The Valet Who Loved Me

by Valerie Bowman

  She watched them for a moment before one of the Frenchmen, who was obviously quite drunk, stumbled. When he fell, it broke the formation, and Marianne glimpsed the center of the ring, where Baron Winfield and Albina stood, tied to a pole.

  Marianne stifled a gasp with her hand. The fire was spread in a circle all around them, but it was obviously creeping closer and closer to them. They were being burned at the stake.

  “What is it?” David whispered.

  “Baron Winfield and his friend, they’re in the center of the circle.”

  David redirected his gaze and sucked in his breath. “You’re right.” David narrowed his eyes. “Is that the traitor?”

  “Yes.” Marianne nodded. She glanced back at the two captives. Both of them were sobbing, tears running down their cheeks.

  “Damn it. While I won’t mind seeing him separated from his head back in England, I don’t wish this fate on anyone,” David said, shaking his head with distaste.

  “Neither do I.” Marianne shook her head too.

  “Neither do I,” came Beau’s voice from behind a nearby tree.

  David spun around, his fists up, clearly ready to fight.

  “It’s all right, David. It’s only my partner from the Home Office, Beau – er, Lord Bellingham,” Marianne said, placing a hand atop one of her brother’s fists to lower them. She turned toward Beau and gave him a condemning glare. “You nearly frightened me witless.”

  Beau stepped out from behind a tree a few feet to their right, a grin on his face. “I’m pleased to learn you didn’t hear me approach.” He turned to face David. “I expect this is your brother.”

  David bowed to Beau. “Your lordship.”

  “None of that is necessary, Captain,” Beau replied. “I thank you for your service to the Crown.”

  “What are we going to do about Winfield and Albina?” Marianne asked, turning back to the dire situation behind them. There would be time for explanations between her brother and Beau later. She hoped.

  Beau fished in his shirt front pocket and pulled out a timepiece. He consulted the thing briefly before slipping it back inside the garment. “Don’t worry. Grim wasn’t about to leave us here alone. I expect the reinforcements to arrive any moment. For Winfield’s sake, I do hope they are prompt.”

  Marianne furrowed her brow. “What? How does Grim know?”

  Beau stood with his feet braced apart. “I sent a letter to Worthington’s ship this morning. It’s something Captain Jones and I spoke about while we were traveling here. The letter was to inform the Home Office operatives working in Calais to meet us here at half past nine.”

  Marianne plunked her hands on her hips. “You weren’t planning to tell me?”

  “Of course I was. I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” Beau replied, his grin unrepentant.

  David, who’d been watching the fire circle said, “I hate to point it out, but there’s no time to argue at present. What’s the plan?”

  A far-off clicking sound met Marianne’s ear just before Beau returned the sound with a click of his own tongue.

  “They’re here,” Beau said, stepping back. “Lord Harbury, are you with us?” he asked the treeline.

  A tree shook and a tall, dark-haired man stepped into the clearing. “I am.”

  “Excellent. Would you like to inform us of the plan?” Beau continued.

  “We estimate there are no more than two dozen French soldiers out there. We suspect this camp was invented as a ruse to lure Winfield to his fate. We have over fifty men hidden in these woods. When I give the signal, we’ll rush the circle. The goal is to save Baron Winfield and his companion. We need them to tell us what the letter said.”

  Beau nodded. He pulled his pistol from the waist of his breeches.

  “I don’t have a pistol,” David said, frustration evident in his voice.

  “Stay here,” Marianne told her brother.

  “You stay here, too,” Beau said to Marianne. “You don’t have a pistol, either.”

  “The devil I don’t,” Marianne replied, leaning down and pulling up the leg of her breeches to reveal a small pistol tucked into her boot. “You’re not the only one who keeps secrets.”

  She gave Beau a tight smile before Lord Harbury lifted his hand and made a loud clicking sound that was different from the earlier one. The moment that happened, the trees came alive. A rush of men—pistols drawn—streamed forth, surrounding the Frenchmen, who were drunk and mostly unarmed.

