“Oh.” She bit her lip as if troubled, and her gaze dropped away. “Oh.”
This hurt worse than he’d imagined. Samantha had been stalking him, taking the remnants of his honest, lawfully wedded relationship and leaving him with her. With nothing. “Where are my things?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where?” He shook her as if he could rattle the truth from her.
“I honestly don’t know.” He would have shaken her again, but she knocked his hands away and said, “Sh.”
He heard it, too. Two people, a man and a woman, arguing as they walked. The words were indistinct, but he recognized the voices. Duncan and Teresa. Sourly, he wondered if they had come to warn him about Samantha’s shady past.
No. They didn’t know about that. Perhaps they came to chide him for taking advantage of her innocence. But no, her virginity was nothing but a treasure to be sold to the highest bidder, and she’d hoped to trap him with it.
Teresa and Duncan broke out of the fog and abruptly stopped their conversation. Their . . . argument.
Elegant Teresa appeared somehow unfinished, although William couldn’t decide how. Perhaps she’d forgotten to don all the parts of her gown. Certainly her shawl was only roughly knotted around her shoulders, and her hair, usually so sleek, was as tumbled as Mara’s.
Hands outstretched, Teresa hurried forward.
William expected her to embrace him.
Instead she headed right for Samantha. Hurriedly, he let her go and stepped back.
Clasping Samantha’s wrists, she tugged her toward the house. “Samantha! Darling! I came to find you. I need someone, another woman, to help me . . . decorate the inside tables.” She spoke toward William, but her gaze seemed to avoid him. “You know, William, there are some things only another woman can do, and this is one of them.”
Calmly, Samantha interrupted her. “He knows.”
Teresa, the imperturbable, stomped her foot. “No. How?” Without waiting for an answer, she charged on. “You told him, didn’t you? You had to do your duty, didn’t you? You couldn’t decide this was none of your business—”
“Sh!” Duncan said.
“But it is my business,” Samantha said. “It’s my country—”
William snorted.
Samantha ignored him. “—And innocent people are being killed.”
“Sh!” Duncan said again.
The women looked at him, looked around, and nodded.
Duncan ruffled his hair—which already stuck straight up—and very softly said, “I’m damned grateful, Miss Prendregast.”
William turned on him. “What do you mean, you’re grateful? We’re not going to let her do this. She’d tip off Lady Featherstonebaugh for spite. I’m going to lock her in the attic and throw away the key.”
“No, William, you’re not.” Duncan’s voice was pitched to reach the other three, no further, but he spoke intensely, resolutely.
William’s jaw dropped. At Duncan’s words. At Duncan’s tone. Drawing himself up to his full height, he looked down his nose at Duncan. “I beg your pardon.”
“We’re going to accept Miss Prendregast’s help, and we’re going to thank God that she’s in the right place at the right time.”
“How can you say that?” William asked.
“How can you not?” Duncan lowered his voice to an intense whisper. “We’re desperate to get that map. Captain Farwell said it is of primary importance. We’re damned lucky that Lord Hartun brought his secretary, and that he’s an expert cartographer. The damage we can do to the Russians by replacing the real map with a false map can barely be imagined. And we have no way of performing either of these tasks without Miss Prendregast.”
“You think dealing with this . . . this scarlet woman is the answer?” William pointed a shaking finger at Samantha, then tucked it behind him. As a commander, he was the best. He was cold. He was dispassionate. He knew better than to show such emotion, but right now, he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
Samantha watched him serenely, her hands loose at her sides, as if the two of them had not spent the night pressed together. As if what he said meant nothing to her.
“She’s not a scarlet woman—or she wasn’t until last night,” Teresa snapped. “And that outrage can be placed at your door, William. And mine, to my eternal shame.” Taking Samantha’s arm, she tucked it in hers and stared at him with ill favor. “You are not the man I imagined.”
William wanted to shout at her. At Teresa, the women he had deemed suitable to wed.
But he couldn’t bear to think of marrying her, and he didn’t dare shout at her. Teresa, when she chose, had quite an imperious manner.
