A Most Discreet Inquiry (The Regent Mysteries Book 2)

by Cheryl Bolen

  “I assure you, Daphne was with me the whole evening.” White’s? Isn’t that where Daphne said the Duke of Lankersham had seen Lord Lambeth gambling? Had she substituted the duke's name for Sir Ronald’s? Why would she do something so pointlessly dishonest? This really was out of character for Daphne, who was inherently a most honest woman.

  Virginia stood. “Since I needed to speak to you alone, I concocted a story to get her to my parents’ house. I’d best be back before Daphne returns because she’s apt to be angry with me.”

  She went to the door, then turned back. “I shouldn’t have barged in on you—in your condition, but I must say you’ve eased my worried mind enormously.”

  * * *

  “Daphne! How good it is to see you! Allow me to look at you.” Lady Sidworth proceeded to rise from the little French desk in her study where she had been scribbling letters, then she circled her eldest daughter. “The captain assured me you were not injured in Spain by those wretched French murderers who nearly killed him.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how his mother can bear it.”

  Daphne’s mouth dropped open to protest, but her mother raced on.

  “Your husband tells me you were dreadfully sick during the crossing. I daresay you took that from your papa. I shall never forget our wedding trip aboard the Sidworth yacht—which you will not remember---”

  “Of course I couldn’t remember your wedding trip since I wasn’t yet born.”

  Lady Sidworth vigorously shook her head. “What I was going to say was you won’t remember the yacht because Sidworth sold it immediately after the wedding trip and said he would never again step foot aboard a bloody boat—pardon my language, but your father introduced me to the most vile language imaginable during our wedding trip, most of it as he retched into the unmentionable, unmentionable, unmentionable basin.” She shook her head. “It was not a happy wedding trip.”

  “Nor was mine.” Daphne dropped onto a pale yellow damask settee, and her mother came to sit next to her. “But other than the sea voyage, our wedding trip has been particularly wonderful.” Except for that one matter.

  “How is Annie working out?”

  She did not answer for a moment. “She needs a bit more experience.” To change the topic and not malign poor Annie, Daphne continued, “And I’ve engaged the Poyntz’s former housekeeper, who seems wonderfully capable.”

  “I am gratified that all is working out for you. I’ve been dreadfully worried.”

  Daphne rose. “You have now seen with your own eyes that I am in perfect good health. Now I really must return to my ailing husband. I do so worry about him.” Especially knowing that d’Arblier must be in London planning to assassinate Jack. If he knew of Jack’s weakened state, he could be just bold enough to stage an audacious daytime attack.

  Chapter 15

  “Are you certain, dearest, that you’re physically capable of performing tonight’s mission?” Daphne had to admit that in the four and twenty hours since she’d left her mother's house Jack had demonstrated remarkable progress. Even if he was excessively brooding. She supposed his dislike of inactivity accounted for his irritability.

  While he had refused to lie in bed, his movements were severely impeded by the soreness in his ribs, a shoulder that would not budge, and swelling around his knee.

  They had actually ventured a trip to Lankersham House, and together with Cornelia, planned their clandestine mission. Cornelia had been sending letters back and forth to Lord Lambeth regarding their night’s rendezvous.

  Daphne then set about copying the viscount’s handwriting—something she had a remarkable proficiency for—then drafted a note that would be delivered to the Lambeth servants that evening, purportedly from their master, giving all of them the evening off.

  Cornelia’s most significant contribution to their mission was her ability to get her hands on the plans for Lord Lambeth’s house on Manchester Square, which had been built in the last century by Robert Adam. After memorizing the layout of the house, Jack and Daphne decided upon entering through a window in the library, which was located on the ground floor at the back of the house. They had previously selected the library as the first room to examine. She just hoped Lord Lambeth’s taste did not extend to bibliophilic acquisitions since they needed to check every book in the chamber.

