The coach groaned around them as its large wheels dipped into a deep hole on the muddy road, and she offered up a quick prayer, hoping they wouldn’t have to step out and push. Again. No post-chaises had been available that morning, so they’d gotten the last two seats inside the fully loaded mail coach. They weren’t making nearly as good of time as they’d done yesterday, thanks to rutted roads, frequent stops, and mud puddles so big they threatened to swallow the entire team. But each mile still brought them closer to London.
An hour later, the coach stopped again. This time, all four of the other passengers disembarked, with the vicar wishing them well on the rest of their journey. When two women climbed onboard, Ross changed seats to sit beside Grace.
The coach rolled on, but now there was none of the friendly banter that had made the past hour tolerable. Instead, the two women huddled closely together and whispered frantically to each other. So peculiar. They clutched at each other’s hands, their eyes glued to Ross as if they expected him to pounce like a wolf.
“Is something the matter, ladies?” he asked with a concerned frown, exchanging a glance with Grace, who was as bewildered about their odd behavior as he. “Should I signal to the driver to stop the coach?”
They both froze, like deer startled by a hunter.
Then one of them swallowed nervously and replied, so softly that her quavering voice was barely audible above the rumble of the wheels, “You look like that man.”
The other woman nodded. “The one who’s wanted by the authorities.”
Ross didn’t move, yet Grace felt him stiffen.
“Oh yes!” She laughed to alleviate the sudden tension. “The dangerous fugitive from Chilworth gaol. We were caught up in the search for him last night, weren’t we, Mr. Thomas?”
“No, not him,” the first woman countered.
“The man on the bill,” the second one clarified. “There’s a sketch…”
When her voice trailed off, the other woman added, “We saw one at the inn where we bought our ticket. You resemble him.” A long, tense pause filled the compartment before she whispered, “The Earl of Spalding.”
Grace froze as a chill spiraled down her spine.
Ross laughed, almost too quickly. “This is the first time anyone’s accused me of being quality!” He playfully nudged her leg with his, as if sharing a joke. “Isn’t it, dear?”
With no other choice unless she wanted to cause a commotion that would stop the coach, Grace awkwardly smiled as her stunned surprise turned into bitter betrayal.
“Can you believe that, Mrs. Thomas?” Another nudge…another secret communication for her to play along. “Someone confusing me with an earl.”
“I wish I’d married an earl,” she forced out, stiltedly joining in with the pretense despite the frantic pounding of her heart.
He said he’d broken the law, but a manhunt by the authorities, with bills posted across the countryside—oh God, what had he done? She fought to keep the smile on her face as she realized how close they’d come that morning to being discovered by the men in the inn. Her stomach sickened.
She had to make it through this conversation. There would be time later to hear his explanation. Or more lies. But now she had to protect him, in order to protect herself.
She nudged him back. Hard. “Maybe then I could buy those new curtains for the parlor that you’ve been promising me.”
His smile tightened. “I told you, love. Profits are down. Blunt doesn’t grow on trees.”
“Yet you harvest enough of it to spend nearly every night with your chums.” As she’d done that morning—and ten years ago when she fled to protect her baby—she let the anger rise to the surface, to use it to her advantage and feign a fight. “Always enough money for drink and cards.” She slid him a sideways glance and sneered, “And women.”
That took him by surprise for a beat, his eyes widening. Then his gaze narrowed sharply. “Now is not the time nor place to—”
“I am so very tired of your lies!” The raw honesty in that soft comment was brutal. She certainly hadn’t needed to pretend that. Ignoring Ross as he sat beside her, so close that the side of his body brushed hers as the coach rocked down the road, she pinned the women beneath her gaze. “Tell me. What is it that my dear husband has supposedly done? Then I can turn him in, collect the reward money, and buy the curtains on my own.”
The two women exchanged a nervous glance. Although they were still just as uneasy as before, now their faces darkened sheepishly for inadvertently causing a fight between a married couple.
The one with spectacles perched on her up-turned nose rasped out a forced laugh. “You could certainly buy a lot more than just curtains with that reward!”
“Oh?” Grace whispered. Good God, what had he done?
The other woman nodded with an apologetic glance at Ross. “A thousand pound reward.”
Icy dread numbed her limbs. She rasped out, “For what?”
“Treason.”
Her gaze snapped to Ross. Her chest squeezed so hard that she winced, despite the rest of her having gone completely numb.
With all eyes on her, she laughed awkwardly. “My husband would never commit treason. He’s a staunch monarchist. Isn’t that so, Mr. Thomas?” She should place an affectionate hand on his knee or shoulder—anywhere to physically demonstrate that Ross was her husband and not a traitor. But she couldn’t bear the thought of touching him. Instead, she shifted away and forced out, “I’ll have to try harder to get you out of my hair.”
The woman with spectacles gave a grim shake of her head. “Not just treason—”
“Murder.”
Grace’s gaze flew to the other woman. Her heart stopped, and when it started again, each beat came like canon fire, so hard and jarring that her hand went to her chest.
She couldn’t joke her way out of this, and too much fear blossomed inside her to feel anything else. Not anger. Not even betrayal.
