by Cheryl Bolen
Such sentimental nonsense, he scolded himself. He was not in love with Anna. Love had never been part of their marriage.
Sir Henry did not trust Anna not to have him followed. Even his page could be followed. Therefore, he had to be particularly cautious and rely on the cunning that had held him in good steed for fifty years.
He rang for his secretary. "I say, Whitestone, I seem to have mistakenly received a message sent to Lord Haverstock. See to it that it gets delivered to him."
As the drably dressed man left the room, Sir Henry casually said, "By the way, since it's of a private nature, I'd prefer that Lord Haverstock not know his letter came across my desk, if you know what I mean."
Within minutes, the office boy carried a letter to Haverstock's secretary, who in turn put it on top a stack of papers on his master's desk.
Haverstock put down his pen and crossed the room to open the window. Another beastly warm day. A coach passing below with outriders reminded him very much of Morgie's. In fact, this was the very time of day Morgie escorted Anna, Lydia and Colette to the East End. Haverstock smiled to himself. Whatever would his father have said if he knew the Marchioness of Haverstock and his own daughter were willingly associating with the uncivilized who populated the East End? And the late marquess had thought the graceful, accomplished Anna de Mouchet beneath his family!
He turned back to his work, not really wanting to be indoors on so sunny a day. He longed to feel a horse beneath him as he galloped along a country road. He picked up the letter his secretary had placed on his desk.
It was addressed in an unfamiliar hand. A hurried masculine hand. It had been posted from Bordeaux. As he read it, Haverstock's heart raced. Your brother, Lieutenant James Upton, has been gravely injured by a sniper's musketball just a few scant miles from his company's point of embarkation. He needs special care in getting back to England. Could you possibly cross the channel and make arrangements to care for him? As soon as possible. And do not breathe a word to anyone because the French are not to know of the change in our position. The letter was signed by Colonel Jacob Cole.
Haverstock looked for a date on the letter, but there was none. It was impossible for him to guess how long ago James had been injured or when the letter had been posted. All he knew was that it was urgent he get to James as soon as possible.
He had no time to change into riding clothes. It was best not to go home where he might be questioned. This way he could scribble a note to Anna informing her he would be out of touch for some time. No explanation needed.
With that missive dispatched, Haverstock went to his bank where he withdrew a goodly sum as well as letters of credit. Then he mounted his horse and took the road for Dover, the sun hitting his back, and the sooty skies of London behind him.
Chapter 25
The sewing lessons were almost over when Mrs. McCollum, one of Lydia's most promising pupils, showed up.
"Sorry I am to be late," she said hurriedly, removing a squashed straw hat from her silver hair. "A right good 'anging there was today. Had me a prime seat on top of me brother-in-law's 'earse. Ye shoulda seen the fine lady danglin' there like a spider!"
Anna's eyes widened and her chest tightened. She raised a hand to protest Mrs. McCollum's morbid conversation.
"Lady Haverstock has no stomach for such talk," Lydia said kindly to her student. "Here, I've selected a new piece for you, Mrs. McCollum." She gave the woman a length of royal blue velvet.
Anna felt hot and flushed. She hastened across the stone floors to gasp fresh air from outdoors. She kept thinking about the gentlewoman dangling from a hangman's rope. It could be me. Her hand grasped the smooth column of her throat.
Morgie, who had been keeping an eye on his horses, shot a concerned look at her and rushed to her side. "Are you all right, my lady?"
She nodded. "I just need a breath of fresh air."
"You'll not find it here," he said, taking hold of her arm. "Perhaps a ride to Greenwich when we finish."
Lydia, her new lilac gown billowing behind her, came rushing after Anna. "Is she all right, Morgie?" she asked.
"I believe she got overheated."
"We had best get her home." Lydia headed back into the building to gather their things.
They rode home in Morgie's coach and four, with Colette and a pale Anna facing Morgie and Lydia.
"I say, Lyddie," Morgie said cheerfully, "becoming new dress you're wearing."
She glanced down at the soft muslin and colored. "It's a new one for my trousseau."
He folded his mouth into a grim line and did not speak again until they reached Haverstock House.
While Colette and Lydia were making a great fuss over directing Anna to her chamber to rest, the butler presented Anna a letter from her husband.
Puzzled, she took it, dismissed her well meaning companions and mounted the stairs. In her room she broke the seal and read: My dear Anna, I have been called away on sudden business and shall not return for a number of days. Yours, Haverstock.
When the dinner hour approached, Anna had no desire to dine without her husband. The house seemed strangely empty without him. And grim. She took a tray in her room and spent a restless night wondering and worrying about Charles.
Before the fashionable hour for morning callers, Davis announced Sir Henry Vinson begged an audience with her ladyship. Anna threw a glance of distress at her mother-in-law and Lydia. Her first instinct was to refuse the man's request. Charles would be outraged if he knew Sir Henry visited her. Then, too, there was the certain knowledge Sir Henry was a vile turncoat against his country. If only she could simply turn him over to the officials. It was extremely distasteful to welcome him into her husband's home, but what else could she do in front of the dowager? "Show him in," Anna said in an unsteady voice.
