A Most Discreet Inquiry (The Regent Mysteries Book 2)

by Cheryl Bolen

  Snuggling close to him, she settled her head into his chest, basking in the comforting warmth of their love, in the feel of his muscled arm pressing her close to him. Soon the environs of London were behind them, and the carriage grew dark. The only lights were the buttery glow of lanterns on passing coaches.

  “Are you ready now to tell me why you must return to Spain?” she finally asked.

  He told her about Heffington's mission and the man's subsequent death before he could get the information to Lord Castlereagh.

  “Was Heffington married?” she asked.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Silly. He could have imparted the information to his wife.”

  “No spy would ever take a woman into his confidence—unless, of course, that woman was Lady Daphne. Besides, Heffington was a bachelor.”

  “How nicely you got yourself out of hot water, Captain! I am happy to hear there was no Mrs. Heffington for I would have gotten excessively blue-deviled to think of his poor wife's great loss.”

  Her husband squeezed her shoulder and pressed soft kisses into her hair.

  “So now you must actually communicate in person with other officers who served beside Captain Heffington on the day of his death?”

  “It's my only hope, and it's a very slim one. Assuming that Heffington did pass off that information, why wouldn't the person who possessed that information have turned it over to the Foreign Office by now?”

  “Obviously he would, if he knew the significance of the list.”

  “It is possible the person he passed it to did not know its importance. Heffington may have drawn his last breath before he could communicate with the other man.”

  “It seems to me,” she said, “this is very much like searching for a needle in a .”

  “Indeed it is.” Jack held her close but was disturbingly quiet.

  Then she heard a soft snore.

  She remembered he'd not slept the previous night as he hurried to London to see her before he went to Spain.

  She smiled to herself. One day they could tell their grandchildren about this exciting honeymoon aboard a Royal Navy ship hastening to the Peninsula.

  * * *

  Excitement coursed through her as she and Jack strolled onto the frigate, the HMS Avalon. The captain greeted them as if Jack were the Prince Regent himself. “We've held up sailing,” he told them. “Lord Castlereagh's orders were that nothing take precedence over getting Captain Dryden and his wife to Spain as quickly as possible.”

  Jack's gaze had scanned the fleet, three-masted frigate. “I'm sorry we've delayed you. It's a fine ship you've got here. How many guns?”

  “Twenty four. I'll show you around once we've pushed off. Allow me to show you two to your quarters now.”

  “And the winds?” Jack asked.

  Captain St. James smiled. “Most favorable.”

  He took them below deck to the bow of the ship where the captain's own private chamber was located. “It's such a short trip, I'll just bunk with my first officer. Lord Castlereagh was most insistent that you and your bride have the finest chamber on the ship.”

  “I am indebted to you,” Jack said, shaking the man's hand as he left them.

  Daphne was surprised that her valise had already been placed in the chamber. “Oh look, my dearest, we shall have our own window! What a wonderful cabin!”

  He came to stand behind her, his hand touching her waist, his head resting on her shoulder. She felt the heat of him and drew in his musky male scent. They watched in comforting silence as the ship set sail, sweeping away from the harbor that was home to the British fleet. Landward, on a bluff overlooking the nearly round harbor, Portchester Castle guarded England's seagoing pride, its rounded gray bricks unchanged over the centuries of the millennium. With a war going on, the nearly vacant harbor was strangely sleepy now.

  She marveled at the vastness of the mesmerizing water stretching out beyond the harbor, then peered back. The shoreline buildings diminished as their ship sailed into the open sea. What a wonder it was to be on a ship! Her first ocean voyage.

  Her glance fell to the slender bed.

  And her heartbeat quickened.

  She became acutely cognizant of the intimacy of standing in this small chamber, alone with a man. A man who was now her husband. She thought of the words the clergyman had spoken during their wedding ceremony, and your two bodies shall become one. Her breath felt thin. Her pulse accelerated. “Dearest?”