“Then you ladies are safe,” Ross drawled, flashing them his most charming smile. “The only things I murder are bottles of port and overpriced cigars.”
Grace couldn’t find enough trust in him to muster even a smile at that. Breathe…She stared out the rain-speckled window as the sun began to set and saw nothing. Her concentration—all of it—focused solely on not screaming. Just breathe…The conversation died, and they traveled on in silence, with Grace unable to look at him. Whenever the coach lurched over a rut and he brushed up against her, she inhaled sharply.
“Drummond’s Crossroads!” the driver called out with a pound of his fist on the roof.
The coach stopped, and the two women departed.
Grace jumped to the other seat to move as far away from Ross as possible. Her gaze bore into him as she fisted her hands in her lap.
“Basingstoke in five miles!”
No new passengers were taken on, and the coach started again with a swaying jerk. Leaving Grace alone with Ross.
“You bastard,” she hissed quietly, aware of the proximity of the coachmen and afraid they might overhear despite the loud rumbling of the wheels. All of her so brimmed with anger and fear that she shook. “You lied to me!”
His gaze pinned hers as he replied calmly, “I told you that I broke the law.”
“I thought you’d cheated at cards, perhaps gotten involved with smugglers or taken bribes— You didn’t tell me that you were wanted for treason!” And murder. She forced herself to breathe past the dread gripping her chest. “Did you do it?”
He paused for a long moment, as if debating how to answer. Or how to most effectively lie. “That would depend on who you asked.”
A strangled laugh fell from her lips. Heaven help her! She’d tied her future hopes to a man wanted for treason and murder, and he possessed the nerve to prevaricate with her. “Let’s say the British, shall we?”
“Then yes. The British would consider it petty treason and espionage.”
Oh, this was not getting any better! “And the Frenc
h?”
“They would consider it an act of war.”
The blood drained from her face. He wasn’t teasing. Dear God. “What did you do?”
He reached beneath his waistcoat and pulled out the papers.
“I stole these.” He held them up. “And now people on both sides want me dead.”
He placed them on the seat beside her.
She tore her gaze away from him to glance down at the sheets, not daring to touch them. They were like a snake, coiled and ready to bite her. “What are they?”
“Documents that prove the existence of a spy ring within the Court of St James’s.” When she gaped at him, he nodded toward the papers. “Go on. Look at them.”
“I’ve already read them.”
“Then look at them again.”
Knowing he wouldn’t tell her more, she reached for them. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded each sheet.
He leaned toward her across the compartment. “They fit together, each a piece in a puzzle.” He touched the top page. “A list of workers at a textile factory in Le Havre, from which the British ambassador planned on ordering bolts of fabric to redecorate his Parisian townhouse.”
He removed the first sheet from her hand and gestured at the next one.
“A March letter from the ambassador to André Delacroix, thanking him for meeting with him in Le Havre and reminding him that payment needed to be made for the bolts of cloth before he could send on the list of factory workers. On the surface, a typical request regarding a personal matter of no consequence. The embassy sends out dozens of correspondence like this each week, all approved by the ambassador. See there?” He tapped the bottom of the page. “The ambassador’s signature.”
Grace’s gaze darted to the signature, then back to his. A list of workers, a letter from a creditor—how could these possibly be state secrets? Or was he merely lying to her again?
He took the third sheet by the corner and held it up. “The page from the embassy’s register for December 8th, 1821.” He gestured at a signature toward the bottom. “The ambassador’s signature, verifying that he’d checked in to work that day. Odd thing, though—it doesn’t match the one on the letter. Or any of the letters or documents he’s ever signed. But this one does, only it’s on the register for the same date at an inn called Le Chat Noir.” He held up the last page, one from a hotel register. “In Le Havre.”
“I don’t understand.” What was he trying to prove with all of this? Her confusion warred with distrust, and fear had her fingers trembling so hard that she couldn’t refold the papers. “What does this have to do with treason?”
“Because nothing is as it appears.” He took the pages from her. His eyes never left her face as he watched to gauge her reaction and held up the first list of names. “This list of factory workers contains a hidden list. The first name, second, fourth, eighth…the pattern continues until the last name, each a man working as a secret agent for England inside France.”
Her blood turned to ice, her hands now shaking so hard that she had to twist her fingers in her skirt to hold them still.
“This is why England thinks I’m a traitor, because I stole this list of names from the ambassador’s office in the Paris embassy, and then I ran.” He added gravely, “For Le Havre.”
She shuddered and pulled back against the squabs. Good God, he was admitting to treason. She didn’t want any part of this!
“As far as England knows, I stole this list to sell to the French. I’m certain that’s what the British ambassador has told the Court of St James’s, and that’s why they’ve put out a reward for me. If I’m caught in possession of that list, I’ll swing.” He paused, the silence grim. “I knew that when I took it.”
“Then why did you?” she whispered. Fear was winning against her confusion. “You’re an earl, for God’s sake! You don’t need the money.”
“I didn’t do it for money. I did it to save the lives of every man on that list.” Then he added quietly, “And to avenge the death of a friend.”
“So you’re a noble traitor?” She gave a short laugh of disbelief at the story he was spinning. As far as she knew, every word was a lie.