Sir Henry came strolling into the drawing room, all smiles for Anna until he saw she was not alone. Then he regained his authoritative command and swept into a deep bow before the dowager. "How very agreeable it is to see you looking so well, my lady," he told her. He moved next to Lydia, bent into a bow and felicitated her on her upcoming nuptials. With a sparkle in his eyes and a flicker of a nod toward Anna, Sir Henry came to sit by her.
For the next several minutes, he was all that was amiable. He congratulated the dowager on her good fortune to be getting her younger son home. He queried Lydia about her plans for life at Greenley Manor. And he completely avoided turning his attention toward Anna.
As the other sisters began to fill the drawing room and welcome morning callers – including the long-absent Captain Smythe – Sir Henry took his leave. But as he reached the door, he turned to Anna. "Lady Haverstock, your husband helped select my new gray. He said you would very much like her. Would you care to see her? She's right outside."
Anna shot a dubious glance at her mother-in-law, then slowly rose and followed Sir Henry.
The gray was hitched to a stylish phaeton. Sir Henry ignored the horse, stooping to let down the steps. "Get in, Anna," he sneered. "We must take a little ride, you and I."
The sound of his voice scared her. She glanced at her footmen.
"I promise I shall have you back inside an hour," he said, loud enough for the footman to hear.
She could not possibly go off riding with Sir Henry. Charles had never been angrier than the night she had met Sir Henry alone in Lord Wentworth's study. She did not have to get burned twice to learn when something was hot. "My husband has expressly forbidden me to be alone with you, Sir Henry."
His eyes held menace. "My dear Anna, though my two days are up, you are in no position to dictate to me. Not when your husband's life is in danger."
Anna grabbed at her breast. All through the long night, she had known something was wrong with Charles. And now, Sir Henry's expression confirmed her fears.
With resignation, she allowed Sir Henry to assist her into the carriage.
She took her place and angrily watched him take the reigns. "What have you done to my husban
d?" she demanded.
"The question is what have you done to your husband?" He flicked a sinister glance at her.
"What do you mean?" She could barely control the tremor in her voice.
"As we speak, Haverstock is being detained as a suspected enemy of the crown."
"God in heaven, no! There is no truer patriot."
He shrugged. "Alas, but there is the fact he is wed to a French spy – though I daresay he would likely substitute his own honorable neck to spare yours."
"That is completely out of the question."
"Just as I thought you would see it."
"And what do you propose?"
"Don't worry over your lovely neck, Anna. You will keep it intact if you do as I say. You have merely to write a confession that will effectively clear Haverstock, and you will then accompany me to Paris where you'll be the toast of the town."
"I despise you," Anna said. "And I cannot possibly believe a word you say."
"But you really have very little choice, my dear."
Her room was still dark when she rose the next morning. She had packed the night before. She had written the confession that would exonerate Charles. I, Lady Haverstock, am writing this to admit my own unintentional role in the death of Pierre Chassay, whom I understand was working with my husband and the English government to thwart the French. My husband had no knowledge whatsoever that I was having his every move scrutinized. He is guilty of nothing save a deep devotion to his country. Sir Henry insisted he would channel her letter to the proper authorities. She had fought back the urge to write a farewell letter to Charles. There was nothing she could say that could repair the irreversible damage to their marriage.
If it was a marriage, she thought sadly. So much harm she had caused Charles. At least he would be free of her now. Though she could never be free of him. Through her misguided hatred, she had found and destroyed her heart's desire.
She dressed herself in a comfortable traveling garb of soft green with a darker green pelisse and tied on a green and gold bonnet. She had hoped never to have come this far. As soon as she had spoken with Sir Henry the day before, she had gone directly to Morgie, having finally learned not to blindly believe the words of the contemptible Sir Henry Vinson. She told Morgie of Haverstock's absence.
"I will make inquiries," Morgie promised her.
Late last night Morgie had come round to Haverstock House, begging to speak privately with Anna.
Shaking his head grimly, he informed her no one in London nor anyone at the Foreign Office knew Haverstock's direction.
Still in the morning's darkness, she walked to the settee that was placed before the cold fireplace. She gently fingered its raised silk pattern, remembering how many nights she and Charles had sat there nestled within its warmth, sharing confidences, taking pleasure in the intoxicating feel of one another. She could almost see his powerful shoulders outlined in flickering flames, a hungry look on his handsome face as he held his arms out to her and she had taken bliss beyond measure in his comforting embrace.
So many tender moments had passed between them in this very room. She swallowed over the huge lump in her throat. Never again would she feel his arms around her or run her hands through his dark hair.
With tears clouding her vision, she turned away from the settee – their settee – and wondered if another woman would ever share this room with him.
Though she could not write to Haverstock, she felt obliged to write to Colette. It pained her that Sir Henry forbid her to bring Colette on the journey. Or to tell anyone good-bye. But she could not just leave Colette. She would take the coward's way out by writing to Colette instead of speaking to her.
She walked to her desk, sat down, picked up her quill and began to write, in French. Dearest Colette, By the time you read this I will be gone. I have gone to Paris with Sir Henry in order to spare my husband from the misdeeds I have orchestrated against him. I am leaving you enough money to get by until I send for you. I hope that shall be very soon, cheri.