  A few shots were fired, and in the blur, Marianne saw Beau rush between the men in the circle to untie Albina and toss her over his shoulder. Another British spy grabbed Winfield, and the small group, including Lord Harbury, rushed back into the trees with their haul.

  Shouts and shots and general loud noises continued in the clearing near the bonfire while Lord Harbury, Beau, Marianne, and David pushed aside the curtains of the nearest tent and moved inside, dragging the two traitors with them.

  Two of Lord Harbury’s aides soon joined them.

  David fetched water for Winfield and Albina while the two wiped their wet, soot-stained faces and coughed.

  “You saved us,” Winfield cried, when he was finally able to speak. “We nearly died.”

  “Don’t think we wanted to save you, traitor,” Lord Harbury pointed out, his voice dripping with disgust. “I have my orders. And they include handing you back over to the French unless you tell us what you did for them.”

  Albina was nearly hysterical. David and Marianne took her aside and made her sit on a pile of blankets in the corner and drink more water while Baron Winfield eyed all of them carefully.

  “You’re not going to take me back to England? For trial?” the baron asked.

  “We will if you tell us what we need to know. Otherwise, we may just have to report that we didn’t get here in time to save you. Believe me, no one will be upset,” Harbury replied.

  Winfield finished coughing and rubbed his face and eyes with a towel that Beau had handed him. “Bellingham, I should have known you would be here.”

  “Save it,” Beau replied. “Tell us what the letter said.”

  “What letter?” Winfield blinked at him innocently.

  “The letter Albina wrote at Lord Copperpot’s town house,” Beau replied through clenched teeth. He was in no mood for the man’s games.

  Baron Winfield’s face paled. “How did you know about—?”

  “Let’s take him back out to the bonfire, lads,” Beau said, grabbing Winfield by the upper arm.

  “No! No!” Winfield nearly crumpled to the ground. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Good, get started,” Beau replied nearly growling.

  Albina sobbed silently in the corner while Winfield began his story. “They promised me money. A hefty purse. Fifty thousand pounds!” Winfield said, his eyes flaring as he spoke.

  Beau shook his head. “Your first mistake was believing that. They probably don’t even have fifty thousand pounds, the lying bastards.”

  “They gave me the money the first time,” Winfield replied, tugging at the lapels of his coat as if he took offense to essentially being told how stupid he was.

  “The first time?” Beau frowned. “You mean when you had Albina write the Bidassoa letter?”

  “Yes.” Winfield hung his head and nodded morosely.

  “Ye promised me no one would ever find out!” Albina wailed at her lover. “Ye promised me we’d be safe and happy and rich!”

  “I’m sorry, darling, but it’s too late,” Winfield replied, tears streaming down his face once again.

  “Take her out of here,” Beau commanded.

  David pulled Albina to her feet more gently than she deserved and he quickly exited the tent with her.

  “Go on,” Beau demanded of Winfield.

  Winfield wiped the sooty tears from his eyes before continuing. “The second letter was a fake. They wanted it to look like the first so they could use it to throw off the Brit
ish about a raid at Calais next month.”

  Harbury narrowed his eyes on the baron. “What do you mean?”

  Winfield launched into another coughing fit. When he finally was able to speak again, his voice was low. “They were going to ensure a messenger with the letter was captured. It would make the British think that the raid would take place at Sangatte, and not Calais.”

  “Meanwhile they’d be gathering at Calais?” Beau finished.

  “Yes.” Winfield hung his head again. “They knew there were many British operatives hidden in Calais.”

  “Where is this letter?” Lord Harbury demanded.

  “It’s in General Christophe’s coat pocket. I gave it to him before they tied us up to cook us.”

  “Your second mistake was coming here,” Beau pointed out, shaking his head again. “They never intended to pay you a farthing.”

  Baron Winfield’s only reply was a sad, sniffing noise.

  Lord Harbury gave direction to one of the aides who stood near his side. “Find General Christophe out there and bring him to me.”