  Jack settled his big, sturdy hands on her shoulders. “Yes?”

  “Does a wedding night have to be at night?”

  He burst out laughing, then he grew serious. His voice was husky, his eyes smoldering as he said, “Not necessarily.”

  He drew her into his embrace and hungrily kissed her.

  She knew she was going to adore being married. She did not object in the least when she felt his palm cup the little swell of bosom she possessed. Her breath seemed to swish from her lungs, and the room became excessively hot. Whatever it was he was doing to her, she did not want it to stop.

  Then the ship pitched up and down, batting them into the wooden wall. Jack never let go of his firm hold on her. The ship continued pitching them as if they were corks bobbing upon waves. Jack scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

  She suddenly felt the contents of her stomach churning. Then rising. Sweat beaded on her brow. Uh oh. She was going to retch.

  “Are you all right?” Jack murmured, studying her face with concern.

  “I. Don't. Think. I. Am.”

  “Do you need a chamber pot?”

  That was exactly what she needed! All she could do was nod. A sloshing in her stomach began to rise.

  He had barely set the pot in front of her when she began to violently retch. While her brain was registering how truly horrid she felt, the misery was doubly compounded by how vastly embarrassed she was over her disgusting action, right in front of Jack. How could any man be attracted to a woman who retched practically in his lap? She was mortified.

  And she could not remember ever feeling worse.

  Her brow was wet. Her hair was damp. And chills racked her body.

  Even though Jack had to be disgusted over her display, he betrayed no sign of it. He stroked her forehead and spoke softly. “Are you better now?”

  She shook her head. “Is there anything one can do to keep this boat . . . level?”

  He shook his head. “I'm afraid not. It appears my poor wife is suffering from sea sickness.”

  It had never—not even as she was casting up her accounts—occurred to her that she could be sea sick. It was some small relief to know that she had not contracted some fatal disease. She'd felt so wretched, she had thought perhaps she might be dying. “How long will it last?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes it can last the entire voyage.”

  A lone tear dripped along her face.

  “I'm so sorry, love,” he murmured.

  How could he stand to be near her? She was completely humiliated. “I am so embarrassed.”

  He drew her into his arms and held her close. “There's nothing to be embarrassed over. If I'd had any idea you would be affected like this, I'd never have allowed you to come.”

  “Does this wretchedness go away when one gets on shore?”

  “Indeed it does.”

  “How much longer before we reach Spain?”

  “No one ever knows. It depends on the winds. With luck, we'll be there tomorrow. Sometimes, though, the winds can keep a ship in a small area of water for days on end.”

  “I may have to kill myself.”

  “Not while I draw breath.”

  She would much have preferred to suffer alone, but he refused to leave her side. At first she had been embarrassed to look up into his worried face after her violent retching, but as the agonizing hours mounted, acceptance replaced embarrassment. She felt so utterly wretched, she fleetingly thought death would be preferable to remaini
ng on this ship.

  She lost all sense of time. The only thing she was sure of—besides her complete misery—was that Jack never stopped hovering over her, murmuring comforting words and wiping her beaded brow with cloths soaked in cool water.

  * * *

  He refused to leave her side during the miserable crossing. He thanked God that over the past few years the British had driven the French almost back to their homeland, which meant the British troops no longer had to journey all the way down to Portugal as they had when he'd first gone to the Peninsula.

  Now they could come to Spain from the Bay of Biscay—a much closer route. He prayed for a quick voyage.

  She would awaken and retch, express her embarrassment, then collapse back into the bed. “Are you certain I'm not dying?” she would croak.

  He would assure her as he smoothed her damp brow, cover her, then kiss her cheek.

  “I'm so sorry I'm spoiling your wedding night.”

  “We have a lifetime of shared nights ahead. One or two days' difference does not signify.”

  It was dawn the next day when the frigate sailed into the tiny port in northern Spain.

