As he rode on, it dawned on him that his thoughts had only been for Eleanor. Why was Delacroix leaving now? Fitz’s intelligence had warned them something was afoot and that it would occur this evening or next. And here was Delacroix in dun territory and leaving for France. It had to be him. But what role did Eleanor have in all this? Stratford spotted another posting house just ahead, and though he almost passed it by, he pulled his reins in and dismounted.
His caution was well-served. There was a carriage off to the side with Delacroix’s crest, horses unharnessed and dipping their heads into a bucket of feed. He had not even tried to hide them. The villain must not have thought anyone would go after Eleanor.
The hostler rushed over as soon as he pulled in, and Stratford tossed him the reins, slipping a coin into the man’s outstretched hand. “Give them some water and a rub-down, but don’t unharness them. I shall not stay.”
Entering the crowded taproom, he spotted the door to the private parlor and advanced toward it. The landlord darted to his side to intercept. “Milord, the room is occupied at present. You were not here when your letter said you’d arrive.”
Stratford pushed him aside and flung the door open. It clattered against the wall, revealing Miss Daventry seated across from Sir Delacroix. She stood, and he had only time to glance at her pale face, her frightened eyes, before he turned his gaze to Delacroix.
“The devil,” he said, furiously.
Miss Daventry moved to the side of the room, and he could hear the fear and uncertainty in her voice. “I’m glad you are come, my lord. I was taken against my will.” Why is she afraid? I’m here now.
He spared her only the briefest of looks, not wanting to take his eyes off the scoundrel still seated at the table. He did not trust him.
Sir Delacroix stood and began clapping his hands, “Bravo,” he said. “You’ve come all this way only to interrupt what was a nice little tête à tête. Now that you see where things stand, why don’t you turn back to London?”
“Oh ho!” Stratford could not contain his fury or his words. “I imagine you’d find that mighty convenient, but you’ll pay for your ill-usage of Miss Daventry. And while I’m teaching you a lesson, sir, you’ll answer for the packet of information stolen from the war offices, which you’re planning to drop into enemy’s hands. Don’t bother to deny it.”
“So that’s to be laid at my door, is it?” Delacroix rolled his eyes and sat down. “Good lord.”
Stratford paused. His certainty that Delacroix was the spy had only come about after the man had abducted Eleanor. Until then, he hadn’t been fully convinced of Delacroix’s guilt, despite rather strong evidence to the contrary. Maybe his attachment to Eleanor had blinded his impartiality in this case, and he was seized with feelings of doubt. Still, he must see this completely through.
“All evidence points to you,” Stratford said. “Your leaving London coincides with the information drop to the enemy. You were not at Almack’s the night the document was stolen from headquarters. And our intelligence tells us the spy in question is likely to be of French descent.” He jabbed his finger at Delacroix. “You were there when Lord Ingram fell, and I’m sure if you came back, it was to finish the job. Except you were too late!”
Sir Delacroix threw up his hands. “Whatever will you throw at me next? Had you considered I would not make an appearance that morning if I were guilty of what you accuse me? That I wouldn’t be so paper-skulled as to be caught in the vicinity?”
“Your appearance was to throw off suspicion. A case of double dealing. You come back on the scene, show yourself as an angel of mercy, and all suspicion of your actions is cast aside.” Stratford untied his cape and threw it off, then pulled at his neck cloth. “Tell me. If you are innocent, why flee the country with Miss Daventry? Why not stay where you were?”
“The heat was getting too strong, and no—” Delacroix raised his hand. “It was not that I feared being thought a spy, although I did have a suspicion when Ingram began to take an interest in my affairs. Yes, of course I knew he was having me followed. I have my sources too. The heat was on because I dug in too deep. I’m all rolled up, Worthing. And with the unforgiving eyes of the ton already on me as someone who is of French ancestry, as you so graciously pointed out—never mind that I went to school with the rest of you and spent my entire life here, doing all but bleeding for this country—the debts were more than I could bear. I had to flee.”