  Daphne's biggest obstacle in the planning stages was convincing Jack to allow her to come along on the mission. He had been vehemently opposed to putting his wife at risk. She and Cornelia used all their persuasive powers to convince him that Daphne’s aid would be most helpful and that no harm could possibly befall her as long as Jack was there to protect her. Daphne knew without a doubt he would lay down his own life to protect hers.

  “Of course I am fit enough for our mission!” he snapped.

  “I could always have Sir Ronald accompany us. He’s not only a noted pugilist---”

  “Yes, I know.” He spoke through gritted teeth as he rolled his eyes. “I am well aware that Sir Ronald is handy with a sword—even if he’s never been in face-to-face combat with an enemy whose object was to kill him.”

  The very idea of Jack standing face-to-face with a horrid man like the duc d’Arblier gave her a sinking feeling. Her poor Jack. He was low because of his infirmity and, quite naturally, a bit resentful of Sir Ronald's robust good health and many manly strengths. “I daresay you could easily best Sir Ronald if you were not injured.”

  It was now half past eleven. They had sent around a letter dismissing the Lambeth servants at eight that night.

  She donned her full-length black cloak over a black dress. She hadn’t worn it since she’d been in mourning for her grandfather. Jack, too, donned a black cloak.

  As Andy stood there in the dark, holding open the coach door, Daphne decided to take the lad into her confidence. When she had discussed him with Jack, he had not been adverse to trusting the young coachman. “Pray, Andy, can you be entrusted with a secret?”

  “Ye can count on me integrity, my lady.” He seemed to have grown two inches taller.

  She stifled a laugh and lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “The captain and I are on an important mission for the crown---”

  Jack's fingers clamped her arm. “Now, my dearest wife, you mustn't go about attaching such undo importance to this.”

  “But, darling, Andy will be an important part of our investigation.” She directed her attention back to the young coachman. “We hope to expose French spies right here in London.” She knew such knowledge would play to the lad's adventurous spirit. And to his patriotism.

  Jack's grip became tighter. “Into the coach, madam.” He did not sound happy.

  A beaming Andy let down the steps. “I am honored to be taken into your confidence, and I'll do me best to assist in any way I'm needed.” Andy was so intrinsically likeable she had no reservations about trusting him.

  Jack gave their destination to Andy. “And while we are within the premises there, you will need to continue circling the square. It might be necessary---”

  “To make a swift get-away?” Andy asked, his face shining with admiration.

  Jack sighed.

  Before he closed the coach door, Andy quickly calculated the best route to Manchester Square. The lad's memorization of those London maps was proving to be most useful.

  “One thing more,” Daphne said. “We shall enter the premises through the back.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  During the hours of their preparation, Jack had drummed into Daphne the necessity of precision planning. Every detail—as well as any possible interruption—must be anticipated, every move committed to memory. “A mission’s success,” he had chanted, “hinges on good planning.”

  After the coach began to move, Jack turned to her. “My dear wife, do you not realize that spies cannot go around announcing their clandestine activities publicly?”

  “Andy is NOT the public. He's a good lad, and by taking him into our confidence we have recruite
d an invaluable ally.”

  “In the future, I request that you and I together make such a determination.”

  “Of course you're right, my love, but you did say you trusted the boy.”

  “Trusting him and blurting out state secrets to him are two entirely different matters!”

  She pouted. “You're not happy with me.”

  “Is it too much to ask that before you go around recruiting . . . associates, you and I first discuss it?”

  “I shall defer to you in the future,” she answered, her tone contrite.

  Throughout the coach ride to Manchester Square, they continued to go over their plan until Jack finally deemed Daphne adequately prepared.

  She lifted the velvet curtain from the window. “We're here. Andy's slowing at the lane to the Lambeth mews.” And the back of Lambeth House.

  She peered from her window, Jack from his. Andy had been instructed to continue on should there be any persons in the lane. He came to a dead stop.

  Jack turned to her. “I really don't like endangering you like this. I wish you would stay in the carriage.”