“Of course he is the man you imagined.” Duncan took her hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it with loverlike fervor. “This morning, you knew he would react with outrage when he discovered Miss Prendregast’s special gifts.”
Samantha lowered her head.
But William saw her grin. She looked at Duncan and Teresa with an affection that encompassed them both. And he realized . . . it was early morning. Teresa was disheveled. Duncan was positively disreputable, unshaven, still dressed in last night’s clothing and looking . . . looking a great deal as William himself must look.
They were lovers. Teresa had sent him to Samantha so she could take Duncan instead. William ought to be incensed. Instead . . . instead, he found he really couldn’t be bothered by Teresa and Duncan. He could think of only one thing. One person. Samantha, who had so grievously betrayed him. In triumph, he produced the one reason he knew would sway his friends. “She has been stealing from me. She took Mary’s portrait. My wife’s portrait!”
Samantha’s eyes flashed. Her fist rose.
For one moment, William thought she would punch him in the face.
Then her fingers loosened and dropped. Yet she didn’t deny his accusation.
And something inside him mourned. But he denied that part of his voice, and instead turned triumphantly to the silent Duncan and Teresa. “Would you trust such a scoundrel with this mission?”
“You are truly a consummate fool,” Teresa retorted.
Viewing their damp, disgusted expressions, William realized nothing he could say would change their minds about Samantha. So he did what he did best. He took charge. “I say we’re not going to use Miss Prendregast.”
Duncan stepped forward to face William. He snapped to attention, but he didn’t capitulate as William expected. He said, “Then, Colonel Gregory, I relieve you of duty.”
“What?” William roared.
“You’re so enraged and illogical”—Duncan’s gray eyes were formal, narrow slits—“you mentioned our mission and our target at a time when our most dread enemy could be ten feet away and listening, and you did so in a tone that reached far beyond our ears.”
Duncan’s guts took William’s breath away—and his candor sent a chill up William’s spine. Duncan spoke the truth. Anyone could be standing close enough to hear them speaking, and they wouldn’t know he was there. Not Lady Featherstonebaugh. She was still limping badly. But Featherstonebaugh. Or Pashenka. Or any of the other myriad of spies being drawn to the Lake District by the presence of their master.
William and Duncan faced off.
Duncan didn’t back down.
Before William could decide what to do, Samantha freed herself from Teresa and stepped between the two men. “I feel as if I’m a bone over which three dogs are at war. But I’m not a bone nor, regardless of my past sins, am I a traitor.” She faced William. In a patient tone that tried his serenity, not that he had any left, she said, “You’re arguing with Duncan when you have no choice in the matter. At this moment, at this party, there are no other cutpurses or pickpockets. This is a delicate operation. You need a professional. I’m your only recourse.” She stared at him, right into his eyes as she had done last night. But nothing of last night’s affection remained. This female was cool, focused, and logical.
Everything a woman
should never be.
Turning to Duncan and Teresa, she said, “Now. Let us find a place where we can plot, and we’ll get this thing done so I can leave at once—and never have to see Colonel Gregory’s face again.”
“Brava!” With mocking, measured tone, Teresa clapped her hands.
“Very good, Miss Prendregast.” Duncan offered her his arm. “The gazebo, I think.”
Teresa should have gone with William, but she ignored him and grasped Duncan’s other arm. The three of them walked away, a triumvirate of determination and strength.
“Since William will be of no use to us as we plan, we’ll have him patrol to ensure we’re not overheard.” Over his shoulder, Duncan asked, “Can you at least do that, William?”
William stalked after them, glad for the first time in his life to bring up the rear. In this situation, he couldn’t take the lead. He couldn’t bear to trust Samantha to do the right thing.
He couldn’t bear to trust himself to do the right thing. He bubbled with emotion. He, the man who dismissed women as pleasant diversions, but not an integral part of a man’s life. He, who imagined himself married to the military, to the quest for justice, but never truly passionate in the pursuit of love.
