by Cheryl Bolen
"Tell me about him," Morgie commanded, rounding the next corner at a brisk pace.
Anna disclosed that Sir Henry had used her to spy against Haverstock by convincing her Haverstock was a French loyalist. "He has been scheming to learn the identity of Charles' contact in France – the one you two visited."
Morgie nodded but said nothing.
By the time they reached the old building that housed the sewing school, he turned to Anna, a stern look on his narrow face. "Leave it to me. I know how to smoke out varmint."
"Allow me to buy you a drink, Almshouse," Morgie said, settling in a leather chair in a darkened corner of White's and getting the attention of a passing waiter.
Theodore Almshouse, whose once-fine coat was now well worn, sat next to him. "Good of you, old chap, considering I still owe you that five-hundred quid. Regret to say it will be the next quarter before I can pay up. My luck's been devilishly bad of late."
Morgie leveled his gaze at his old school chum, displaying neither satisfaction nor scorn, but a controlled power. "You may not have to pay up," Morgie announced cheerfully. "I have a proposal for you."
Almshouse leaned closer, his ears perked.
The waiter brought a full bottle of port with two glasses. Morgie watched as Almshouse took his glass with shaking hand. "What with your rotten luck and all," Morgie said, "it shouldn't be too difficult for you to actually play to lose."
"You are proposing to pay me to lose?"
Morgie nodded.
"To whom, pray tell?"
"To Sir Henry Vinson."
As she demonstrated a daisy stitch to a middle-aged woman who stunk of onions, Anna sensed someone standing over her shoulder and turned to face Mr. Hogart.
He wore an impish smile, which she affectionately returned.
"I suspected I would find you here," he said, bowing.
Anna gave him her hand. "How did you know?"
"I happen to spend a good deal of time in this neighborhood myself. It took no great intellect to surmise the fine lady who had set up the sewing school was none other than the Marchioness of Haverstock. Tell me, does his lordship know about this?"
Anna nodded as she led him away from the students.
"And he has no objections?"
"His only objection is to our safety. I'm not even sure he fully trusts Mr. Morgan."
"He should have no worries about you. You're worshipped as a saint here. No hand will be ever be raised against you."
"You know these people well."
"I do, and I know I'm doing good. Not just spiritually." His voice held hope, his eyes excitement. Then, he sighed and lowered his voice. "But Haverstock could not be expected to welcome the idea of his lovely sister spending her life toiling for the ignorant masses. She deserves a life of privilege and ease."
Their feet struck the stone floors as they moved further away from the students. So this visit was not just a social call, Anna realized. The pulls of prospective matrimony must be tugging quite firmly at Mr. Hogart's heart. "You underestimate both Charlotte and my husband. Charles has a very generous heart. And he's not given to feeling superior to others. Take his choice of a wife. You know of my background?"
Mr. Hogart nodded, averting his gaze from her.
"Charlotte tells me the two of you wish to marry."
"More than anything."
"Then you must seek permission."
"I cannot do that. I have no money. No home to offer."
"I have set aside dowries for all of Charles' sisters. Charlotte's is a modest one, but you should be able to have a little home and an income of two-hundred a year. And it's not as if you won't come into money of your own one day."
"I cannot accept your generosity."
"Oh, but it's not for you. The dowries were set up before I ever knew of your existence."
His face cleared. His eyes shone. "I could kiss you, Lady Haverstock!"
"Save that for Lady Charlotte."
There was no pleasure in winning from Almshouse, Sir Henry thought. The man was no more skilled at hazard than at handling his liquor. And now Sir Henry would pocket another worthless IOU from the blasted man. Almshouse owed everyone in town.
"Just one more hand," Almshouse said, his words slurred from brandy. "I feel my luck is changing."
Sir Henry went to rise. "You've no more money."
"Sit down, my good man," Almshouse said, his eyes casting about the opulent room at Mrs. Chambers' establishment. None of the other players in the large parlor were within hearing distance, but Almshouse still lowered his voice and leaned toward Sir Henry. "I have information which is worth a goodly sum."
