by Cheryl Bolen
“My wife has been ill. I should like a quiet spot for her to rest while I conduct my interviews.”
“You shall have it.”
* * *
In her mind's eye, Daphne had expected a simple dinner to be taken in the duke's (albeit luxurious) tent. Nothing could have been further from the truth. The officers' mess was a permanent stone building in the village of Lesaca. It featured several wooden tables and chairs, and the cook had prepared a meal comparable to what would be served in any English country home. A lamb had been slaughtered, and the mutton was accompanied by a plentiful assortment of local vegetables and washed down with excellent Spanish wines.
The duke told them each region his armies had traveled to in Spain had its own wine. His personal favorite was Douro wine, which was made from grapes which grew near the River Douro.
“It's my favorite, too,” Jack said.
Daphne kept thinking about the duke's poor wife being deprived of her husband's company for months and years at a time. “How long has it been since you've seen Lad---, er, the duchess?” she asked.
The duke's eyes went cold. “It doesn’t signify.”
What a callous remark! It sounded as if he had little esteem—or love—for his wife.
“Have you never brought her on campaign?” Daphne asked.
“I can think of nothing that would displease me more.”
Oh, dear.
Jack was quick to steer conversation away from the obviously unpleasant subject of her grace Wellington. “After seeing the rather luxurious tent you've provided Lady Daphne and I, she will never believe I'm not normally accorded such quarters.”
Laughing, the duke eyed Daphne. “I hope you're happy with your accommodation. It was the best I could offer under such hurried circumstances.”
“I assure you I could not have been more pleased.” She had not expected their tent to be furnished with actual furniture—which it was.
Immediately after dinner, as Jack was continuing with his interviews, Daphne fell asleep and slept all through the night.
When she awakened the following morning, Jack was no more than five feet away from her, snoring rather lustily. He had apparently gone to sleep while writing at the campaign desk in their tent. His cheek was buried in the jumble of papers fanning over the desk's surface, and the pen he must have been clutching had fallen to the ground.
Their second morning together as a married couple and still she was not a proper wife! She sat watching her husband sleep. How happy she was! The former Lady Daphne Chalmers had never thought she would ever have such an admirable husband, would ever travel to Spain. Once more she experienced the same sense of wellbeing she had in the carriage ride to Portsmouth. Just the two of them in an intimate space.
Then she thought of another intimate space—their ship's cabin—and the very idea made her stomach queasy. That was one intimate space she wished she would never see again.
She thoroughly enjoyed watching her husband awaken. He eased himself upright, his spine long, his shoulders powerful. His eyes opened. Immediately upon regaining consciousness, he whirled in her direction.
His dark gaze met hers, and a smile lit up his handsome face. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
She leapt from the bed and came to stand behind him, encircling his upper torso with her arms as her face caressed his. “Wonderful.”
All the while, she was trying to read the notes Jack had been making when he fell asleep. “Have you made any progress?”
He ran his hands through his disheveled hair and shook his head.
As she was reading, one name popped out at her as unexpectedly as would her own name inserted into the list of troops: Major Styles.
She froze. It had never occurred to her that Cornelia's major would have been at Sorauren! “I know something of Major Styles,” she said, almost with reverence as she thought of the man's forlorn widow.
“He died the day after Heffington, so I won't be able to interview him.”
Daphne straightened her spine. “Pack up! We're going back to the ship!”
“Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“No, but I'm almost certain the key to our mystery lies in London.”
Jack folded his arms across his chest. “I'm not going anywhere until you explain this insanity.”
Chapter 6
She did not want to tell Jack about her sister's indiscretions. Jack had the moral constitution of a Methodist preacher. She collapsed on the cot. “Someone has got his hands on the major's personal papers. Someone wicked.”
“And you know this because?”
“Because my sister Cornelia wrote passionate love letters to Major Styles.”
Jack waited a moment for his wife to elaborate, and when she didn't he finally nodded knowingly. “And someone is now blackmailing the duchess.”
“I knew my brilliant husband would make the correct deduction.”
Jack's eyes narrowed. “Is brilliant not one of those words I forbid you to use when speaking of me?”
She was relieved that he was so put out over her praise that he did not lambast her sister's loose morals. “Forgive me, but it is just the two of us.”
“Tell me everything.” His voice was firm.
She related all that Cornelia had told her, and with pride explained how she had been able to eliminate Mrs. Styles from the list of suspects.
Her husband's darkened countenance lifted as she spoke, and when she finished he nodded. “From the interviews I conducted until well past midnight, I had begun to be convinced that Heffington had passed the information to the major before he drew his last breath. I've spoken with more than one soldier who saw Styles kneeling beside the dying Heffington.”
“I'm not certain that the vile blackmailer has not been apprehended in our absence. I helped Cornelia devise a plan to trap him, but I'm not sure she would carry it out in my absence.” She explained the plan to her husband.
His brows were lowered as he was momentarily lost in thought. “Do you think the duchess went through with your plan to put her footmen on the mail coach?”
“I have no way of knowing. While it would be wonderful if she's been able to put a stop to this wretched business in our absence, we must consider other aspects.”
“Like the major's batman?”