“If you’re not spying … It’s too much to believe.” Stratford shook his head and eyed the leather satchel by Delacroix’s plate. “The description, the motives.”
“Motives!” Delacroix shot back. “When have my actions ever called into question my love for England? It’s only my blood that calls it into question. But I was raised on English soil, studied in English schools, found a peerage in English clubs. There is no motive. When was this night you speak of where someone stole a paper from headquarters, to which I have no access, might I remind you?”
“It was May thirteenth when the rest of the ton was at Almack’s. Everyone was there, except you. All the clues fit together.”
“Ha. Almack’s,” Delacroix rejoined bitterly. “My voucher was revoked to that illustrious assembly. I went to play cards instead, and you can ask anyone at Boodle’s whether I was there.”
Stratford remained unconvinced, but he had enough doubt to pause again. “Everything points to you. Who else fits the description so well?”
Sir Delacroix sighed. “I do not like to embroil myself in the affairs of others, unless it’s to save my own skin. But have you considered Sir Braxsen?”
“Braxsen,” Stratford puzzled, “but he would have no reason.”
“No? Born the son of a French revolutionary who has sympathetic ties to Napoleon? Of course it’s not well known. His mother’s parents chose an English royalist for a husband, and Braxsen’s father tried to direct the boy’s thoughts into more proper English channels. But a mother’s whispers go a long way in forming a boy’s ideology.”
“But he fought in the war,” Stratford said. “He fought for us …” He stopped, remembering the details of his conversation with Braxsen. He wasn’t keen to return to the Peninsula; he questioned his brother’s death, even alluding to the fact that it came under suspicious circumstances. “Braxsen is of your height and coloring,” he said slowly. “And he appeared at Almack’s just before the doors closed.” Suddenly, everything became clear.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Stratford was now convinced Sir Braxsen was his man, and he couldn’t believe he’d missed it. Braxsen, always negative about his military career, had even tried to throw dust in Stratford’s eyes by hinting that Delacroix was unsavory, simply for being French. He had been thoroughly taken in. He needed to let Ingram and Fitz know as soon as possible and get to Braxsen before he could pass on the information or disappear.
At the moment, he had more immediate matters at hand. Stratford took a step toward Delacroix. “Why Miss Daventry? Why bring her life into ruin?” He looked in Eleanor’s direction, pained by what she’d had to suffer. “After this night’s work, she may not have had the easiest future before her, but she’s not a straw damsel.”
Behind him, Eleanor made what sounded like a half-sob, and Delacroix gave a harsh laugh. “So you say. But as you can see, Worthing, she was eating her dinner as calmly as you please before you walked in here. So I’d say you’re de trop, sir.”
Stratford upended the table, sending it crashing into Sir Delacroix. He grabbed the vicomte by the neck, pulled him up, and punched him in the eye. Delacroix fell backward with a loud crash.
With Delacroix on the ground, Stratford rushed to Eleanor. “Have you suffered any ill?” Grabbing her arms with both hands, he urged, “Let me take you from here.”
Shaking, she fell into his arms, and the sensation of holding her whole body against his nearly blindsided him. “I have suffered from no permanent harm. Oh—” she shrieked. “Behind you!”
S
tratford whirled to see Delacroix standing with a sword in hand. The vicomte wasted no time before rushing toward Stratford, who had his own sword out of the scabbard in a matter of seconds. There was a mighty clash as the two came against each other, and Eleanor inched to the door, her wide eyes transfixed on the scene before her.
“Now we shall have it out,” Stratford shouted, and he thrust his sword forward but was met with a parry. He removed himself out of the way before Delacroix could counter-attack. Think, he scolded himself viciously. Don’t react, think. Plan your moves ahead. He now saw his opponent more clearly and scanned the room for things that could help or hinder his battle. There was the broken container with gravy on the floor next to the table. There was his drink that had spilled and formed a puddle. One chair down, one chair still upright. A sideboard that could be tilted …
Stratford began to fight in earnest. Swords clashed, again and again, without either opponent showing weakness. He blocked one thrust, but ineffectually, and felt a sting on his left arm. Eleanor covered her mouth with a gasp.