"I cannot imagine myself being interested in purchasing information."
"Are you not associated with the Foreign Office?" Almshouse asked.
Sir Henry raised a brow and moved his chair somewhat closer to Almshouse.
"There is a certain high-ranking Frenchman who can be useful to you, I understand." Almshouse lifted his glass and slowly took a drink, his eyes watching Sir Henry. "That is, if you knew his identity."
Though his heart leapt at the prospect of learning who the Frenchman was, Sir Henry attempted to remain calm. He must not appear too interested. His only sign of eagerness was a slow swallow that accentuated his prominent Adam's apple. "I may have heard something about the fellow," Sir Henry said casually. "But how is it you know of the man?"
"My friend Ralph Morgan – when in his cups one night – was talking about meeting the chap in France."
Morgie's trip to France had been secret. Almshouse really knew what he was talking about. "Tell me, when did this meeting occur?" Sir Henry asked.
Almshouse shrugged. "Maybe three months ago. Maybe six. Around the time Haverstock married."
Sir Henry nodded. It was all he could do not to burst out smiling. The wildest good fortune had finally smiled upon him. The ten-thousand pounds he received for dispatching Monsieur Chassay would be a paltry sum indeed compared to the fee for revealing France's highest-ranking traitor. However, Sir Henry knew he must not seem too eager. He pulled out his timepiece and gave it a glance. "Suppose I could manage another game. What say you the stakes?"
"If I win, I get my markers back. If I lose, you receive the Frenchman's name."
Sir Henry handed the dice to Almshouse.
Except for speaking of the morning nuptial announcement between the Duke of Blassingame and Lady Jane Wyeth, Morgie and Lydia were markedly quiet on the way to the East End. Anna found herself trying to keep up the entire conversation, remarking on how well Kate was taking the duke's marriage announcement, asking Lydia about her outing with the squire the previous day, commenting on the day's heat.
Once they arrived at the sewing school, Morgie asked Anna to stay back for a private word.
"I believe our plan has worked, my lady," he said. "Your suspicions about Sir Henry appear to be completely accurate."
Her eyes danced. "You can prove it?"
He nodded. "A near do well fr – er, acquaintance of mine played right into Sir Henry's hand, it seems. In exchange for money, the acquaintance offered Sir Henry the name of the French official."
"And he positively jumped at the chance to get it, did he not?"
"Quite correct. I knew it wouldn't do to make up a name, so we furnished Sir Henry with the real name, then I hired Bow Street runners to watch Sir Henry round the clock. They were to indefinitely detain – without Sir Henry's knowledge – anyone with whom he secretly met." Morgie rather cockily said, "We now have in custody a certain Mr. Thomas Brouget, who was hastening to Dover after meeting with Sir Henry at St. Paul's this morning."
Sweet heaven! Charles was innocent! Anna felt as if she'd been released from a cage. Now she could be rid of the odious Sir Henry Vinson.
* * *
What Anna hoped would be her final assignation with Sir Henry was brought about by a note from Anna requesting Sir Henry meet her at the British Museum.
Anna was quite alone among gr
im glass cases when Sir Henry entered.
He coolly appraised a mummy. "I have finally realized you can be of no service to me."
"Then we are of like minds," Anna said. "I do not trust you. And I believe you, and not my husband, betray England."
His eyes turned cold. "You don't know of what you speak."
"Oh, but I do. I'm just sorry it has taken me so long to see the truth."
"The truth is that your husband works for the French."
"You're a liar."
"You know he was meeting Pierre Chassay."
"Because Monsieur Chassay was working with the British, and you couldn't allow that, could you, Sir Henry?"
He glared at her.
"I bitterly regret I was very stupid to have trusted you, but that will happen no more. If you value your skin, you'll leave the country before I inform my husband of your activities."
"How dare you threaten me!"
She shot him a frosty glance before turning on her heel. "I'll give you two days."