  “You'll be better when I get you off this blasted boat,” Jack said. He stood over her in the dark room, tenderly stroking her face with a single finger. Then he bent to pick her up as if she weighed no more than a loaf of bread.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I'm carrying you off this damned boat. You're too weak to walk.” His voice softened. “I could draw and quarter myself for bringing you here.”

  She set a gentle hand to his cheek. “Don't blame yourself, dearest. I'm the one who insisted on coming. I daresay I'll be right as rain as soon as I'm on steady ground.”

  “I pray that you are.”

  Captain St. James told Jack to hurry back from his mission because he had been instructed to keep the ship in harbor until they returned. “And as valuable as I'm told your mission is,” St. James said, “I'd rather be chasing the French.”

  Daphne gave him a bleary eyed glare. “I'd rather you be doing that as well.”

  Jack knew the Royal Navy needed every vessel. He made a silent vow to work with great speed.

  “Dearest?” Daphne asked.

  “Yes?”

  “It is not possible to return to England by land, is it?”

  He squeezed her hand and smiled. “Unfortunately, no.”

  As they were disembarking, his gaze scanned along the quay where dark-skinned Basques in white shirts were loading crates of oranges onto the British ship. Donkeys laden with goods trotted along the narrow streets of this busy little port city. And above the smaller locals who were going about their daily business, Jack could see a tall man dressed in the distinctive uniform of a British army officer. He was too far away to recognize, but Jack could tell he was gazing at them.

  To his profound relief, once Daphne was on solid ground, she recovered remarkably. He hated like the devil that she had no time to rest, to try to get back her strength—and her appetite—but the Duke of Wellington's aide-de-camp, Lieutenant-Colonel John Freemantle, met them as soon as they cleared the ship and informed them they would depart immediately.

  It had taken Jack a second to remember who in the blazes was the Duke of Wellington. For too long now Jack had known the general as Lord Wellesley, Commander in Chief of Peninsular Forces. But now, since their spectacular victory at Vitoria, their capable leader had been elevated to the Duke of Wellington.

  That was one of the things Jack disliked most about titles. People were forever discarding perfectly acceptable, highly recognizable names in order to adopt a new moniker no one would easily recognize for some time.

  Lord Sidworth had suggested Jack allow the Prince Regent to bestow the title Viscount Lindon upon Jack. Jack could not imagine any reason that could compel him to participate in such nonsensical name jockeying. He'd been Jack Dryden since the day he was born. He was proud to be known as Jack Dryden. He liked to think the name Jack Dryden had earned a certain amount of respect. So why would he want to change it?

  “It will take several hours before we can reach the British camp,” Freemantle said. “I've taken the liberty of procuring two horses for you. They look to be good beasts.”

  The pair of stallions were tethered only yards away, next to Freemantle's—which clearly belonged to a high-ranking officer. After they mounted, Jack eyed his bride and took pride in the fact Daphne sat a horse as well as any man.

  As they left the port town of Gijon, Jack's thoughts flitted over the past several years the English had occupied this southern European peninsula. How it had changed since he had first arrived in Portugal back in '08 when all the northern Spanish ports were in French hands!

  He hated to recall all those blazingly hot, barren Spanish battlefields upon which the British had so bravely fought. Now the British troops had advanced so far north they had reached the Pyrenees, pushing the stinking French back toward their homeland.

  How the terrain, too, had changed in these five years, Jack reflected as the three of them rode over a much more verdant landscape than Jack had generally associated with Spain. Their current trail was shaded by thickets of pine and ornamented with towering cypress. Always, their path meandered near the lovely River Bidassod.

  And always, Jack tensed with fear that his nemesis, the duc d'Arblier, was watching him from the surrounding hills, waiting to murder him as he had murdered Jack's best friend. Damn, but Jack missed Edwards. Over the course of five years of battle, Jack had seen a lot of death, but none had ever affected him as profoundly as Edwards'.