  “How little you know me, sir, if you think I could even for a second contemplate allowing my husband to go in there without me.”

  He muttered an oath and exited the coach, then turned back to assist her. In their dark clothing they sidled along the lane until they came to a stately home of Portland stone, the house Robert Adam had built for Lord Lambeth's father. “This is it,” she whispered, not without a trembling inside. What if Lord Lambeth was still within? Or what if she and Jack climbed through that window and met the barrel of a musket?

  They both knew the house's layout from memory, both walked to the last window on the ground floor. Its sill met Jack's chin. He stopped and turned back. There was enough of a moon that the features of his face were identifiable. Though he'd been on possibly hundreds of missions, the concern etched upon his face bore the unmistakable signs of worry. Her presence must weigh on him like an unnecessary appendage.

  She would just have to prove her worth.

  He went to work quickly, and opened the library window with little effort. Then he gave Daphne a leg up. They had decided she would go in first because she was too short to get in without assistance. (She rather liked being thought of as short—since most of her life she had towered over most of her female acquaintances.)

  Once she was clear of the window frame and standing within Lord Lambeth's library, she took stock of her surroundings. No sounds. She could see very little, owing to the darkness. Then she turned back to the opened window. Jack was attempting to hoist himself in, but was having a great deal of difficulty because of his badly bruised (and probably broken) ribs and injured shoulder. “Please allow me to drop down a chair for you to stand upon,” she whispered.

  “I’m not going to stand on a bloody chair.” He mumbled something about being jessified as he grimaced and groaned and eventually succeeded in forcing himself up.

  Inside the library, Jack lit a candle and handed it to her. Her worth had been reduced to her ability to hold a light for her husband. Now rudimentally illuminated, the chamber featured just five banks of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Exactly as she had hoped. Most men who were enamored of high-stakes play were not bibliophiles. Thank goodness.

  Jack started with the shelves that were eye level, taking a single book, shaking it spine up, then tossing it to the floor. He cleaned every book from the shelf.

  Just as he was attempting the next shelf, the door to the room began to creak open.

  They both stilled. Jack whispered in her ear. “You must go back.”

  While she was not one to flee a sinking ship—especially when that ship held her husband—she reasoned her best chances of helping both of them from a potential scrape was for her to be free of the house.

  She slithered toward the still-open window, terrified when the library door came fully open. Her head swiveled to see the intruder, but it was much too dark for recognition. All she could tell was that it was a man, and he was smaller than Jack—the knowledge of which should give her comfort. But it did not, especially when his footsteps most definitely moved into the chamber they were in.

  As she drew next to the open window, she gathered the dark velvet draperies around her, sat on the window sill, spun around, then dropped to the pavement below.

  Jack must have taken that opportunity to attack the intruder because the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle brought terror to her heart.

  She stood upon her tiptoes to try to peer into the chamber just in time for her face to be the receptacle of a man's boot. The boot's force knocked her to the ground.

  A string of French curse words followed, then the intruder leapt to the ground and raced away.

  The moon glistened upon the knife in his hand.

  Chapter 16

  Jack! The knife!

  She did not care if they were caught where they ought not to be. All that mattered was Jack. She called his name and realized she sounded like a warbler's death call. If there was such a thing.

  In an effort to hoist herself back through the window, she clawed at the Portland stone but was neither tall enough, nor strong enough to succeed. As she stood upon her tiptoes gazing through the open window, she was rewarded with a wondrous sight: Jack.

  Though the sight was wondrous, the words spouting from his mouth were not. He was not pleased.

  “Thank God you're unhurt,” she whispered.

  “When I heard your scream, I thought that fiend had hurt you.”

  “Do you know who that fiend was?”

  “Dear God, was it d'Arblier?”

  She nodded solemnly. “Possibly. He was definitely French and the same size—and hair color—as the duc.”