Knowing he would tire easily because of the wound, Stratford had to put a quick end to the fight. He drove his opponent backward with short, relentless thrusts of the blade until Delacroix was at the edge of the spilled gravy near the table. Just as he’d hoped, Delacroix stepped backward and slipped, causing his sword arm to drop instead of blocking the thrust. Stratford curled his blade around Delacroix’s sword, sending it clattering across the floor, and he put the tip of his own sword to Sir Delacroix’s neck.
“You are vanquished,” Stratford said, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. Sir Delacroix had his hands half-raised in surrender, and he acknowledged this with a nod.
Stratford lowered his blade. He walked over to the table, eyes trained on Delacroix, and looked inside the leather satchel. There was nothing in it apart from a few bills and some jewelry. “I suggest you leave. Whether you go to France or back to London is one and the same to me. Just don’t bandy about Miss Daventry’s name, and I will stay out of your affairs.”
Delacroix reached for his fallen sword as he stood, picked it up, and slid it back in the scabbard. He looked down and clucked in annoyance. “The gravy has stained my stockings, and I will not be able to change before the harbor. I present a shocking appearance.” Stratford continued to hold him steadily in his gaze as the man came before Miss Daventry.
“Je vous souhaite une bonne soirée, mademoiselle.” Delacroix bowed in irony, and with a nod to Stratford, he was gone.
When the door from the private parlor opened to the taproom and Sir Delacroix made his exit, the noises of people drinking and talking resumed and the landlord rushed in. “Milord. Oh! … and broken crockery. Ours is a correct establishment, sir, and you’ve turned it on its end with your fight. Who will restore my reputation?”
Stratford was not in the humor for theatrics. “I will pay you for the damages. Now leave,” he said, propelling the landlord to the door. When he had closed it behind him, he strode to where Eleanor was and pulled her hands in his.
She allowed him to hold them for only a moment before she noticed the blood. “Your arm,” she said, and turning to the sideboard, she found a clean napkin to tie a bandage around it. “This will do until it can be looked at.” Then she reached her hand up to his face, and her fingers feathered lightly on his cheek.
Stunned by the gentleness of her touch, Stratford was lulled by the spell she had cast over him. He wanted to speak—was loathe to leave her in any doubt of his feelings for her—but they must go. He did not want his proposal to come when she was in such a vulnerable position. She might one day doubt whether it was motivated by anything other than charity. And the longer they remained, alone and unmarried, the more risk of scandal attached to her name.
“I need to bring you back to London,” he said. “I know not how to do this without exposing you to unnecessary criticism, but the safest bet is for me to take you to my house, where my sisters can see to your needs. And I’ll speak with Lady Ingram in the morning.”
Eleanor was shaking from head to foot and hoped it could not be seen. The turmoil of emotions she’d experienced—elation and relief when Lord Worthing walked into the room, fright from her near escape—all proved too much for her composure. Although the earl had reacted when she touched his face, leaning into her hand and closing his eyes, his emotions were now hidden, and she wondered if she had imagined them.
He helped Eleanor into the phaeton, her hand trembling in his, then climbed in on the other side before tossing a coin to the waiting postboy. He took the reins, and they were off. The carriage was so well-sprung, she was slowly able to relax and settle her thoughts as they sped over the country lane.
Neither spoke for some time, and Eleanor began to wonder if they would not exchange a single word on their entire trip to London. Was he angry with her for the scandal? No sooner had she had this unhappy reflection than he found his voice.
“I know you must be feeling some shock over the events of this evening, but these feelings will pass.” Lord Worthing looked at her in the dark, and she met his gaze.