  Too many times now Jack had defied d'Arblier's deathtraps, too many times he'd cheated death. God help him, he wanted to live. Now that he was married, more than ever.

  For Daphne.

  Late that afternoon, outside the village of Lesaca, they found the Duke of Wellington pacing the quaint little tree-shaded cemetery beside a lovely old Catholic church.

  “Are our men buried there?” Jack asked Freemantle before the three of them dismounted.

  “Oh, no. It's just that our camp headquarters is just on the other side of the graveyard, and his grace finds the cemetery a peaceful place where he can think.”

  Jack made eye contact with Freemantle. “I have in my possession a letter from the Prince Regent addressed to the duke. It was written to inform his grace that my wife, who is the embodiment of discretion, will be part of this investigation.”

  The other officer shrugged. “Then I expect both of you should come along to speak to the duke.”

  As the three of them drew nearer, Wellington stopped pacing and watched them. Because of his commanding presence, he seemed a much larger man that he actually was. It always surprised Jack that his commander was at least a half of a foot shorter than Jack's six feet, two inches. The duke wore a uniform but had left off his hat and medals. Though he was past forty, his hair was free from gray, and his waist free from fat. Jack hoped he would look like that a decade from now when he was that age.

  “Good of you to come, Captain Dryden,” Wellington said, hitching a brow as he eyed Daphne.

  “Allow me to present my wife, your grace. Lady Daphne.” As Daphne curtsied and spoke prettily, Jack handed the duke the letter bearing the seal of the Prince Regent. “This letter from the Regent will explain that my wife is to be included in all aspects of this inquiry.”

  The duke broke the seal, then ran his eye over the letter, nodding. When he was finished, he offered Daphne a weak smile before turning to his aide-de-damp. “You are dismissed, Freemantle.”

  After the aide-de-camp took his leave, the duke said, “Pray, Captain and Lady Daphne, come walk with me.”

  Falling into step beside Wellington, Jack was flattered that the Commander in Chief of the entire peninsular army always remembered him.

  “I understand you're now with the Guards,” Wellington said to him.

  “Yes, your grace. It was not a transfer I would have chosen.�
� It was a nice and safe assignment to the Regent's regiment in the Capital, an assignment the Regent ordered to please Daphne.

  Wellington nodded. “But, alas, one has no free choice when the monarch himself orders one about.”

  “Precisely, your grace.”

  “I know well of what I speak. I wanted you back in Spain, but it seems the Regent has decided he wants you at his own beck and call.”

  “He did allow me to come here.”

  “Because he knew he'd get you back as soon as you complete this assignment! But that's enough of that. Now, this nasty business about Heffington . . . I'm destitute of words to describe my anger when I found out he'd entered camp and not apprised me of the information he'd discovered. Then the fool officer had the poor judgment to get himself killed! What a terrible disservice he's done to Britain!”

  Jack was sure that had not been Heff's intent, but he was not about to disagree with the duke. “A beastly business, to be sure.”

  “You must tell me how I can assist you.” Wellington turned to Daphne. “And Lady Daphne.”

  “The reason I'm here, your grace,” Jack said, “is to be able to interview those men who fought near Heffington on the day of his death. I hold a slim hope that Captain Heffington passed on the list before he died. Unfortunately, that's our only hope at present.”

  “Then it's my profound hope you're successful.”

  “I thank you for seeing that such very fine records of troop positions were kept. I now know by heart the names of every officer and every foot soldier who was within a hundred yards of Heffington at Sorauren at the time he was hit.”

  The duke nodded. “Then you merely need me to make sure that the men in question cooperate with any inquiries you make?”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  “If you do not object, I shall turn you back over to Freemantle. He will be immeasurably helpful. And,” he eyed Daphne, “I beg that the two of you take dinner with me.”

  “It will be our pleasure, your grace,” she said.

  “There is one more thing I should request,” Jack said.

  Wellington cocked a brow.