by Kruger, Mary
Unlike most great families, the Bainbridges kept two establishments completely staffed, since the duke made his main residence in London and the dowager at the Abbey. While not as large as some London houses, Bainbridge House employed a considerable staff, any one of whom could have slipped in and stolen the document. The only problem with that was that he had known most of them for years, and, again, he could not imagine any of them doing such a thing. It had to be someone new, a footman, perhaps, or even one of the maids, who might have been seduced to such an act by an American spy. That was the only solution.
Crossing the room, he tugged on the bellpull, and a few moments later Hastings came in. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Come in, Hastings,” Oliver said. He was sitting behind the desk again, his eyes keen.
“Is there something wrong, Your Grace?” Hastings asked, advancing so that he stood in front of the desk.
“No. Have we hired any new staff within, oh, the past year?”
Hastings looked surprised. “Why, yes, Your Grace, we have.”
“Who are they, and where did they come from?”
“I’d have to look at my records, Your Grace, but, near as I can remember, we hired a new scullery maid, Alice, and she came up from one of the Abbey farms.”
“Yes, yes. And?”
“A new upstairs maid, to replace Molly, who got in the family way by one of Lord Hartley’s footmen. I believe they’re married now.” A lift of Oliver’s eyebrow quelled Hastings’s sudden lapse into gossip. “A new groom, to replace Jed, you’ll remember he lamed one of the carriage horses last year—”
“Yes, yes. I am more concerned with indoor staff, Hastings.”
“Of course, Your Grace. But I believe that is all, except for Will Tyler.”
“Who is he?”
“A footman, Your Grace.”
Oliver sat up straighter. “The one on duty in the hall right now?”
“No, Your Grace, that is John Witherspoon. Tyler served your breakfast this morning.”
“I see.” Oliver tapped his fingers on the surface of his desk, and Hastings watched him, uneasily.
“Is there something wrong, Your Grace?” he asked finally.
“Hm?” Oliver looked up, as if just now realizing that Hastings still stood there. “No. Send Witherspoon in to me, and then you may go.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Hastings bowed and left the room.
A few minutes later Witherspoon walked into the room with more trepidation than Hastings had shown; he was very young and had little contact with the family he served. “You wished to see me, Your Grace?” he said, his voice cracking a bit.
Oliver leaned back and studied him, and the cold silver gleam of his eyes did not help Witherspoon’s composure. “Yes. While you have been on duty today, have you seen anyone come into this room?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“You’re sure of that?” he said, sharply.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Of course, Miss Carrick had gone into the book-room, across the corridor, but since that wasn’t what he had been asked, Witherspoon kept quiet.
“Damn.” Oliver tapped his fingers again. So, the trap had been sprung and the bait taken, and the prey had got away. There was still a way to salvage this situation, though. The trap could be set again, if he could appear to leave the house and then set up watch, to see if anyone tried to return the document. Unfortunately, however, he was due at the Foreign Office and could not stay behind. He would have to rely on someone else to be his eyes.
“I want you to do something for me,” he said abruptly, and Witherspoon stood straighter.
“Your Grace?”
“While I am gone this afternoon I want you to watch this room, and report to me anybody who comes in here. Anybody, do you understand? Even if they come in to make up the fire, I want to know.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Thank you. You may go.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” Witherspoon said, and went out.
There was nothing more Oliver could do, and so he got up, pulling on his gloves again. After a moment’s thought, he decided to leave the desk drawer unlocked, so that the spy might not guess that the theft had been discovered. Damn, he hoped he could catch the bastard who could do such a thing, and quickly, he thought, as he sprang back up into his curricle and set off toward Whitehall. He was not at all anticipating the coming interview with Castlereagh; he would enjoy it even less, if they did not soon catch the spy.
Sublimely unaware of what was happening belowstairs, Sabrina smuggled the document into her room and sat down at the escritoire. Letty was out on an errand Sabrina had devised for her, and so she hoped to be undisturbed while she copied the document. Slipping it out of the book, she unfolded it and scanned down the page in growing horror. At last, she put it down and simply sat, staring into space. This was something she had not anticipated, and it put a new light on her activities. The document listed, in great detail, possible plans for invading the United States.
Now what was she to do? In the past, it had been a simple matter, altering the information she had given to Tenbroeck, so that she outwitted him while remaining loyal to her family and her new home. It had seemed harmless to imply that England’s military strength might not be fully mustered against the United States. Now it didn’t. Now it meant that people might die, because they were not prepared to face their enemy. And now, it meant that the areas listed in this document would have no notion of what was in store for them, and thus would not be able to repel the invaders. It would mean that her country would lose the war.
She studied the document more closely. Several possible invasion sites were listed, a few in the Northwest territories, but most along on the eastern coast, from New England to Georgia. New York city was mentioned, of course, but so, to her real horror, was Sparta, simply because it was indicated that the inhabitants might be friendly to the British. That was information that she herself had supplied, and now it was to be used against the very people she had hoped to protect. She was no longer an innocent pawn in this game between two countries. Between them, Oliver and Tenbroeck had, indeed, made her into a spy.