He turned to face forward again. “For the rest of my days, I will remember this evening. I will remember—” Lord Worthing stopped short. He swallowed, and when he continued, his voice caught. “—that I was on time to save you. I will remember that God granted me the answer to my prayer.” He went silent and urged his horses to pick up their pace.
Eleanor looked forward too, a weight lifted. Never could she have imagined the evening would finish this way, that Lord Worthing would not hold the scandal against her, but instead would come rushing to save her from it. She felt the warmth emanating from his side, and she leaned into it.
They continued like that, the emotions seeming too weighted for words, and in what felt like a short time, they arrived in London proper and then his house in Cavendish Square. There was a lamp burning in the sitting room, its light visible through the shutters. He pulled on the reins, and the tired horses came to an obedient stop.
“Eleanor,” he said, taking possession of her hand. “I will make everything right for you with Lady Ingram, and … with everyone.”
Tears sprang to Eleanor’s eyes. She had not expected them to come so long after the danger had been removed. It must have been the shock, but she thought that it might also come from this sprig of hope that refused to be dampened. Why hope should make one cry, she did not know.
“If Lady Ingram will receive me,” she said, “I must thank her for her hospitality and beg her to overlook the events that occurred tonight. That is, if she believes you that I’m not at fault.”
“She will believe me,” Lord Worthing said grimly.
When they reached the front entrance, the butler was already there. Anna and Phoebe opened the door to the corridor and sprang out of the drawing room, Phoebe coming forward immediately. “Eleanor,” she said, taking her in her arms. Eleanor’s tears threatened again.
“Come,” said Phoebe, “I will have Cook bring you a warm glass of milk. I’ve had the room made up for you next to mine, and there’s a bath just waiting for the rest of the hot water to be brought.”
Anna was rooted to her spot, but as Phoebe and Eleanor walked by, she said, “I’m glad Stratford was in time.”
Eleanor turned to face her. “Thank you.”
Stratford undressed slowly, conscious that Eleanor was just down the hall. He was dead with fatigue, and as such, his thoughts jumbled together. I reached her in time. I reached her in time. But he had been wrong about Delacroix’s involvement. It wasn’t like him to be wrong.
Still, Delacroix wasn’t innocent. Stratford remembered how Eleanor had started out of her chair, relief written all over her face. And Delacroix, the scoundrel, thought to catch him unaware and put an end to him. He must have been desperate indeed. Did Delacroix think Stratford would try to stop his flight if it were just over debt? Or was his main intent to carry off his victim?
He put Delacroix from his mind. It was too late to ruminate over all this, and he needed to see Ingram first thing in the morning before going after Braxsen. Come to think of it, he’d better bring Major Fitzwilliam along as well. Fitz was fully involved and knew what he was about, though he had not seen through Braxsen either.
Stratford fell asleep, not thinking of Braxsen and Delacroix, but of amber-colored eyes that he hoped—once he had taken care of the urgent business—would be lifted to his, as she said the one word that mattered. Yes.
R
The next morning, Stratford woke too early to accomplish his mission directly. He would never be received at Ingram’s house at this hour and might as well have breakfast first. He dressed carefully, wondering when he would see Eleanor that day and how she might be faring after her terrifying ordeal.
He had just sat down to breakfast when Anna walked in. Surveying him in silence, she chose a seat opposite him as the footman entered and set a pot of coffee by her side. She reached for a scone.
“You were successful,” she observed. He nodded. She waited for him to say something, and when he didn’t, she cut her scone in two and covered it with cream. “Is your Miss Daventry recovered from the shock, do you think?”
“She was unharmed when I found her in Delacroix’s company, and I … convinced Sir Delacroix to continue to Dover without her. But no, I’m not certain she’s fully recovered from the shock.”
“So she’s respectable then?” Anna asked, her face unusually grave.
He nodded, his throat tightening. “She was always respectable, Anna.”
She took the implied rebuke in stride. “Stratford, I did a little investigating last night before we left the Skeffington house, and I believe it was Sir Delacroix who started the rumor.”
A Regrettable Proposal Page 29