  The man hurried off and Beau, Lord Harbury, and Marianne were left with Winfield.

  “You’ve no idea how badly I want to punch you in the bloody mouth right now, Winfield,” Beau said through tightly clenched teeth. “I may just allow Mr. John Smith here, and his brother the solider who took Albina away, to do it. They deserve it more than I do. It was their brother you killed at Bidassoa.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” Baron Winfield insisted, shaking his head, his voice rising with fear.

  Marianne stalked over to him and stood in front of him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her cap pulled down to her brow. “Yes, you did, you bastard. The soldier who carried the letter to the British was shot and eventually died from his wounds. It was my brother, Private Frederick Ellsworth. And he was a patriot and a better man than you’ll ever be.”

  Baron Winfield swallowed visibly. “I suppose death in inevitable in war.”

  Marianne’s eyes flared with rage, and in a flash, she stepped forward, put a hand on Baron Winfield’s shoulder and jerked up her knee directly between his legs.

  A loud oompf escaped his throat just before the baron crumpled to the dirt floor, wheezing in pain and clutching at his crotch.

  “Frederick taught me that,” Marianne announced, grinning at Beau.

  The three men winced, watching Winfield writhe.

  “Well done, Smith,” Lord Harbury said with a smile.

  A few minutes later, the aide returned with one of the French officers in tow.

  “It’s just as Baron Winfield said, my lord,” the aid announced, handing Lord Harbury a folded piece of vellum. “This was in his front coat pocket.”

  Lord Harbury unfolded the paper and scanned the page. He nodded to Beau before handing the letter to him. Marianne read it too, over Beau’s shoulder.

  For once, Baron Winfield was apparently telling the truth. The letter indicated precisely what he’d said it did.

  “Why didn’t you write this yourself?” Beau asked Winfield, who was still lying on the ground. “Why make your maid do it for you?”

  “I’m a highly respected member of Society,” Baron Winfield whimpered, still clutching himself. “Besides, Cunningham and I didn’t want our names associated with it. Who would suspect Albina, of all people?”

  “So it was Lord Cunningham who fed you the information from the special council?” Marianne asked.

  “Oh, dear, I thought you knew that already,” Baron Winfield sniveled.

  Harbury shook his head. “You make me sick, Winfield.”

  Beau stepped between the Frenchman and the baron to help Winfield to his feet. “You’re fortunate, Baron Winfield. Your story appears to be true.”

  “Of course it’s true,” Winfield moaned, still bent slightly due to the pain in his crotch. “I only wanted money. I never actually meant for anyone to get hurt.”

  “Least of all yourself, correct?” Beau asked, still glaring at Winfield.

  The French officer, who’d been standing there silently, took the opportunity to spit at Beau, who stepped out of the way just in time for the sputum to hit Winfield on the upper lip.

  “Excellent aim,” Beau said to the Frenchman, who glowered at him.

  Another one of the spies entered the tent. “Lord Harbury, we have the area secured. All of the French are tied up and are being taken to the carriages as prisoners.”

  “Good work,” Lord Harbury said. He motioned to Christophe and Winfield. “Take both of these men to the carriages as well. They are also prisoners of war.”

  The aides shuffled the two prisoners out of the tent and Lord Harbury turned back to face Beau and Marianne. “Can we offer you a ride back to Calais, Lord Bellingham?”

  “No,” Beau replied. “We brought a mount. We’ll follow you. But please ensure Captain Ellsworth is taken with you—and there are at least two other British soldiers who were being kept here, as well.”

  Lord Harbury nodded. “I’ll have my men search every tent before we go. I’ll meet you at the crossing,” he finished before sweeping back the curtain and leaving the tent.

  Beau expelled a deep breath. He and Marianne were alone.

  “That couldn’t have gone better if it had been planned,” he said.

  “I agree,” Marianne replied.

  “Let’s go back to the hotel. I’ll meet Lord Harbury in the morning to discuss the plans to return to England.” Beau reached a hand for her.