The thought left a sour taste in her mouth and, pushing the document aside, she got up and went over to the window. It had begun to shower, and few people were abroad on the rain-washed streets. So, she was a spy. She closed her eyes, as if to shut out the knowledge, but it was there, and she had to face it. She was a spy, and for the wrong side.
Or, was it? She looked out again, and suddenly a rush of love filled her for this new home of hers. It was such a different world than the one she had grown up in, but it had become inexpressibly dear to her. Not because of the luxury, though of course she appreciated that, but because of the love and the welcome she had found here. Here she had a family and friends, and for all the ties she still felt to her old home, it had never offered her that. There, she had always been an outcast.
There had been none of that here. She had found only happiness in London’s gray streets and Berkshire’s green hills and fields. They were placid, serene, peace-loving people, the English, and yet they faced their greatest enemy, that monster across the Channel. It was a fight they could not afford to lose, and they needed all the help they could get, help she could supply. She loved Sparta. She would always love America, but it was part of her past. England was her future, and her home. She could not turn her back on it.
Moving quickly, before she could change her mind, she folded the document and placed it back in the book. This was one piece of paper Tenbroeck was not going to see, no matter the consequences to herself. She would simply have to find another way of dealing with him.
It was, as usual, quiet in the hall when she walked down the stairs, the book held closely to her breast. Her first surprise was that the footman on duty was standing on the opposite side of that hall than usual, giving him a clear view of the corridor leading to Oliver’s study. Her second, more severe one, came when she happened
to glance up as she opened the door to the book-room, and saw that the footman was watching her.
Panicked, she fumbled at the door knob, and when at first it didn’t seem to move, she nearly rattled it in frustration. But at last it turned and she was inside, safe from prying eyes and badly shaken. Suppose she hadn’t thought to provide herself with a legitimate reason for being in the corridor. The footman would have seen her go into Oliver’s study, and though he would not have known why, she didn’t want anyone in the house to suspect what she was up to. She was very lucky she hadn’t been caught.
Her heart was pounding and her blood was racing, but after a few moments she began to relax, enough to start worrying about her next problem. How was she going to get across to the study, to put the document back? If she didn’t, Oliver would know immediately what was going on, and she would be in real trouble. Better to be seen by the footman, than to be caught by Oliver.
She had just reached that decision and squared her shoulders, preparatory to going across to the study, when the knocker on the front door sounded. Peeking out into the hall, she saw Hastings opening the door to admit the visitor. She also saw, gratefully, that the footman, for the moment, was distracted. She would never have a better opportunity. As quickly as possible, she crossed the hall, and only when the solid oak of the study door had been closed behind her did she dare to breathe again.
Now all that remained was to replace the document, and, somehow, get out of the study without being observed. She received yet another shock, though, when she reached for the desk drawer and realized that she had left it unlocked. That was a bad mistake, the worst she had yet made. Had Oliver happened to come in while she’d had the document in her possession, he would soon have learned what she was trying so hard to conceal. Badly shaken, she replaced the document and used the nail file to lock the drawer. If she had needed anything to confirm her in her decision, this was it. She was not going to spy again.
Luck was with her when she crossed to the door and opened it just a crack. Hastings was speaking to the footman, apparently lecturing him about something, and neither were facing the corridor. Taking advantage of what might be her only chance, she flitted across the corridor into the book-room, and there collapsed into a chair. She was safe.
But for how long? She toyed idly with the pages of the book she had selected as a hiding place for the document, only now realizing that it was a history of ancient Rome, written in Latin. It was easy to say that she could tell Tenbroeck she had failed, but for how long would he accept that excuse? He was certain to continue making demands of her, and he would not be pleased at her inability to meet them. Her secret would come out, then, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter anymore. Of what importance was her illegitimacy, compared to the fact that she had spied? Oliver wouldn’t be happy, and neither would Grandmama; it was still entirely possible they would disown her. And there would go her happy, comfortable life.
She sighed, got up, and replaced the book on the shelf. Leaving would be hard. She would be on her own again, alone and forced to fend for herself, but she had done so before and could surely do so again. She had always known, underneath, that the luxuries of this life would never be hers to keep. She supposed she had also believed, she thought, as she climbed slowly up the stairs to her room, that she and Oliver would never marry. Though it was what she wanted more than anything in the world, he had never loved her, and she knew she was not a suitable bride for him. It was time she faced up to these facts, and to her future. When the time came, as it surely would, she would leave, and live the rest of her life with only memories of these past months, when she had been the adored member of an aristocratic family, to warm her.
A strange calm descended over her with the decision made, and she sank down onto the window seat, lost in thought, until it was time to dress for dinner.
“Stable them,” Oliver called to the groom who came to take his horses’ heads as he jumped down from the curricle. Darkness had fallen and it was quite late, leaving him little time to dress for dinner, but there were other things to be seen to first.