“Would he not have taken his master's possessions?”
Jack nodded. “I made inquiries along those lines last night. The batman—a fellow by the name of Prufoy—returned to London soon after Sorauren.”
“Have you found anyone who might have been in the batman's confidence?”
“No, the man he was closest to died the same day as Major Styles.”
“You realize we must return to London at once?”
He peered lovingly at her. “As sorry as I am about your seasickness, having you here with me has proven to be invaluable.”
Then he began to gather up his papers.
* * *
They had left Wellington's headquarters fifteen hours after they arrived. Riding like the wind, they reached the awaiting HMS Avalon as the sun was setting, and the frigate set sail immediately after they boarded.
She had not thought it possible, but that crossing was considerably worse than the last. As he would empty the chamber pot holding the evidence of her agony and wipe her wet brow with cool clothes, Jack murmured tenderly to her. “I've seen many an experienced sailor succumb to violent retching during storms like this one.”
She could well believe the ferocity of the storm, with its high winds and pounding rain, was responsible for her increased anguish.
Even as he spoke the ship pitched at such an angle, Daphne feared they would plunge to the bottom of the sea. In her extreme misery, she almost hoped for it in order to be released from her suffering.
Because of the storm, the return journey took more than twice as long as their initial voyage. Long after the contents of her stomach had been emptied, wicked dry heaves decimated her.
Jack refused to leave her side. Any modesty she had possessed on the earlier crossing vanished. She was too miserable to acknowledge him, but in the foggy recesses of her brain she understood how worried he was. Every nuance of his voice bespoke tenderness. His unflagging attempts to keep her hydrated bespoke his concern. And the touching endearments tumbling from his lips bespoke his love.
His worry did not cease once they reached Portsmouth. He insisted she eat a hearty meal as soon as they landed, even though it was but five in the morning when they took their leave of the accommodating Captain St. James and disembarked the HMS Avalon. Jack roused a sleeping innkeeper and explained he would make it worth the man's while if he could put together a meal for them.
He had deposited Daphne in a private parlor there while he procured a traveling coach—again by awakening the proprietor of the establishment.
“It's still dark,” the groggy proprietor said. “You sure you have need of a horse at this hour?”
Jack shook his head. “Not a horse. I need to hire a chaise to carry my wife and me to London this morning.”
The man was pulling his arm through the sleeve of a coat. “All my coaches is gone.”
“Is that not one just inside the inn yard? I was told it belonged to you.”
Grabbing his lantern, the man walked to the inn yard with Jack, and with the aid of his lantern light was able to peer at the coach. “I guess me Andy finished puttin' on the new wheel.”
“Then it's good to go?”
“If I had a driver.”
“Who's Andy?”
“My son.”
“Can he drive a coach?”
“As good as anyone, but he's only sixteen. He ain't never been as far away as Lunnon though he has an uncommon interest in studying maps. I daresay he knows as much about Lunnon streets as a Lunnon hackney driver.”
A thin youth who was taller than the proprietor poked his head from the door. “Please, Papa, allow me to go to Lunnon. I'm sure I won't get lost on me way.”
“I've been the route many times,” Jack said. “If you need advice, I shall be at your service.”
The lad's father shook his head, a smile dimpling his cheek. “Go wake yer Mam and have her pack you something to eat.”
Jack stepped toward the lad. “I will see that you're fed properly, Andy.”
The boy flashed a smile at Jack.
“Come along to the inn across the street where my wife and I are eating. You must join us.”
“Allow me to fetch me maps.”
“He collects them.” It was impossible for the father to disguise his pride.
Throughout their breakfast—which Andy ate most heartily—the boy proudly displayed his tall stack of crumpled, grease-stained maps. “This one of Canterbury belonged to a bishop what hired one of me dad's coaches.”
It appeared to Jack that Andy had just splotched that town's cathedral with a smudge of runny egg yolk.
“You ever met a Bow Street Runner?” Andy asked Jack.
“Can't say that I have.”
“I've seen them,” Daphne offered. “You know them by their---”
“Red vests,” Andy finished. “A Bow Street Runner must know all the streets in the Capital.”
“Your father tells me you know them even though you've never been to London,” Jack said.
Andy shrugged his skinny shoulders. “I'm trying to make myself qualified to be a runner.”
Daphne favored the lad with a bright smile. “I'm sure you'll be a most diligent one. Tell me, Andy, why do you wish to be a Bow Street Runner?”
“I want to 'elp maidens in distress,” he said with a wink. “And I would get great satisfaction from seeing evildoers get their just rewards.”
Daphne turned to her husband. “Don't you think Andy will do splendidly?”
“Indeed I do.”
* * *
Many hours later, the glistening dome of London's St. Paul's came into view. “I believe we should go first to Lankersham House,” Jack said as they crossed Westminster Bridge.
It was remarkable how parallel their thoughts were. She had been thinking the same thing. Had Daphne's plan to install the duke's footmen on the Penzance coach been successful, it was possible the blackmailer—who must also be in possession of Captain Heffington's list—had already been unmasked.
