McCarthy rubbed the stubble across his chin. “Not yet. I expect her any minute.”
“I’ve never known Mrs. Ashcroft to be late for an appointment,” the vicar mused after checking his timepiece.
“I’m visiting with each of my tenants, McCarthy,” Sebastian said. “Is there anything you need?”
Declan McCarthy’s thick eyebrows drew together. He looked to the vicar, who gave him an encouraging smile. “The gate leading into the south paddock needs some mending,” he said. “I was going to take care of it myself once I finished repairing the molding on the door leading to your gallery.”
“My gallery?”
“Declan,” the vicar said in a rush. “Is Mrs. McCarthy inside?”
The carpenter nodded, his gaze shooting between Sebastian and Mr. Foster.
Sebastian studied the vicar’s flushed face. “Mrs. Ashcroft, I presume?”
“At the request of Grayson, I believe.” Mr. Foster swallowed hard. “Declan, I’ll go pay my respects to your wife before checking on Meghan. Perhaps Mrs. Ashcroft will have arrived by then.”
Catherine had mentioned that she’d operated as Grayson’s liaison, but he hadn’t imagined her assistance extended to Bellamere.
“Would you care for a refreshment, m’lord?” McCarthy asked.
He glanced at the McCarthy cottage and found three curious faces in a window. A young boy and girl craned their neck, this way and that to see the stranger outside, and a pretty brunette, who looked to be on the verge of womanhood, stood sentinel behind them, watchful and unmoving. Sebastian guessed the eldest of the three to be the enceinte Meghan.
Wanting no part in the upcoming discussion, Sebastian turned back to the carpenter. “Thank you, no. I must be on my way.”
After mounting Reaper, Sebastian turned to the carpenter. “When you’ve repaired the molding, come see me. I have additional work, if you’re interested.”
McCarthy’s eyes widened in surprise. “Thank you, m’lord.”
Sebastian nodded to both men before wheeling Reaper about. “Gentlemen.”
As he left the McCarthy residence, Sebastian found himself scanning the country lane for a blond head. Mr. Foster’s concern for her absence replayed through his mind for nearly two miles before he shut out the vicar’s voice. A decade of deciphering men’s words and their true intent had him imagining calamity where none existed.
Showbury wasn’t London. Men did not go around terrorizing innocent women in this sleepy village. He had to let his mind rest, to suppress the uneasy feeling eating at his stomach. His special talents weren’t needed here. He would save those for when he returned to the city.
While in Showbury, he would need to employ patience and charm. Patience to break through layers of mistrust erected by his tenants and charm to convince the widow he needed her help after all. Because without her, making the necessary repairs around his estate would be a study in frustration and inefficiency.
He kicked Reaper into a faster pace, one to match the anticipation thundering through his blood.
Seven
Catherine made her way down the staircase, going over what she would say to Meghan McCarthy. Such an inauspicious beginning for a shy young girl, especially since she refused to reveal the identity of her babe’s father. The vicar was an optimist, though, and had asked Catherine to join him one more time at the McCarthy cottage to see if they could coax a name from her.
This venture would no doubt be as unsuccessful as the last. Every time someone broached the subject with Meghan, she became agitated and withdrawn. At first, Catherine thought the girl protected the father because of some misplaced loyalty. But during their last unfruitful conversation, Catherine began to suspect the girl feared her beau.
For this reason, Catherine had agreed to accompany Mr. Foster for another visit. This time, she would find an opportunity to speak with Meghan alone. See if the girl would confide in her. Reveal her secret. Deep in her own thoughts, Catherine missed the low exchange of voices at the entry door.
“Good day, Mrs. Ashcroft,” the newcomer said.
She glanced up to find the gentleman she’d met in London handing his hat and gloves to her butler. “Mr. Cochran,” she said, at a loss for words. “This is quite unexpected. What brings you to Showbury?”
“Why, you, of course.” He combed his fingers through his hair. “Do you not recall my promise to see you in a few days?”
“Indeed, I do.” The stiffness in her muscles relaxed from their initial shock. “You simply caught me by surprise.”
“Shall I return at a more convenient time?” he asked. “You appear to be on your way out.”
“I have only a few minutes to spare, then I must be off to an important meeting.” She motioned toward the drawing room. “Shall we?”
“By all means.”
Still stinging from Lord Somerton’s rebuff, she had a difficult time piecing together information she could share. “If you’ve come for a report on my observations, Mr. Cochran, I’m afraid I have little to convey.” She sat on the edge of the high-back chair, leaving the lemon and mint striped sofa for her visitor.
He eased himself onto the sofa with a languidness that bespoke of someone settling in for a nice long chat. Folding one leg over the other, he asked, “Why is that, Mrs. Ashcroft?” The smoothness of his voice cut through the air like a saber slicing through its victim.
“His lordship returned only yesterday, sir,” she said. “I was fortunate to gain a short audience with him. If I hadn’t been meeting with his steward when he arrived, I would not have had even that yet.”
“Yes, I see what you mean.” He drummed his fingers on the cushion beside him. “How did Lord Somerton appear?”
