“Thank you for understanding,” he said quietly. He unfastened ties and removed the pins quickly. Though he touched her as little as possible, the brush of his fingertips sent shivers down her spine. She wondered if the process was as hard for him as it was for her. Very likely.
“Good night, my lady,” he said as the bodice loosened and slid down her shoulders. Before she could turn around, she heard the door close behind him.
Kiri finished undressing and donned the embroidered cotton nightgown that she hadn’t bothered with the night before. Even with the fire, the room was very cold now that Mackenzie was gone.
She slid between the chilly sheets, feeling bleak. She had always been good at getting what she wanted, but she was also generous by nature. She loved giving things to others, whether gifts or kind words. That generosity had disguised her basic selfishness. Now she’d been forced to recognize that some of the things she wanted, she should not be allowed to have. Not when the cost was too high for someone else.
She was staring at the ceiling, telling herself that she must not cry. Tears would do no good, and a night of them would leave her with a red nose in the morning. She had wanted to make love with a man she cared about as a way of having what she’d never shared with Charles. She had achieved that. To want more was greedy and selfish and destructive. Wrong.
A small thump on the bed was followed by steps that moved to Kiri’s side. Once more Puss had managed to join her. The cat curled up under her left arm, purring robustly. Kiri smiled and some of her tension faded as she scratched the cat’s neck.
At least she didn’t have to sleep alone.
Chapter 27
Mac and Kirkland arrived at the nondescript building at the same time. “You had a busy night,” Kirkland said as they went inside, out of the dripping rain. “You found one prospect for heightened surveillance, and one capture.”
“What do you know about Clement?” Mac asked as he removed his coat and shook water off before hanging it up. He followed Kirkland into his friend’s office.
“He’s lived in London for years. He claimed to be a fugitive from the French Republicans, and he supports himself with a tailor shop. No family, few if any close friends, but he sometimes socialized at a couple of the émigré taverns.”
“Have you found any suggestion that he’s been a spy all along?”
Kirkland gave a knife-edged hunter’s smile. “I have some evidence that he was acquiring information from a source at Whitehall. I imagine that was his main work, but since he’s here in London, he was probably recruited to help with the kidnapping and assassination plot. Can you tell me anything about him?”
“Only that he’s tough and controlled and won’t give up information easily.”
“The ones who do it for money are so much easier,” Kirkland muttered. “All you need do is offer a higher price. Patriots are much more difficult.”
He rang a bell, and a few moments later a silent servant brought in a coffee tray with a steaming pot, three pewter mugs, a plate of buns, and cream and sugar containers.
“Mac, will you carry the tray down? I want to be free to break a bone or two if Clement tries to escape.”
Mac lifted the tray. He was good at bone breaking, but Kirkland, despite his sleek, civilized appearance, was better.
The small building was the headquarters of Kirkland’s very secret intelligence agency. He reported to a high member of the government. Even Mac didn’t know who. Nor did he want to know. He helped when needed, but it was Kirkland who had the cool, calculating spy-master brain.
Lantern in hand, Kirkland led the way down to the cellar, which contained two very solid cells with the best available locks and doors. No prisoner had ever escaped. Kirkland nodded to the guard, then used his key to open the right-hand door.
The cell was small and dark, but not actually wet, and a sliver of light came from a window high on the wall. Clement had been lying on the cot, but he came swiftly to his feet, his face wary. “The executioner arrives.”
“Being French doesn’t mean you have to be melodramatic,” Kirkland said acerbically. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Anything hot would be welcome.”
Mac set the tray on one end of the cot and poured three mugs, glad to have one himself. Several minutes were spent as they all prepared their coffee.
Clement drank a whole mug in several swallows, then poured more. “Good coffee, for an Englishman.”
“It was made by a French émigré. The real kind, not the false sort who are spies,” Kirkland said.
Clement’s face shuttered. “Now that I am fortified, you will begin beating me for answers?”