Samantha had unmanned him—and Duncan was right. William had lost his perspective. He’d been talking without caution, thinking with his cock. He couldn’t weigh the risks of the mission judiciously. He dared not retain command.
The gazebo loomed before them, and without looking back, Duncan, Teresa, and Samantha entered.
Quietly, William walked around the octagonal building, checking beneath every rosebush. They were alone. Alone, and lost in the mist.
Closing his eyes, he rested one hand on the wall near the door. Yes. He was lost. He’d never in his life not known the proper thing to do, or the correct way to proceed. It was all her fault . . . and he detested men who blamed their problems on anyone but themselves.
What had he become?
He heard Samantha say, “It’s in her reticule. The map’s in her reticule.”
Thrusting his head inside, William didn’t bother to subdue his scorn. “How would you know that?”
“Shut up, William,” Duncan said.
Samantha ignored them. Him. “That black spangled reticule. She wears it with everything, and more important, she fingers it all the time. I thought she was a laudanum addict, and that’s where she kept her juice.” She shrugged. “The map is in her reticule.”
Duncan nodded. Teresa nodded. They both seemed to accept Samantha’s assessment without reservation.
William ducked out and leaned against the gazebo, looking into the fog. Better that than staring at Duncan and Teresa. And Samantha.
Duncan asked, “Can you make that exchange?”
William strained to hear, but Samantha didn’t answer.
Duncan spoke with more urgency. “Can you change the real map for a fake one?”
“Of course she can.” William smiled disagreeably as he answered over his shoulder. “She’s infamous.”
“Shut up, William,” Teresa said. “What’s the problem, Sam?”
“Usually a pickpocket just cuts the strings or slips in and gets the cash.” Samantha spread her hands wide. “I’ve never opened a reticule, taken something out, and replaced it with something else.”
Teresa nodded. “I understand.”
“On the other hand, Terry, it could be worse.” Samantha grinned, one of those gamine grins that had formerly charmed William. “She could keep it in her bosom.”
Duncan and Teresa laughed.
William glared. Sam and Terry. When had that happened?
Before William could yell at them, scald them with his contempt, Duncan stepped into the doorway. “William, make another circuit of the building. I want to know there’s no one out there.”
“There’s not.” But William, surly, set off at once, and looked as carefully as before, watching for footprints in the dew, for any proof that someone—like Pashenka—had decided to see how well his spies were doing. But so far, Pashenka had stayed hidden on the Featherstonebaugh estate. Of course. He stayed where he was safe.
William returned to the doorway as Duncan was saying, “Then that’s the plan. Pray God, Miss Prendregast, that your hands are swift.”
Chapter Twenty-five
It was almost finished, this horrible houseparty with its manor full of idiots. When the luncheon was over, Valda could leave the dining hall at Silvermere where Gregory and Lady Marchant, that slut hostess of his, had ordered luncheon served. Valda would go out into the swirling fog, step into her carriage, and go home to Maitland at last. She hadn’t slept in two nights. She’d been kept awake by the pain from her bruised body.
And the worry about Pashenka. How to handle him. How to escape this situation alive and free.
Not long ago nothing could have kept her awake. Pashenka wouldn’t have caught her unawares and kicked her. She would have considered eluding him a challenge, nothing more. Now a dreadful refrain played in her mind . . . trapped. Old, and trapped.
But she wasn’t. She wouldn’t allow herself to be.
And there were advantages to being awake all night. She’d heard Rupert get up and start rummaging around in her belongings, looking for the map, and she’d lain there and smiled into her pillow beneath which rested her black-beaded reticule—and the precious map.
She would give Pashenka the map. Yes, she would. Right after she told him she had more information hidden away in her brain. That would keep her alive until she could get away.
Now she fingered the reticule that hung on her arm, and watched the guests milling around the table, smiling, gossiping, filling their plates with strawberries, breads, thin-sliced beef, and cold asparagus. She ought to be eating, but she wasn’t hungry. She simply wanted to leave. She didn’t even care about her clothing, and she wore a fabulous outfit of . . . she had to glance down. Oh, yes. Of bronze satin with silver trim. She wore the finest clothing here.