Catherine searched her memory. “Tired. Somewhat preoccupied.” Incredibly compelling, satisfyingly disgusted with his steward. Achingly grateful. “But his condition might have had more to do with his long journey from London and the disturbing news he received about his estate than with his troubles in the city.”
“Disturbing news, you say?”
Conscious of time ticking away, she said, “Yes, a steward who took advantage of his position.” She rose. “I’m sorry, but I really must go if I’m to make my appointment.”
Instead of following suit, he merely smiled and indicated her seat. “Another moment of your time, please.”
Catherine hesitated. She had nothing more to share and she refused to keep Meghan and the vicar waiting. Their audience with the young mother would be difficult enough without the delay.
“I cannot,” she said. “I would be happy to meet with you afterward.”
“I, myself, am under time constraints.” His smile turned brittle. “Please. Sit.”
Gritting her teeth, she sat.
“Thank you.” His blue eyes bore into hers. “Have you ever heard of the Alien Office, madam?”
“No, sir.”
“I’m not surprised. Few have,” he said. “The Alien Office operates under the auspice of the Home Office, although some members of the office report directly to the Foreign Office.”
He paused, seeming to wait for her acknowledgment. “I’m listening,” she said dutifully.
“Simply put, the Alien Office’s sole mission is to gather intelligence, both at home and abroad, of any potential threat against England.”
“I suspect they have their hands full at the moment.” She noticed her knee bouncing, a sign her patience was coming to an end. “Interesting, but I don’t understand what this has to do with me.”
“You soon will. It’s important that you understand the full scope of the situation in which we find ourselves.”
“Very well. Go on.”
“As I mentioned, a small number of the agents in the Alien Office report their activities to the Foreign Office. These individuals comprise an even lesser-known gro
up called the Nexus. The Nexus’s reach spans many countries—England, Germany, Austria, Italy, America, and more—and the agents’ identities are a carefully guarded secret, even within the Alien Office.”
Dread settled over Catherine. “Perhaps I’ve heard enough of this secret organization.”
“It’s not so easy as that,” he said. “You and I, we have an agreement. One I shared with my superior, who now has certain expectations.”
“Why did you do such a thing? We were just talking, sharing confidences.”
“You thought participating in the Foreign Office’s investigation a lark, madam?”
“No! No,” she said in a calmer voice. “I merely agreed to observe Lord Somerton during his stay at Bellamere in exchange for news about my husband’s murder investigation.”
“This is true,” he said. “But we have come by new information. Information that raises the stakes.”
Catherine made a valiant effort to close off her hearing. All she had wanted was for someone to help her confirm her husband’s means of death. By doing so, those who killed him would be brought to justice and Catherine might be able to begin the process of forgiveness—of Jeffrey and of herself. She had been certain that a jealous husband or lover had killed Jeffrey, so she had not thought beyond that one possibility. Good Lord, why would she have ever considered her husband was a spy?
“As it turns out, Somerton commands this elite group of international agents.”
“Lord Somerton? You’re sure?”
“Oh, yes.”
Relieved by the news, she said, “That’s good then, even heroic.” The earl didn’t appear the dashing type, nor could she see him gallivanting about as a footman or gardener or whatever disguises a spy uses.
“Somerton’s actions were quite heroic, madam. For several years.” He glanced out the window, revealing the line of his jaw where a muscle beat. “But he became greedy, as many men do in his position.”
“Surely you are mistaken. He’s an earl, for goodness sake.”
“Greed afflicts all men, no matter their rank, wealth, or personal convictions.”
She did not believe such rubbish. Over the years, she had witnessed many acts of kindness from individuals who had little to spare. Not all men were greedy, just the bad ones.
So which was Lord Somerton? “What immoral path has greed led him down?”
“Espionage.”
“Yes, we’ve already established that he is a spy.”
Cochran’s features hardened. “Against his country.”
“A double spy, you mean?”
“Correct,” he said. “The Foreign Office has reason to suspect that he is using intelligence received from his agents to aid Napoleon’s bid to become emperor of Europe, of all the world, if left unrestrained.”
The idea was so fantastical to be ludicrous. “If you believe his lordship to be guilty of seditious behavior, why not arrest him?” Her eyes narrowed. “You did say you worked for the Foreign Office, did you not?”
“Indeed, Mrs. Ashcroft,” he said. “However, this situation takes a little more finesse than slapping him in irons. Somerton might not be the only agent in the Nexus involved in this unfortunate scheme.”
She clasped her hands together in her lap to stop their trembling. “I assume you have some reason for telling me all of this?”
“You are correct,” he said. “I do have a reason for revealing the sensitive nature of this issue. We cannot arrest Lord Somerton, because he alone knows the identities of the agents comprising the Nexus. The moment we apprehend him, they will disappear, and we cannot allow that to happen. Until we confirm the guilt or innocence of each person, we must be careful not to draw attention to our suspicions.”
“Because you fear a French invasion and believe the traitorous members of the Nexus will continue their efforts, with or without their leader?”
“Bravo, Mrs. Ashcroft. You have summed up our concerns precisely.”