“Inflicting pain isn’t my first preference,” Kirkland said. “Though as you see, I brought my torturer with me.”
Mac almost choked on his coffee to hear himself described in such a way, but he managed to conceal his surprise. He narrowed his eyes and tried to look ruthless.
It didn’t work. Clement had paid him no attention at first, but now he studied Mac closely. “Ah, the gentleman who captured me and is no longer feeble. You are a torturer? I would have thought your lady friend more dangerous.”
“She is,” Mac said. “Be grateful I came instead.”
Kirkland continued, “You are a professional agent, Monsieur Clement. You have always known that to be captured is to face near-certain death.”
Clement took a bun from the tray, trying to look casual, but his hand had a tremor. “I know. Since you will kill me anyhow, I prefer it be done quickly. I will not betray France, and given a choice, I would rather avoid pointless pain.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” Kirkland murmured. “I respect your loyalty to your country. That makes you harder to deal with than a man who wants only money, but easier to admire. I would rather not have you killed, so perhaps we can work something out.”
Clement’s brows arched, but he couldn’t conceal a flicker of hope. “Since I won’t betray my country, what grounds do we have to negotiate?”
“Countries at war regularly steal information from each other. It’s part of the game,” Kirkland said. “Do you think the game should also include murder and kidnapping? Particularly if one of the victims is a sixteen-year-old girl?”
Clement’s mouth tightened. “That was not my plan. I was only a liaison.”
“A liaison,” Kirkland said thoughtfully. “So there is a French end to this plan, and an English end, and you were the go-between.”
Clement frowned when he realized that he had given that away, but he didn’t speak. Kirkland continued, “So going after the British royal family wasn’t your plan. Nonetheless, you condoned it. How does that square with your conscience? Surely you’ve lived in England long enough to know that this plan won’t bring us to the peace table. Quite the contrary.”
“Britain would be better off without the prince regent and his wastrel brothers. The girl was not supposed to be harmed,” Clement said defensively. “I would have made sure of that.”
“But you can no longer do that since I have removed you from the game board,” Kirkland pointed out. “Do you trust your comrades to be equally careful? Or might they decide that if they can’t kidnap her, assassination will do?”
The Frenchman looked away, his discomfort visible. “If you are concerned for her safety, release me so I can protect her if future attempts are made.”
“You know that won’t happen.” Kirkland surveyed the other man’s expression. “I have a proposition for you.”
Clement’s gaze returned to Kirkland. “Yes?”
“I won’t ask you to betray your country, but you might ponder on whether it would be betrayal to give up your murderous associates in this particular plot. They are dangerous fools, more likely to harm France than to aid her.”
“If I decide I agree with your viewpoint, what do I gain? An easier death?”
“Your freedom, though not right away. You would be sent to a more pleasant prison until the war is over. That
will surely come in a year or two. Your emperor is already on the run. When he surrenders, you can go home to France.” Kirkland smiled gently. “You can even stay in London if you choose. Good tailors are hard to find.”
“How can I believe that you will fulfill your end of the bargain?” Clement asked after a long pause.
“You will have my word.”
The Frenchman’s lips twisted. “Would a fine gentleman like you feel bound to honor a promise to the son of a tailor?”
“Would the son of a tailor feel bound to honor a promise to a gentleman?” Kirkland offered his hand. “Trust has nothing to do with station in life.”
“It is . . . ironic that I feel I can trust an English enemy more than my English allies,” Clement said slowly. “I do not know if I can do what you ask. But I shall consider it. And . . . I believe that you are a man of your word.” He took Kirkland’s hand.
After they shook hands, Kirkland said, “Provide me with some useful information, and I will transfer you to a less dismal prison. But time is not unlimited. If one of the royal family is killed or kidnapped, my offer is withdrawn.”
“Understood.” Clement’s mouth twisted. “Thumbscrews might have been easier.”