She addressed it and propped it on the table beside her bed where Colette would find it when she brought Anna's morning tea.
Lifting her valise, Anna quietly left the room. It was too early even for the servants, except those below in the kitchen beginning the day's baking. She tiptoed down the broad staircase, along the marbled foyer and through the towering entry doors.
The quiet street was so dark and foggy she could barely see the nearest lamp pole, much less Sir Henry's traveling chaise. Not that he would be there yet. She was quite sure she was early. Hugging herself against the chill, she walked to the end of the street and waited.
Within minutes his coach pulled up, and the coachman jumped down from the box, relieved Anna of her case and let down the carriage steps for her. Sir Henry had not moved a muscle. He sat in the middle of his comfortable seat, a rug thrown over his lap. "Let us hope you are as good a traveler as you are with the pasteboards," he said.
She glared at him, climbed in and sat down opposite him.
"You have the confession?" he asked.
She nodded, took it from her reticule and handed it to him.
He put it inside his coat pocket, yawned and settled back into his soft leather squabs. "May I suggest you try to get some sleep. It's a long journey ahead for us, my dear."
Chapter 26
Haverstock had gained no advantage in his journey by leaving in the afternoon. Darkness that made the roads untravelable forced him to put up at a posting inn along the way. It was late the following afternoon before he arrived in the busy port city of Dover. How war had changed the sleepy little seaside town from what it was when he had been a child! Now soldiers resplendent in red coats, colorfully plumed ladies of bordellos and legions of injured paraded through the streets.
The waning sun at his back, Haverstock went straight away to book passage on the first packet out, but his luck had failed him again. The last ship of the day had just sailed, and he would not be able to get another until morning.
Another deuced night in a noisy inn. After leaving his mount at the livery stable, he walked the short distance to the Plank and Plow, a three-storied gabled building noted for good food and clean rooms. There, he bespoke a bed for the night only to be told there was not a vacancy in the entire city.
"Damn near entire regiment of the Light landed in town this hour past," the apologetic innkeeper said. "'Tis sorry I am to refuse you, your lordship."
His spirits low, his worry over James mounting, Haverstock followed the sound of raucous voices and found himself in the inn's public rooms that were filled with cheerful soldiers raising mugs of ale and saluting bonny England. He ordered ale from a buxom serving maid who promptly offered to share her bed with him that night. Taking no pleasure in lying with a woman still wet from another man, he kindly declined her generous offer and tossed her a coin.
He was impatient to get to James. He did not even know the extent of his brother's injuries. The colonel had not said what kind of wounds James had sustained or when they had been incurred. Perhaps one of the soldiers in this very room knew something of the situation. Surely one of them would know of Lieutenant Upton. Haverstock ran his eyes over the mostly youthful faces when his attention was caught by a young blond officer moving into the room. The blond was the very color of James' hair. Was his imagination playing tricks on him? The man looked remarkably like James. Of course, it had been five years since Haverstock had seen his brother. James' appearance would be bound to be greatly altered. Especially if he had been wounded.
Haverstock could not remove his eyes from the man, who strode into the room with a commanding presence, a gathering of other young officers around him. Damned but it looked like James. Older, of course. His fair skin now bronzed by Iberian skies. The leanness of youth now banded with sturdy muscles, the hollow planes of his youthful face weighted heavy with command.
God, but it was James! And he was perfectly all right. Haverstock rushed toward his brother.
/> The blond officer was talking to a man next to him when he looked up and saw Haverstock. "Charles?" he said, his voice tentative.
It was James' voice! Older, too. Haverstock stopped just short of taking his little brother in his embrace. His eyes traveled the length of James before he met his gaze once more, satisfaction on his face. "I perceive you are unharmed."
A smile broke across James' face as he clasped two strong arms around his older brother. "Blasted good it is to see you."
"But what of the sniper? What of Colonel Cole's letter?"
"I have not been under Cole's command these six months past." Turning back to his companions, James said, "May I present to you my brother, the Marquess of Haverstock."
Haverstock bought rounds for all.
James took a long drink. "Now, about the sniper."
Exactly what Haverstock had been wondering. He had obviously been duped. But by whom? And why? It was not a subject he cared to bridge in a public tap room. "I think we need to talk."
"In my room." James' eyes lifted skyward.
"You have a room?"
"Apparently a lieutenant carries more rank around here than a marquess."
A smile creased Haverstock's scruffy face. "A hazard of war, I expect."
It was already quite dark when they mounted the narrow staircase to James' second-floor room. A chambermaid who led the way left a single taper on the wooden table beside the turned-down feather bed, curtsied and left the brothers alone.
Haverstock pulled from his pocket the letter from Colonel Cole and handed it to James.
Hunched down within the room's dormer, James held the letter toward the candlelight and read. When he finished, he turned to his brother. "It appears someone badly wanted you away from London."
Haverstock nodded grimly. He felt like a fool. Why had he never been suspicious when the letter had been delivered to the Foreign Office instead of to Haverstock House? His work at the Foreign Office was not widely known. All personal correspondence came to his home.