Rather than preen for having gained his admiration, Catherine felt sick to her stomach. “So what is it you would have me do?”
“The Foreign Office has directed Somerton to compile a list of his agents while in the country.”
“After protecting them for so long, will he comply? Especially in light of your accusations?”
“Hard to say with any certainty,” he said. “Knowing Somerton, I wouldn’t doubt that he’d create the list and then conveniently misplace it.”
“I’ll be interested in seeing how his lordship faces this challenge.”
“Glad to hear it, Mrs. Ashcroft, because this is where we need your assistance.” His gaze caught hers, held her immobile with feral claws. “I want you to copy the list of names and deliver them to me within the next sennight.”
“What?” She bolted from her chair and paced the confines of the drawing room. “You cannot be serious. What you’re asking me to do goes far beyond our arrangement of reporting suspicious activities.”
He didn’t flinch at her outburst, simply followed her about the room. “Indeed, it does.”
“What if his lordship catches me? If he’s as ruthless as you say, I’m putting not only myself in danger but also my daughter.”
“That is an unfortunate side effect to this request, but my superiors are concerned about Somerton’s ability to complete his task.”
“Unfortunate side effect?”
“You do understand now that the Nexus might be the ones responsible for your husband’s death, don’t you?”
She strove for calm. “I surmised as much.”
“Then you also realize that the letters Ashcroft sent you were likely coded messages, warning the intended recipient of Somerton’s perfidy. Are you certain Ashcroft did not mention my name anywhere in his correspondence?”
Catherine felt every drop of blood drain from her face. “This can’t be happening.”
“Ashcroft did mention me.”
She nodded. “It’s how I recognized your name.”
“You lied to me,” he said. “This revelation complicates matters.”
“How so?” she asked. “If the letters were meant for you, shouldn’t that knowledge clarify, rather than complicate?”
He waved off her comment. “I must think on this more. In the meantime, keep an eye out for a list of names. It will bring you one step closer to the justice you so desperately seek.”
Catherine’s jaw tightened. “How on earth do you expect me to locate something so important?” Especially after Lord Somerton rebuffed her earlier. “If he compiles it at all, he’ll likely keep it in a secure spot in the family wing.”
“Mama, are you still here?”
At the sound of her daughter’s muffled voice, terror ripped through Catherine. She glanced at Cochran, whose gaze slithered from the closed door back to Catherine. She did not like the calculating gleam pulsing in his eyes.
“In whatever manner you deem necessary and expedient, madam.” He nodded toward the door. “Let her in.”
“I would rather not,” she said. “Are we finished? I am late for my appointment.”
He stood, the action so abrupt that Catherine stepped back, even though several feet separated them.
“Indeed, we are.” Before she could stop him, he strode to the door and opened it.
Her daughter, who obviously had her ear plastered to the wood panel, tumbled inside. She popped up with the speed of a rabbit, looking from Cochran to Catherine with wide-eyed curiosity. “Hello,” she said.
“Miss Sophie,” he said. “It is nice to finally meet you.”
“It is?” her daughter asked.
Catherine angled her body between them. “Sophie, run along. I believe you have lessons to finish.”
“I heard your voices.” She didn’t budge. “Aren’t you going to see Meghan McCarthy?”
&nbs
p; “Yes,” Catherine said, disturbed by the way Cochran continued to stare at her daughter. “I’m leaving for the McCarthys now.”
In a stage whisper to Cochran, Sophie said, “She’s insane.”
“Sophie, we do not discuss such things in front of visitors.”
Cochran glanced at Catherine.
“She means enceinte. In the family-way,” she provided.
“McCarthy,” he said. “This Meghan is Irish?”
Her daughter nodded. “Mama’s going to try to find out who the father is.”
“Sophia Adele, enough gossip,” Catherine said. “Back to the nursery. Now.”
Her daughter, not used to Catherine’s sharp tone, dropped her head. “Sorry, Mama.” She ran from the room.
With her daughter no longer under Cochran’s sharp gaze, Catherine was finally able to take a full breath. “My apologies, sir. Sophie does not meet many strangers.”
“Like her mother, she has made this a most productive visit.”
She stared at him in confusion until she recalled his comment in London about wanting to meet Jeffrey’s daughter.
“Now I will leave you to your appointment,” he said. “Sounds like you have a challenge ahead of you—in more ways than one, to be sure.”
Catherine did not need the reminder of the terrible task ahead of her. How had she become entrenched in espionage? She prayed Lord Somerton cooperated with the Foreign Office’s edict, and soon.
After collecting Cochran’s hat and gloves, Catherine led the official to his sleek black curricle. “If I locate the item, how will I notify you?”
He settled onto the high bench and accepted the reins from Teddy. “You won’t. I’ll be in touch. Good day, Mrs. Ashcroft.”
She followed his curricle’s breakneck progress down the lane, while smoothing her fingers over her aching throat.
“Gypsy’s saddled and ready for a nice trot, Mrs. Ashcroft.”
“Thank you, Teddy.” Using the mounting block, she settled onto the saddle and arranged her skirts before taking the reins. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Checkmate, My Lord Page 8