“Neither of us were put on this earth to make life easier for the other.” Kirkland glanced at Mac. “Leave him one mug and the buns.”
In other words, nothing the prisoner could use for a weapon. In theory, a pewter mug could be made into a knife, but it would take time and tools. Mac poured the last of the coffee into Clement’s mug, then gathered the tray and other mugs.
They left the cell, Kirkland carefully locking it behind him. He said to the guard, “I left a mug with the prisoner. Be sure it’s collected later.”
They headed upstairs. When they were back in Kirkland’s office, Mac said, “Think he’ll tell you something useful?”
“He might. It’s clear he doesn’t like being part of an assassination plot, and he might decide that killing princesses is not in France’s best interest.” Kirkland shrugged. “Reason seemed a better policy than force.”
“If he decides to accept your offer, I hope he does it soon,” Mac said. “With their liaison vanished, the other plotters will go to ground and be harder to locate.”
“Perhaps they will be alarmed enough to give up their plotting.”
Mac’s brows arched. “Surely you don’t believe that.”
“It’s unlikely.” Kirkland gave a rare smile. “But hope springs eternal.”
Chapter 28
The next morning was gray, wet, and autumnal, which suited Kiri’s mood. She wondered how she and Mackenzie would react when they met again. It would not be easy. Warily she descended to the dining room, but only Cassie was there. The other woman looked a little tired, but with a slight smile on her face. She must have enjoyed having Carmichael share her bed the night before.
Remembering that Mackenzie had been going to join Kirkland to question the Frenchman, Kiri greeted Cassie and helped herself to beans and bacon and toast, along with lots of steaming-hot tea.
Cassie asked, “Did you have any success at Madame Blanche’s?”
Between bites of breakfast, Kiri told her about Lord Fendall, who smelled almost but not quite right, and their capture of the Frenchman. She was just finishing when Mackenzie entered the room.
Her nerves tensed and she wondered if he’d slept as badly as she had. Her hand less than steady, she poured herself more tea. Having Cassie present helped her maintain her composure. “Did you have any luck interrogating Clement?”
“It’s too soon to tell.” He set a pile of letters on the table. “These were just delivered by a footman.”
Seeing the general’s handwriting on the top letter, Kiri shuffled through the pile. “I wrote everyone in my family so they wouldn’t think anything dreadful had happened to me. Maybe there’s also something for you, Cassie.”
The other woman didn’t look up from her plate. “I never get letters.”
“Do you mind if I join you for breakfast?” Mackenzie asked. “I had buns and coffee with Kirkland and the French spy, but a cold day requires more fuel.”
“By all means, help yourself and tell us about the interrogation,” Cassie said.
“Kirkland handled Clement beautifully.” Mac piled the remaining bacon and toast on the plate containing beans, then poured himself tea and sat down. Between bites, he described Kirkland’s strategy.
Cassie nodded approvingly at the end. “Offering respect and pointing out the dishonorable side of the current plot was wise. I hope Clement can clear it with his conscience to tell us who the other conspirators are.”
Kiri nodded as she flipped through the letters to see who had written. “I’m glad torture isn’t being used. I don’t think I’m ruthless enough to be a proper agent.”
“Torture isn’t usually that helpful,” Mac said. “Someone in pain will tell you anything he thinks you want to hear.”
“That makes sense.” Curious, Kiri lifted a letter with unfamiliar handwriting on expensive cream-colored paper “Good heavens! Is this a royal seal?” She held up the letter to show the others the wax seal.
“Looks royal to me,” Cassie said with interest. “Open it!”
Kiri broke the seal and found a formal note from Her Royal Highness Charlotte Augusta requesting the presence of Lady Kiri Lawford for tea at Warwick House.
The invitation was written in the beautiful flowing hand of a secretary, but underneath. in young, unformed writing, was a note from the princess herself.