  “I’m not leaving with you,” Marianne said. She’d braced her feet apart on the solid packed earth.

  Beau turned back to face her. “What?”

  “I’m going back to Calais, but I’ll ride in one of the carriages with David.”

  Beau frowned. “What? Why?”

  Marianne turned to the side. She crossed her arms over her chest. “This is it. This is what we’ve been working toward. We found the traitor and I found my brother. I intend to return to England, but…” Her voice trailed off.

  Beau’s jaw was clenched. “But what?”

  “But David and I can return on a different ship. As for you and I…I think it’s best if we go our separate ways…as soon as possible.”

  Beau bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. “Is that what you truly want?”

  Marianne had turned toward the curtains. “Yes.” She didn’t turn around. “Good-bye, Lord Bellingham.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The Earl of Kendall’s Town House,

  London, Early November 1814

  Beau stared at the brandy bottle that sat not an arm’s length from him on the desk in Kendall’s study. Kendall sat in the chair behind the desk, while Worth sat next to Beau in the other large, leather chair facing their friend. It had been more than a fortnight since Beau had returned from France, but this was the first time the three friends had been together.

  “You keep glancing at the brandy, Bell. Don’t tell me you want a drink.” Kendall eyed him with suspicion.

  Beau shook his head and returned his gaze to Kendall. “No, of course not. What was I saying?”

  “We told you how the Employment Bill was voted down, even without your vote, and you were finishing the story of how you and a lady’s maid named Marianne Notley took down Baron Winfield, the dirty traitor,” Worth replied, settling back in his chair.

  It seemed like an age ago. In the time since, Beau had come back to England, seen to it that both Winfield and Albina were charged with their crimes, and met extensively with General Grimaldi to debrief the mission, including where they’d failed and how they’d finally succeeded. They never would have broken the case if it hadn’t been for Marianne, and Beau made certain the general knew it.

  In all of their talks, however, Beau had refrained from asking Grimaldi where Marianne was. He desperately wanted to know, but he didn’t feel it was his right. And Grimaldi, that bastard, hadn’t bothered to tell him.

  “That was it,�
�� Beau continued. “The morning after the raid on the French camp, Marianne and I sailed back to England with Winfield and Albina as prisoners.”

  Everyone already knew that Winfield was the culprit, of course. The London papers had spread the word far and wide the moment they’d got wind of the scandalous news.

  “I must admit, I never suspected Winfield, of all people,” Worth said shaking his head.

  “Neither did I,” Kendall agreed. “I knew he was a bastard, but I had no idea how big of one. The fact that he’d intended to sneak off with his mistress thinking the French would reward him is nearly beyond belief. Greedy blackguard.”

  Beau nodded. “How is Frances taking it, Kendall?”

  Kendall leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his chest. “Better than expected. She wasn’t particularly surprised. She’s known for some time now that her father isn’t who she thought he was.”

  “How is Lady Winfield handling the news?” Worth asked Kendall, an eyebrow arched.

  “That is a different story altogether,” Kendall replied with a sigh. “Lady Winfield isn’t taking the news well, I’m afraid. According to Frances, she’s taken to her bed, inconsolable.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve done all I can to keep the story of the baron leaving with Albina out of the mouths of gossips, but I’m afraid his being a traitor will be his legacy,” Beau replied.

  Kendall nodded. “Frances was worried about me, actually. She wanted to know if I still wished to marry her after her family’s shame.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t reject her,” Worth replied. “You’re far too loyal.”

  “A fact of which I assured her immediately,” Kendall replied with a smile. “I don’t give a toss about Frances’s family’s reputation. I’d marry her tomorrow by special license if she would agree to it.”

  “Yes, Bell, that’s one thing you’ve missed: Frances and Julianna are now planning a big wedding for us together,” Worth said, laughing. “In the spring.”

  Beau glanced at the brandy bottle again. He was trying to pretend as if everything was normal. He’d simply finished another mission and was back to his regular life, biding time before his next mission. There was nothing new about it.