Going strictly on her own intuition, though, Daphne did not think that plan had succeeded. She could not be sure it had even been carried out in her absence. Cornelia was the most indolent woman imaginable. Without her elder sister prodding, she tended to put things off for vast stretches of time, seemingly thinking that if unpleasant situations were out of her mind, they would resolve themselves.
Daphne was reminded of the time Cornelia had hidden one of her lovers beneath her high tester bed when the duke had returned unexpectedly early from his shooting lodge in Scotland. With Cornelia incapable of addressing the problem of how to remove one (very hungry) lover for two full days, the exasperated man finally waited until duchess and duke were soundly asleep above him, then he stealthily stole away in the night—only to be apprehended by an overzealous footman.
Fortunately, the lover was able to bribe the footman, and everything—except Cornelia's little flirtation—ended well.
As Daphne and Jack went to depart the coach in front of the huge iron gates of Lankersham House, Daphne saw Virginia leave the baroque mansion. “Uh, oh. I cannot see Virginia just now. Have the coachman circle the square once more.”
Jack did as she instructed. “Why do you not want to see the duchess's twin?”
“Because she does not know about the blackmail, and Cornelia forbid me to tell her.”
“I thought you said the twins shared everything.”
“Not everything. Virginia disapproves of Cornelia's . . . flirtations, as Cornelia calls them.”
“How refreshing. An aristocrat who takes her marriage vows seriously.”
“You would adore Virginia were you around her more. She is not only completely besotted over her Sir Ronald, she is the sweetest person in the three kingdoms. She's a natural nurturer.”
“Like you.”
She shook her head. “No, I'm afraid I'm just the domineering firstborn.”
The coach once more came to a stop in front of Lankersham House. As they went to step down, Jack turned to her. “I know you are a most discreet female, but I want to caution you. You are not to mention the duchess's indiscretions. To anyone. Ever.”
“Of course, I wouldn't.”
“Will she be upset you've told me about the letters?”
“Under normal circumstances, she would. But she seems to believe you some spy extraordinaire who is the only person in the kingdom who can extricate her from this predicament.” Daphne held up her hands. “I swear I did not tell her you were a spy extraordinaire! Extraordinaire is too suspiciously close to one of those words you barred me from using—when I speak of you.”
He gazed at her from narrowed eyes.
When he faced the Duchess of Lankersham a moment later, he was all smiles. Though she was not seeing callers this day, she welcomed the Drydens into her private sitting room. Daphne could not understand why one would have subjected herself to the rigors of having her hair dressed, squeezing her bosom into stays, and dressing in such lovely gowns if one was not seeing callers. In her golden dress—which revealed too much of her breasts for Daphne's taste—the duchess was uncommonly beautiful. No wonder she had been able to snare a duke.
“You are back!” a delighted Cornelia said. “I declare, that is the fastest trip to the Peninsula I've ever heard of.” Her brows lowered. “Have you seen Mama? She's been beside herself with worry over you.”
“No,” Daphne said. “We came to you first. Were you able to install your footmen on the Penzance mail coach?”
Cornelia settled herself on a settee of scarlet silk, folding her hands in her lap. “You will be happy to know, I did. I wished to show you I am not indolent.”
Cornelia's face fell, her huge chocolate eyes regarding Jack. “He knows?”
“Of course,” Daphne responded. “You told me you thought he was the only one in the kingdom who could help you.”
“He knows everything?”
Daphne frowned. “Everything.”
The duchess's long lashes lowered, then she brightened. “Well, I got two very strong—and I must add, very handsome—footmen and concocted some story to put Lankersham off. My maid saw that the footmen, who were, of course, dressed in postal livery, made it onto the coach, and she personally put my bag of money with the other bags. The Lankersham footmen were to observe it at all times, and when someone tried to take it, they were instructed to apprehend the rascal.”
Jack frowned. “From your expression, I take it the plan failed.”
Cornelia nodded. “By the time the coach reached Camberley the money had completely disappeared. The footmen admitted to a lapse, and apparently that was all it took.”
“Had passengers departed the coach that soon?” Jack asked.
“Yes, I thought to ask that,” Cornelia said. “One. A French lady.”
“That French lady must have been the one,” Daphne said.
“D'Arblier may have a hand in this,” Jack muttered.
“Dearest, you obsess too much about that blasted duc.”
Jack's mouth folded into a grim line.
* * *
Striding toward the waiting carriage, Jack asked Daphne if she wished to go to Sidworth House. She stopped in mid stride, tilted her face to his—which was just inches away—and glared. “I have been married six days now and have yet to cross the threshold of our home with you by my side.” While Jack had been whiling away his time in Brighton, Daphne had placed their wedding gifts there and had hung in Jack's bedchamber—or, directed the hanging of—the wedding portrait she'd painted of Warrior.
“You know I must go to the War Office to learn the direction of Styles' batman?” Jack said.
“Of course.”
“I'll just dismiss the carriage, and go around the corner to fetch Warrior.”
“Since we're going to be making inquiries together, I thought perhaps we could keep the carriage another day or so. It shouldn't cost that much more. . . What do you think?” She had decided that, contrary what Cornelia expected, she was not going to be a domineering wife. Jack wouldn't like it at all if she started ordering him about.