Dear Lady Kiri,
I would so like to see you before I leave for Windsor! When you come, could you wear a sari gown in the style of the ladies of India? I would like to see one.
Yrs affectionately,
HRH Princess Charlotte Augusta
Dazed, Kiri passed the letter to Cassie, who read it out loud. “I’m impressed, Kiri. Did you notice that the date she set was this afternoon?”
“What?” Kiri grabbed the letter and read it again. “This was sent to my parents, so it took an extra day. This afternoon? I’ll need a carriage!”
Mackenzie took it from her hand. “I’ll send Kirkland a note and he can send his best carriage over. There’s not much time to spare. Do you have a sari with you?”
“Actually, I do.” Kiri bit her lip nervously. “I’ll probably freeze, though. Saris aren’t designed for English weather.”
“Wear a cloak, and remember that you’ve already met the girl,” Mackenzie said soothingly. “She’s issuing the invitation, so she’ll be happy to see you.”
“I’ll go as your maid,” Cassie volunteered. “I will add to your consequence.”
“The daughter of a duke certainly needs her maid,” Mackenzie agreed. “I’ll ride on the coach as your footman.”
Grateful she’d have friends with her, Kiri stood. “Send for the carriage. I’ll change now.”
“Do you need help?” Cassie offered. “I’ve never seen a sari.”
“No help required. Saris are easier to put on than English gowns,” Kiri said. “Join me when you’ve transformed into a maid and I’ll show you how a sari is worn.”
They scattered in different directions, Mackenzie to summon a suitably grand carriage and Kiri and Cassie to dress. Kiri had added the sari to her baggage on impulse, since she had no idea what she would be doing while on this mission.
When she reached her room, she retrieved the sari ensemble from her luggage. There were three pieces: a seven-yard length of scarlet silk decorated with bands of gold embroidery, a matching ankle-length underskirt, and a matching blouse, called a choli. She didn’t have the proper sandals, but evening slippers and silk stockings would do.
She donned stockings, underskirt, and choli and brushed out her hair, which she parted in the middle. Then she coiled the dark mass in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her cosmetics case contained the red paste needed for a bindi, so she carefully painted the red circle on her forehead.
&
nbsp; There was a tap on the door. “Kiri? It’s me, Cassie.”
After Kiri called permission to enter, Cassie appeared in a severely cut brown gown and a maid’s expression. The other woman eyed the skimpy choli, which was short-sleeved, cut low at the top, and ended several inches above the waist. “That bodice is pretty, but I see what you mean about being chilly.”
“It’s not much worse than a really fashionable English evening gown, but that’s not saying much.” Kiri lifted the rolled silk of the sari. “You’re just in time for the grand event. This is one of my best saris. There are different styles of draping the fabric. My family is from the north, as any Indian will recognize by how I wear my sari.”
Deftly she collected the plain end of the sari and wrapped it around herself, tucking it into the waist of the underskirt. Cassie watched with fascination as Kiri gathered and pleated and draped the decorated end of the material over her left shoulder so that it fell to the back of her knees.
“Properly speaking, I should let my navel show since that’s the source of creativity and life.” Kiri studied how the fabric fell as she looked in the mirror. “But that might be too provocative for England.”
“It would be too much for Mackenzie,” Cassie said with amusement. “I’ve seen how he looks at you. Show much more skin and he’ll have a heart seizure.”
Kiri glanced up swiftly. “I beg your pardon?”
“And you look back the same way.” Cassie sighed. “It’s understandable. You are young and share an exciting mission. But remember the future and don’t get too close. You have a life beyond this work. You don’t want to throw that away.”
In other words, beware ruination. Irritated by how everyone felt qualified to offer unwanted advice, Kiri asked, “Does Mr. Carmichael look at you the same way?”
Cassie’s brows arched, but she didn’t look embarrassed. “You saw? No, we don’t look at each other like that, but we are old and jaded. Friends, nothing more.”
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