
“We shouldn’t ignore Cheswick’s speculation about Ireland,” Kincaid said.
Cheswick had implied that Shaldon bore some of the blame in her brother’s death. Did Jane feel that way also? She must.
What else had he missed about her?
“No. Ewan saw her on a London coach.” He rubbed at his jaw. “Might she have taken a ship from here to the Continent?”
Kincaid pushed back his plate and stood, wincing. “After I visit the newspaper office, I’ll check at the docks.”
“Send a man. Go to the modiste’s shop first.”
“Better I send a man to see Marie.”
“It’s been too many years for Marie to hold a grudge.”
Kincaid turned a reproachful look on him.
He sighed. Of course, he was wrong. He’d been settling old grudges for the last few years. A woman could be just as vengeful.
“You don’t know Marie as well as I do.”
That was true. Kincaid’s romance with La Fanelle had been years ago in France. The enmity Kincaid felt toward her was still fresh though.
“Don’t over-tax your wound,” he said.
Kincaid grunted and left.
A few minutes later, Bakeley joined him, the footman slipping in behind him to pour coffee.
His heir was, as usual, perfectly groomed and attired, looking fresher than he had since Shaldon’s return from Yorkshire.
“A late morning,” Shaldon said.
“I slept.”
The King had tapped him for ceremonial duties, and he and Sirena had organized a grand wedding and breakfast for Lady Perry and Fox. He’d done well, this second son of his. He would make a better Lord Shaldon than he himself had done.
“What are you about today?” Shaldon asked. “Spending time with your lady?”
“I’m off to look at a horse.”
“Is Lady Sirena going with you?” Bakeley’s wife was the daughter of an Irish earl, the family impoverished by horse-breeding and her father’s penchant for drink. She was as passionate as her husband about horses.
“No, though I did invite her. She informed me she was spending the morning at Lady Hackwell’s with Paulette and also Barton, who’s bringing over her latest sketches.”
A buzzing started in his ears. Lady Sirena would not turn down a chance to look at a horse, except for something of importance, which would not include sketches of gowns. And his eldest son’s wife, Paulette, was not known as a leader of the ton’s fashion scene, nor was Lady Hackwell. Both ladies, however, were close to the missing maid, Jenny. Barton had been Lady Jane’s maid before going into business with Madame La Fanelle. And Sirena had lived with Jane as a companion before marrying Bakeley and taking Jenny as her own maid for a time.
“How is Barton finding the time?” he asked. “I’ve been watching the shop. It’s full of patrons, with porters running willy-nilly delivering packages. Your millinery business has done well.”
Bakeley laughed. “If only all my investments were so profitable. Speaking of that, Father, have you decided about a post for Penderbrook yet?”
Quentin Penderbrook, his son Charles’s friend, was in dire need of an income.
“I’m asking,” Bakeley said, “because my steward in Kent is wanting to retire. I considered letting Penderbrook have a trial.”
“In spite of his gambling debts?”
Bakeley paused in cutting a large piece of ham. “Charley said it and he’s right—there’s something off about those debts. That Payne-Elsdon fellow has bought up all of Penderbrook’s vowels.”
Payne-Eldon had been a major in the King’s army, serving in Spain. His reputation was sordid even without his associatio
n with the Duque de San Sebastian.
“I know we promised Charley we’d look into a position for Penderbrook,” Bakeley said, “But if he’s swimming in the Duque’s murky waters, he may need more than money.”
Shaldon rose and passed the newspapers to Bakeley. “The one on the top has a most interesting advertisement for a painting. Don’t toss it out.”
He sent the footman to order his carriage while he went for his hat.
Chapter 8
Jane held tightly onto Mr. Lewis’s arm as he escorted her and Jenny through the Hackwell House mews to the residence’s back entrance.
She’d risen early and dressed in her plain traveling gown, an unadorned drab, the better to pass inconspicuously through town. She’d been preparing for the most important visit of her life, when this summons to Hackwell House had arrived.
If Lady Hackwell insisted on this meeting, there must be boundaries to her benevolence.