  And those vile words erupted again in a fierce cacophony that concluded with Jack's apology. “Forgive me, but I am not happy. I could have had him if it weren't for my damned shoulder.”

  “Still unable to move it?”

  “Regrettably.” As he spoke to her, he had been leaning out the window. Then he straightened, ears perked like one of her papa's pointers. “I do believe there's not a single servant here. Your screech certainly would have alerted one.”

  Screech? She supposed that wail had come off sounding rather like a screech. If she were a more feminine creature, like Cornelia or Virginia, she would have resented his description. A proper lady did not screech. Thank God she was not a feminine creature. “Then I say why don't we light all the candles and have a good go at the room?”

  “A very good suggestion. Here, allow me to help you back in.” He reached for her.

  She shook her head. “You must have a care for that shoulder. I'll come in the back door, if you unlock it for me.”

  A moment later they were together back in the library. He found and lighted an oil lamp, which illuminated the small celery-colored chamber of dark woods. The room featured two doors, one to the central hallway and the other to Lord Lambeth's study, which was an even smaller room. “Since we may have rather free rein, shall we peruse his lordship's study? That's where the Frenchman came from” she said.

  Not waiting for his reply, she started for the adjacent room.

  Jack opened the door. “After you, my lady.”

  Still holding the oil lamp, she strode into the chamber. Papers were strewn on the floor, and it appeared the drawers of Lord Lambeth's desk had been emptied. She approached the desk. On the floor beneath the desk she saw something that made her drop the lamp and cry out again.

  This time it was worse than a screech.

  Jack rushed to her side to restore the lamp to an upright position before it burned the carpet. Then he followed her gaze and saw the crumpled, bloody body of a man with blond hair. “Lambeth?”

  Tears stinging her eyes, she nodded solemnly.

  Jack dropped to his knees—not spryly, but with the agility of an eighty year old—and felt for Lord Lambeth's pulse. Seconds later, he looked up solemnly and shook his
head.

  She was sickened and felt like bawling, but not for the wicked man who lay dead almost at her feet, the man who had likely murdered the honorable Mr. Prufoy. She knew it had been the duc's knife which had killed the viscount, and she quaked at the thought that it could have been Jack.

  Her husband stood, drew her into his embrace, and held her. Soft kisses pressed into her hair, accompanied by low murmurs of assurance. “I am so sorry you had to see this.”

  She hated to think of all the deaths Jack had witnessed. This was her first. Elderly grandparents laid out on a bier did not count.

  Jack's embrace and gentle words banished the sobs which had been on the precipice of erupting. “I am just so very grateful it wasn't you.” She looked up into his face and stroked his finely chiseled cheek.

  That was when she saw the blood on her hand. Blood from Jack.

  “You've been hurt!” Her heartbeat thundered, her hands trembled.

  “It was too dark for me to see his knife.” Jack shrugged. “I may have gotten a small flesh wound.”

  That he was standing there communicating with her demonstrated that he had not been badly wounded. But she was incapable of rational thought. Nothing could be more terrifying than the very idea of a knife searing her husband's flesh. (Well, actually seeing such an action would undoubtedly be worse.) She dropped to the floor as if felled by a musket ball and began to sob.

  This was not a my-family's-faithful-dog-died sob. It was the kind of sob which might burst forth from a mother who'd just seen her entire family—which included five precious children—slaughtered before her very eyes.

  Daphne did not understand how she could have become so hysterical when a (relatively) healthy Jack stood before her.

  His brows lowered with concern, he squatted beside her. “There, now. What's the matter, love? I'm not really injured. I barely feel it.”

  Then he tossed off his cape. This was followed by the removal of his jacket. Next—but not without wincing in pain—he pulled off his shirt. Even streaked with blood, his upper torso was a magnificent sight. Her gaze raked over the rock-hard muscles moistened with perspiration from his recent fisticuffs and a spray of fine black hair in the center of his chest, and her heartbeat galloped.