It was difficult for Haverstock to concentrate on the codes. He kept thinking of Anna's treachery. Of Pierre's death. Of that disgusting Harry Churchdowne who was so obviously besotted over Anna. Of Sir Henry Vinson's role in this business.
He took out the miniature of Anna and gazed at her likeness. Laughter licked at her rich brown eyes and a mischievous smile played at her lovely mouth. He could almost hear her sweet voice and smell her rose water. Even knowing all he knew of her, the sight of that flawless face grabbed at his heart. It was a sign of disgusting weakness. His foolishness over her had cost Pierre his life.
For the first time ever, Haverstock longed to be like his father – not to care for any woman. They only destroyed. He was testament to that.
A knock sounded at his door, and his secretary announced a Mr. Cook.
Haverstock's heart quickened. Mr. Cook was one of the Bow Street runners he had hired to follow Anna since he had fired Jimmy.
Haverstock asked the man to sit down. Before Mr. Cook said anything, Haverstock knew Anna had met with Sir Henry.
"You have a report on my wife's activities?" Haverstock asked.
Mr. Cook nodded grimly, and took a small ledger from his shabby coat. "Lady Haverstock met with a tall, thin bloke, I'd say about fifty years of age, this morning at the British Museum. They spoke for about ten minutes. Then the gent came to this very building – we've learned his name is – -"
"Sir Henry Vinson."
"Just so."
Now Haverstock knew with certainty Anna was indeed meeting the man who matched the description of Pierre's killer.
Haverstock pounded his fist against his desk. He wondered if he had the stomach to see Anna's slender neck with a noose around it.
Chapter 24
Sir Henry would be damned before he would let that scheming female dictate to him! And just when things were going so very well. Thomas was on the way to France with the minister's name. In all likelihood, Sir Henry would be considerably richer within a fortnight. He had a nice little niche here in London, especially now that he had capital to spare.
If only he had not encouraged Anna to marry the blasted Haverstock. That had been his undoing. He had not counted on their falling in love with one another. It simply wasn't done. Haverstock had previously been content with any number of mistresses, but he had not taken one since Anna came to his bed. Sir Henry thought of her mother, Annette de Mouchet, and how satisfied Steffington had been with her. Any man could have luxuriated in her loveliness, Sir Henry thought with bittersweet remorse.
Perhaps he should have taken Anna for his own mistress. But he'd grown so bloody tired of demanding females. He had thought he could control Anna without relinquishing his autonomy. In the beginning she had seemed so fertile for his endeavors. Her hatred for the House of Haverstock had been Sir Henry's leg up. But he had failed to recognize the attraction of a powerfully muscled body, of black eyes that held a woman as powerfully as chains and of a thick head of hair the color of freshly turned earth.
Damn the bloody bitch! Giving him two days! Just three months ago he would have been pleased to flee to Paris, to take up residence in the promised Palais Vendome. To become reacquainted with friends he had not seen in over a decade of war. To take his rightful place at the highest echelons of the world's most brilliant society.
But now he was strangely reluctant to go. Paris most assuredly had changed since he was last there. The nobles were no more.
A vision of Anna gracefully presiding over a Parisian gaming table, dressed in lavish gowns, crowded into his mind. Ah! With Anna at his side, he would have Paris at his feet.
But how could he manage that? An idea suddenly occurred to him. He could play to her weakness.
Her weakness for the Marquess of Haverstock.
After breakfast Anna listened to the quiet voices coming from her husband's dressing room. And when Manors left, she entered. It pained her that the only way she could be alone with her husband was to force her company on him.
She noted the flicker of anger that singed his face when he looked up and saw her. Did she repulse him so greatly? Was there no hope for a reconciliation?
He was fully dressed in rich grays and lifted his gloves while his eyes darted toward the door as if he were in a great hurry to be gone.
Her voice gentle, her step graceful despite the tumult within her breast, Anna walked toward Haverstock and spoke. "I thought I had best warn you yet another man shall beg the hand of yet another sister."
His eyes traveled lazily over her. "The chap who wears black?"
She nodded.