At the garden door, Lady Hackwell’s warm greeting eased the knotting in her stomach, and they climbed up the stairs to a small sitting room.
“My lady.” Barton shot up from her seat and came to greet her, with Lady Sirena joining in, and Mrs. Gibson reaching for Jenny.
A tea tray littered with empty cups sat atop the round table, and Barton’s large portfolio lay open next to it.
“I’m sorry we’re late. We decided to walk.” It wasn’t far, and she needed to conserve her coins.
“Next time I’ll send a carriage,” Lady Hackwell said.
“Or I will,” Sirena said.
“Better I should,” Paulette Gibson said. “The Gibsons are not so grand. Bink and I, being mere commoners, generally find it easier to elude Lord Shaldon than the rest of you.”
Her stomach fluttered. So, they all knew she was avoiding the Earl.
“You are so kind.” Jane forced a smile. If they knew the whole truth about her flight from him, they might not be so willing to help.
A maid appeared and refreshed the table, and they all seated themselves.
She was grateful for the few moments to gather her thoughts. She must have a care what she said. Other than Barton, none of the women present, not even Jenny, knew the extent of her duplicity.
Barton brought her a cup and a plate, worry clouding her eyes.
“Well,” Sirena said, “What’s afoot, Lady Jane? What has Shaldon got up to with you?”
The mouthful of biscuit stuck in her throat. She took a sip of tea and set her cup aside.
“This has nothing to do with Lord Shaldon,” she said.
“Everything has something to do with Lord Shaldon,” Paulette said. “Or rather, he is so often behind tweaking our strings, he has something to do with everything.”
She had heard the story—Shaldon had arranged the marriage between Paulette and his eldest, Bink Gibson, managing to capture a traitorous marquess in the process.
Lady Hackwell’s lips formed a thin, disapproving line. “Has this to do with Mr. Morton?” she asked finally.
Jane squeezed her eyes closed a moment. “No.” Once a tidbit of news surfaced, there was no possibility of keeping a secret in the ton.
Unless one was dealing with the criminal element. She prayed she could count on Madame and her cousin, at least for a time.
“I refused Mr. Morton’s offer. And I assured Lord Shaldon that not even his endorsement of the match would convince me to say yes.”
“What?” Lady Sirena rose and began to pace, her gown framing the babe growing inside her. “I shall tell Bakeley to…no, I shall have a word with Shaldon myself. To think of him attempting to force an ancient roué on a handsome woman like you, still in her prime. Why, no wonder you didn’t return to Shaldon House.”
“No, Sirena. No, that’s not why I didn’t return to Shaldon House. Not entirely. I…” She bit her lip and fought for a breath. “Perhaps I just feel that I’ve…I’ve gone a bit mad.”
Sirena frowned. “The letter from your solicitor—”
“A private matter.” She stood and took the younger woman’s hand. “Oh, do forgive me. You’ve been so kind.” She spun away, alarmed to feel tears welling.
“Besides providing you inconspicuous shelter,” Lady Hackwell asked, “how may we help?”
“We dearly wish to help,” Sirena said.
A thousand pounds would do.
She wouldn’t ask it though. “I thank you,” she said finally. “I only ask a few more days’ lodging.”
“And then?” Lady Hackwell asked. “Will you go to your cousin, Cheswick?”
“He has also been very good to me, but no. I’m considering…I’m considering going abroad.”
“Back to Ireland?” Sirena asked.
“Perhaps.”
“Or Paris,” Sirena said. “Barton, you should go with her and bring back the latest Paris fashion plates when you return.”
“I’ll be happy to go also, my lady.” Jenny moved from her post near the window.
“I…I haven’t decided.”
How far would she need to run from the Earl of Shaldon?
“We shall revisit this in a few days,” Lady Hackwell said, “but meanwhile you must feel free to use my carriage. Have Mr. Lewis send for it when needed.”
“Do you mean to go out in society at all, my lady?” Barton asked. “If so, we have your new gowns—”
“No, Barton.” She shook her head. “For now, I must see to some business, and I would appreciate you keeping my presence in town confidential.” Especially where Shaldon was concerned.