Rupert looked good, too. Thin, tall, more aristocratic than any of these military men or ambassadors. He spoke now with one of the young, country debutantes, smiling his most charming smile and following her as she edged away. Damn Rupert. If only he were reliable. Or faithful. Or less of a flaming coward. Then Valda would keep him. But there was no chance of that now. He had betrayed her on every level. At the proper moment, he would have to be eliminated.
Leaning on her cane, she tried to listen to the conversations. Why, she didn’t know. She already had so much information to impart, she’d never recall it all. She’d been so groggy last night she’d even written some of it down. She, who had always remembered everything, had begun to lose the little details.
Furthermore, some people she saw had begun to look . . . odd. Every once in a while, from the corner of her eye, she would see a man who looked almost skeletal. A woman as pale as death. A child who spoke with a hollow voice. When she turned her head, they would be gone. It was as if the ghosts of those she had killed were haunting her.
Impossible. She needed to get some sleep.
“Lady Featherstonebaugh.” Lady Marchant spoke right in her ear.
Valda jumped so hard Lady Marchant had to rescue her as she toppled over.
“Lady Featherstonebaugh, you must indulge in Colonel Gregory’s luncheon.” Lady Marchant forcibly steered Valda toward the table. “We want you to enjoy your last meal here.”
Automatically, Valda moved into her benevolent old lady routine. “Dear, I’m not able to fight my way through the crowd. Perhaps you could fill a plate for me.”
“My lady, your strength has always impressed me. Come this way.” Lady Marchant applied yet more pressure to Valda’s arms, guiding her deeper into the crowd. “You don’t want to miss such a wonderful opportunity.”
“Opportunity?” As Valda’s sore ribs got jabbed with random elbows and the babble of the crowd filled her ears, her voice grew shrill. “It’s no opportunity to eat this swill and
drink such gritty wine. You chose badly, my lady, badly.” Aware she had lost the good humor that had served as a camouflage for so many years, she tried to rein herself in, but couldn’t. “You don’t need to look at me that way.” She saw one of those skeletal faces peering over Lady Marchant’s shoulder. “So reproachfully. That’s the risk you take, being an English soldier—”
“An English soldier?” Lady Marchant glanced behind her.
Valda blinked. Only Lady Stephens stood there, chatting with Lady Blair.
“What are you talking about?” Lady Marchant asked.
“Nothing. Nothing.” A great shout rose from the guests.
Lady Marchant yanked her to a stop. “Look, they’re brawling.”
Jerked from her moment of madness, Valda stared through the opening in the crowd.
Colonel Gregory had Mr. Monroe by the throat.
The crowd was forming the traditional fighting circle around the two men. The faces were intent, staring at the two furious men.
And the men were furious. Colonel Gregory looked as if he would gladly kill Mr. Monroe. Mr. Monroe was flushed, his eyes venal.
Looking into Mr. Monroe’s face, he shouted, “You liar! You haven’t been riding out at night chasing spies.”
With that one word, they captured Valda’s attention. Spies? What did he mean, spies?
Mr. Monroe broke Colonel Gregory’s hold. “How dare you call me a liar? I have. I’m a hero. Better than you!”
“You’re nothing. The spawn of a Scotsman.” Colonel Gregory grabbed at him again, his lips drawn back like mad dog’s. “You’re a fortune hunter!”
To hell with fortune hunting. Valda wanted to hear about the spies. She leaned forward, her gaze intent.
“I’m a fortune hunter?” Mr. Monroe shoved Colonel Gregory’s chest. “What about you? At least I love the woman!”
Beside Valda, Lady Marchant inhaled sharply.
Valda looked at the female beside her and realized—the men were fighting over Lady Marchant. Fascinating. And the men had mentioned spies. Truly fascinating. The pain of her ribs, her fear, even her awareness of her surroundings left Valda as she concentrated on the scene before her.
My Favorite Bride Page 23