"Correct me if I'm wrong. Is he not the one who has no money?"
"While he has no money at the present, Charlotte has a tidy little dowry coming from her sister-in-law."
"That is very kind of you," he said coolly. "When does the fellow seek my permission?"
"He dines here tonight."
"You think it a good match?"
Her eyes glittered. "Very much so. They are both so very good. And I am so happy for them." She walked toward the window. "I am sorry you were denied what Charlotte will receive."
"Which is?"
She turned to face him, anguish on her face. "A chance to marry whom you choose. I thought I was doing the right thing at the time," she whispered. "I never meant to harm you – or anyone."
He swallowed hard. "I must go," he said, turning away from her.
Dressed in a new coat – though still a drab black – Mr. Hogart met privately with Haverstock before dinner to solicit Lady Charlotte's hand in marriage. Since the discussion with his wife that morning, Haverstock had prepared his affirmative response.
Throughout the day he had been unable to do anything but remember every word that passed between him and Anna that morning. God, but it was difficult to hold a conversation with her when she stood before him, her voice soft and her sentiments always on the mark. It seemed impossible she could be the same woman who had schemed to marry him, to spy against the country that had provided her mother and her with refuge and prosperity.
Undeniably, Anna had many good qualities. It was a fine thing for her to dower his sisters, especially sweet Charlotte so she could marry Hogart. He was a good man. He would treat Charlotte well. From what Anna had told him, Charlotte would have happily given up everything to be Hogart's lifelong helpmate. Haverstock smiled to himself over his little sister. She had always had a soft place in her heart for the downtrodden. To think of all the mangy dogs she had taken in and nursed to glowing good health. He was rather proud of her and her desire to devote herself to the less fortunate.
He had been proud, too, of Anna – before Pierre had been murdered.
At dinner, Charlotte's wedding announcement was made. Kate and Mr. Reeves were there, their solemn faces looking nothing like happy newlyweds.
"My uncle weds next week," Mr. Reeves announced gloomily.
"Never have I seen so many engagements in so short a time," Charlotte mu
sed happily. "First Kate, then Lydia, then Lady Jane – and now me! Isn't it just too thrilling?"
Haverstock glanced at Cynthia, who looked quite wan. She neither touched her turtle soup nor spoke. Once again, Captain Smythe was absent. They had all been taken in by the captain. Haverstock wondered if he should speak to the man about Cynthia. Of course, Smythe had never made any promises. But an honorable man simply did not use a lady as Smythe used Cynthia.
"Soon, I'll be all alone," the dowager complained.
"No, Mama, I am sure I will never wed," Cynthia declared, a distinct note of martyrdom in her voice.
"A lovely girl like you must have had countless offers," Ainsley said.
"Not a single one this season," Cynthia lamented. "I fear I am getting too old."
"Nonsense!" the squire countered. "Look at Lydia. She's thirty."
Lydia colored.
"I don't know what I'll do without Lydia to run things for me," the dowager said.
Haverstock glanced to the opposite end of the table where Anna sat, her face bathed in soft candlelight. "You'll have Anna."
The dowager ignored her son's remark, babbling on as if to herself. "That is if I choose not to take up residence in the dowager house. I may very well want a place of my own."
"And you, my love, do you enjoy presiding over your own establishment?" Haverstock asked Anna mockingly.
"It is not the place one grows attached to but the people in it, I have found," Anna said. "I will be happy wherever I am as long as loved ones are near. And like Mother, I shall dreadfully miss Lydia."
"Then you shall have to spend more time at Haymore," the squire said.
Anna threw a challenging look at Haverstock. "Exactly what I have been telling my husband."
Haverstock frowned. He would never be taking Anna to Haymore. He had no right to continue living with a spy. Nor could he turn her over to the authorities. He knew now what he would do with her.
And damned but it hurt to know he would never see her again. A silly, romantic verse came to mind. He'd never cared for such drivel, but these lines kept repeating in his brain. Better it would be to be a rock or tree and never feel the pangs of love for thee.