“I wonder, would our husbands keep the secret?” Sirena said.
“Lord Hackwell will,” his lady said, “if I choose to tell it to him.”
“After what we’ve all been through with Shaldon?” Paulette asked. “Good heavens, Sirena and I were almost killed by the men he was chasing. Our husbands would keep mum. However, they would each try to run to your rescue, Lady Jane, whether you wished for their help or not.”
She swallowed back more moisture. To have men who would care so much was a great blessing. Also, a huge annoyance if one didn’t want to be rescued.
And she was quite sure neither the ladies nor their husbands would want to help her if they knew the truth of her plan.
“Thank you. And I do beg your pardon, but I must be off to attend to another matter.”
Jenny turned to the door. “I’ll get our—”
“No, Jenny. I won’t require your company today.”
Lady Hackwell rose. “You will go in the Hackwell carriage. Do not worry, we shall have you exit quietly through the mews.”
Lady Hackwell was wonderfully kind, but she could also be firm, and in truth, Jane didn’t want to run into any of her acquaintances while walking down Piccadilly.
She gave instructions to the coachman, accepted the footman’s hand up, and sank into the plush cushioning. As they pulled into the busy street, she hastily closed the shade.
Panic rising, she took deep breaths and fought to still her heart. There must be no tears this day, no matter the outcome.
By the time the coach stopped at the Burlington Arcade, she had found her courage again. She instructed the groom to wait for her and walked determinedly through the Arcade and out of the back way onto Burlington Gardens.
The gentleman she must visit had a bed-and-sitting in a private home near here. Thank heavens he was not at the Albany, where one of the other men in residence might recognize her.
She pulled the sides of the poke bonnet forward and marched on. It was time to officially meet her son.
* * *
Three ladies exited Hackwell House together and climbed into the escutcheoned Shaldon coach. Shaldon recognized his two daughters-in-law, Lady Sirena and Paulette. The other lady was the maid-turned-modiste, Barton. They’d arrived together, and they were leaving together.
He’d gone down another blind alley.
A red head appeared at the coach window.
“My Lord, she’s leaving the mews in t
he Hackwell coach,” Ewan said.
“Get in.”
The boy balked.
“Get in, I said. Riding outside, you’re far too conspicuous.” He shouted an order to the driver and tugged the boy in as they pulled away. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, my lord.” Color surged in the boy’s cheeks, making them almost as crimson as his hair.
“You’d best be right.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You are the one, are you not, who spotted her at an inn on the road. How did you not catch up with her then?”
They’d been over this before, but he always found that hearing a story a second time provided more clarity.
“The lady’s coach had stopped for a few minutes and was leaving again in all haste, and I’d just arrived at the inn. I spotted her getting in—it was her all right, all wrapped up in her red shawl, but my horse was completely fagged and the ostler had no fresh mounts. When I finally did catch up to the coach at a later stop, I learned that the lady had left the coach somewheres in between. No one could say exactly where, or where she might have been traveling to from there.”
An unmarked burgundy-colored coach pulled out of the mews, distracting him. He caught a quick glimpse of a woman inside before the shade came down.
“That’s her,” Ewan said.
Leaning back, he tried to dampen a rising excitement, contemplating the best way to confront her. What the devil was she about, running away like that, with nary a word to the people who cared for her?
When he’d met her as a young girl in Kent, she’d been a year or two away from her come-out. But old enough to be allowed at table for the quiet country dinners hosted by her father, the Earl of Cheswick.
Shaldon had been a guest at some of those dinners. He’d barged his way into the last one, his real purpose being to meet with Reginald Dempsey, who’d joined Jane’s brother, Lord Amsden, in the country. Jane had blushed prettily around Dempsey, who’d shown her a brotherly affection. That she had a tendre for Dempsey was to be expected—he was a strapping young man bursting with pride about his work for the Crown and his private engagement to a rich merchant’s daughter.
Avenging the Earl’s Lady: Book Five, Sons of the Spy Lord Page 7