“Well?” he demanded as he came into the hall, and the footman snapped to attention.
“No one, Your Grace,” he replied.
Oliver paused in the act of handing his hat and gloves to Hastings, who was watching this scene with a great deal of interest. “You are certain of that?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I did just as you asked. No one went into the study.”
“Very well. Thank you,” he tossed over his shoulder, and went into his study. Hastings hurried after him to light the lamps and draw the curtains, and only when Oliver was alone did he approach the desk. It looked much the same as it had that afternoon. Perhaps he had been obvious, setting the footman to watch the study door, and that had scared his quarry off. He would have to be more careful next time.
He had spent an uncomfortable few hours at the Foreign Office in a painful interview with Castlereagh, confessing to the fact that he harbored a spy in his household. To say that Castlereagh was annoyed understated the matter; the only reason Oliver had not been asked for his resignation then and there was that he still had a good chance of catching the spy. He could not afford to fail again.
So thinking, he reached for the drawer, and found it locked.
It was nearly as much a shock as finding it unlocked had been. Slowly, Oliver pulled out his keys and opened the drawer, and there, as he had feared and expected, was the document. Somehow, in spite of the watch set on this room, the spy had managed to get back in and return it, without being seen.
How he had got into the drawer was another story. Going down on one knee before the desk, Oliver studied the lock by light of the oil lamp and saw what he had missed before. There were tiny scratches in the metal. The lock had been picked.
Cold rage settled upon him as he got to his feet. So. He was dealing with a most resourceful person, it seemed. But not resourceful enough. One of these times the spy was certain to trip up, and, when that happened, he would be caught. And God help him then, Oliver thought, going upstairs to change for dinner. God help him then.
Lady Houghton’s ball, given to celebrate the marriage, at long last, of her nephew, and to introduce his wife to society, quite early was acclaimed as one of the successes of the season. Though powerful in society, Lady Houghton did not entertain much, and so invitations to the ball were most coveted. There was even a rumor that the Prince Regent would be present, and Oliver had extracted a promise from Sabrina that she would not say a word, not one word, to that august personage about American affairs.
Since Lady Houghton’s nephew, the Earl of Rutherford, happened to be Oliver’s good friend, Sabrina, Oliver, and Gwendolyn were all in attendance, along with Fanny and Melanie. The wait on the stairs to reach the receiving line seemed interminable, but at last the Bainbridge party had reached the landing and were being greeted by their hosts. Lady Houghton, the plumes of her headdress bobbing, nodded graciously to Sabrina and greeted Gwendolyn as the old friend she was. Next to her stood the new Lady Rutherford, radiant in turquoise silk, and talking to another guest, while Rutherford, looking uncomfortable in evening clothes, glowered at her from her side. She was a petite thing, her auburn hair held back by a filet of pearls and her eyes sparkling, and Oliver, amused, was quick to diagnose the reason for his friend’s apparent discomfort. So, Rutherford had been caught at last.
“Evening, Rutherford,” he said, holding out his hand, and Rutherford took his attention from his bride long enough to take Oliver’s hand. “Congratulations on your bride. She is charming.”
“Yes.” Rutherford looked down at his wife, talking animatedly to Gwendolyn, and frowned again. “Understand congratulations are in order with you, too?”
“Yes.” Oliver, his arm linked with Sabrina’s, brought her forward, and he was unaware that he looked at her the same way Rutherford looked at his wife. Demurely gowned in peach sarcenet trimmed with blond lace, with her hair streaming ove
r her shoulders, Sabrina looked ravishingly beautiful, and Oliver’s heart swelled with pride.
After saying a few more words to Rutherford, the Bainbridge party moved on, into the ballroom. Sabrina soon found herself caught up in a mad whirl of dancing and socializing. She had no lack of partners, for Oliver, quite sensibly, didn’t glower jealously at any man who partnered her. He followed his usual routine, taking to the dance floor for only the two dances allowed him with his fiancée. They seemed to enjoy their dances very much, especially the waltz, and Bainbridge often appeared amused by something Sabrina had said. They were an on-dit, but rather a pleasant one. She was obviously in love, and no one could remember him appearing so relaxed. It was strange to see Bainbridge behaving so, and with so young a girl, but then, most men did choose young innocents for wives, after consorting with older, experienced mistresses.
Which meant that more than one glance was given Lady Marshfield. If she were bothered, however, she didn’t show it. She looked ravishing tonight, her gown of emerald silk, clinging closely and fluidly, worn daringly off her shoulders. At her wrist and throat diamonds glittered, and her eyes had taken on the hue of her gown. She looked difficult to resist, and many men did not even try. Only the Duke of Bainbridge, once rumored to be her lover, seemed impervious to her charms.
Moira came up to him while Sabrina was engaged in a country dance, and laid her hand on his arm. If he resented this act of possession, he didn’t show it. “Oliver, it’s been so long,” she said.
He nodded. “Lady Marshfield.”
“So formal, Oliver? After all the years we’ve known each other?”