He didn’t answer that. Instead, he held up the papers. “On December 8th, 1821, a man named André Delacroix, a mid-ranking official in the court of King Louis, took a room in Le Chat Noir in Le Havre.” He traced his finger over the guest registry, circling the date at the top and then drawing a line down the page to the name. André Delacroix. “So did Charles Wentworth.” His finger moved lower, to a name at the bottom of the list, written in a distinctive, scrolling handwriting. “British Ambassador to France. The two men were in the same inn on the same date.”
“So two government officials had a meeting.” She shook her head, unable to fathom the importance of that. “They have meetings all the time. What does any of this have to do with your innocence?” Or your guilt? The question hung on the air as clearly as if she’d uttered it.
He held up the page torn from the embassy guest register and tapped his finger on the name…Charles Wentworth. “How can the same man be in two different places at once?”
“I don’t know.” At that moment, she didn’t care. All she knew was that she’d put Ethan’s life at risk by trusting in Ross.
“This name is a forgery. It doesn’t match the ambassador’s signature. He had a crony sign the register to make it appear as if he were in Paris that day, when he was actually two hundred miles away in Le Havre, negotiating the sale of that list of agents to the French.” He held up the letter. “By March, the French still hadn’t provided the money they’d agreed upon. So the ambassador sent this reminder. Wentworth kept the list of agents in his office, with all the other personal documents related to his housing and general living expenses so that it wouldn’t draw suspicion, waiting for payment so he could send it off to the French.”
“That’s why you were in Le Havre,” she mumbled as the pieces began to fit together. “To steal the inn’s guest register.”
“Yes. I already had the letter he was planning on sending to Delacroix. So I stole the list from the ambassador’s office and tore the page out of the embassy visitor log on my way out the door. His signature in the hotel register matches his official signature. He was there in Le Havre and arrogant enough to use his real name.”
“So you didn’t…” Her voice trailed off, almost too afraid to utter the words. “You didn’t do as they’re claiming?”
“I did exactly as they claim.” He tapped the list of names. “This one by itself makes me a traitor.” He refolded all the pages and slipped them beneath his waistcoat. “But all of them together shows treason by the ambassador.”
He eased back against the seat, stretched out his legs as far as possible in the cramped space, and fell silent. He watched her closely, waiting for her reaction.
Good God. Her mind spun with all he’d just revealed, with everything he’d told her since the moment he’d forced his way into her cottage. All of it seemed plausible.
Except… “Then why are you still running? You’re on English soil now, safe from the French. You could go to the authorities and show them the evidence. The ambassador would be arrested for treason, not you.”
“Because I don’t yet have everything I need. It’s all circumstantial at best, with no inarguable way to put Wentworth in Le Havre except for that signature in the guest registry.”
“What else do you need?” The question emerged as a breathless whisper. God help her, she was afraid of the answer.
“Wentworth’s personal diary. It will put him in Le Havre by his own admission and also reveal the other men who are working for him, because he isn’t doing this alone. That list of names had to have come from someone attached to the War Office. If I go to the authorities now, I catch only Wentworth, and only if I’m lucky. But I want to bring down every single one of them and make the bastards pay for what they’ve done.”
The venomous resolve in his voice played
down her spine like icy fingers, eliciting a shudder. “How do you acquire the diary?”
“From the ambassador. Which is why it’s good to know that I’m wanted for treason.”
“That’s good?” The man was mad!
He sent her a lazy smile. “That means Wentworth has made it to London before me and convinced the Court that I’ve turned, which proves that he’s worried about me and the evidence I have against him. He’ll be in London, his diary with him, and preparing for a fight.”
“Which is why you’re going there.” She pressed her hand against her chest, as if she could physically push down the frantic pounding of her heart. “For a fight.”
He turned toward the window. “There are names of over a dozen men on that list, all of them deep operatives hidden in France. They would have been murdered, their throats slit one by one, if that letter to Delacroix hadn’t been intercepted. I’m fighting for them.”
She wanted to believe him. Desperately so. But…“You’re also wanted for murder. Do you have papers that prove that away, too?”
His lips curled grimly, his attention still focused beyond the glass. “Do you think me a murderer, Grace?”
She simply didn’t know what to think. “Are you?”
He murmured, “As surely as if I put the knife to his throat myself.”
Her body flashed numb. Dear God, what had she gotten herself into?
“I was the one who found that letter,” he continued quietly. “By utter accident. The seal was broken after Wentworth posted it and before it could leave the embassy, so the clerk who caught it brought it to me.” He reached up to draw an idle fingertip along the window’s edge. “The clerk thought it was an accounting matter, and part of my duties was to serve as the embassy’s quartermaster, responsible for all accounts in and out. But something about that letter struck me as odd. Why should a buyer of expensive fabric care about the names of factory workers? So I took it to Sir Henry Jacobs, my mentor and the man who’d helped me gain my post.” His hand dropped away. “At the time, I had no idea what I’d found. But Henry knew. He confronted the ambassador, who killed him for it. I found his body draped over his desk in a pool of blood, his throat slit from ear to ear.”
How the Earl Entices Page 11
