The route was much harder than it looked. Thinking back, Nathaniel was surprised he hadn’t fallen to his death trying to figure out the hidden handholds and false window locks.
Then he’d been inside the club, in a storage room. His own audacity had sobered him so that he decided that he would only look around in order to find another way out. He would have gone back out the window if he dared, but he didn’t.
It was when he’d been poking around the shabby hallway that he smelled it. Randolph was fond of a certain mix of tobacco that he had blended just for him. It had a distinctive sweet smell. Nathaniel followed it, realizing that he had found the place where his father spent all his time.
When Nathaniel caught a whiff of tobacco smoke coming from under a seemingly featureless wall, he knew there must be a way in.
He hadn’t found it then, nor for years later. Not until last year had he found his way into the secret office of the Liars’ spymaster. But he’d never forgotten the sense of frustration and betrayal that he’d felt, being locked out of that secret office.
Then he’d been forced to wander the club, hiding from footsteps, listening at doors, before he dared go further. That’s when he’d made his discovery.
His father was a Crown spy. A hero. A fascinating, admirable, glittering hero.
From that point on, all Nathaniel had ever wanted to do was earn his father’s respect. He’d turned his back on his peevish, wastrel ways without a moment’s hesitation. His father was a hero, and he would be one, too.
So he improved himself in every way he could imagine, improving his mind, training in sports, horses, shooting—any skills that seemed useful for a spy. Then he waited to be invited into the Liar’s Club—into that secret office.
It took some time before Nathaniel realized that his father had never noticed the change in him.
But Lord Liverpool had.
Weary of the past, Nathaniel took a deep breath—
Smoke?
He ran to the closed door of his study and flung it open. Thick, choking smoke was filling the hallway beyond even as he watched. “Fire!” he bellowed. “Fire!”
Then he was up the stairs and into Willa’s bedchamber in a matter of seconds. He threw Willa’s wrapper to her. “Quickly! Don’t spare the time to dress!”
She ran after him, after swiftly throwing on her nightdress, then the wrapper. Burning to death tended to pale next to having a stiff breeze blow her wrapper askew!
Nathaniel ran through the house, making sure everyone was roused and making their way outside. He pushed Willa after them. “Go to the back garden and wait for me,” he shouted over the confusion. “I must see that the maids in the attic are all cleared out.”
As she stood in the damp yard with the other female occupants of Reardon House, she tried not to let the enormous amounts of smoke billowing from the open doors and windows worry her.
“You’d best not die, Nathaniel Stonewell,” she muttered fiercely to him through the walls of the house. “I have plans for you.” Without taking her eyes from the doorway through which he disappeared, she crossed the yard to join Myrtle, Victoria, and a clinging Daphne.
“Is it very hazardous in there?” Daphne asked, her eyes on the house. “Do you think he’s in danger?”
Willa saw how pale the blond woman was and how her anxiety was betrayed by chewing on her lower lip. So, cool, remote Daphne cared after all. Willa could not feel jealous, for Nathaniel paid no attention to Daphne at all. Poor Daphne.
Then Willa remembered Nathaniel’s cool dismissal of her earlier in the evening.
Poor Willa.
It seemed years but was likely only minutes before Nathaniel emerged from the smoky depths of the house with the female servants. They came coughing and sooty, but they all came safe.
Willa flung her arms about him. “I know it couldn’t have been the jinx this time,” she told him with a watery smile.
He set her on her feet without a word to her. “It was merely vandals,” he told the throng. “They dirtied the wallpaper, but there was nothing irreplaceable lost.”
As the relieved household made its way back inside, Willa looked around. “Where is Mr. D—Mr. Porter?”
Nathaniel looked grim. “I’d say halfway to the docks by now. He wrapped the burning linen tightly enough to keep it smoldering for hours, then tossed the lot down the coal chute. If it hadn’t rolled off the coals onto the kindling, we’d still be trying to put it out.”
Willa frowned. “What makes you so sure it was Ren Porter?”
Nathaniel waved a hand in the general direction of the dining room. “Well, he—”
Willa plunked her hands on her hips. “Did you even check his room, or did you just leave the poor man to burn to death?”
Abject horror turned Nathaniel white beneath his smudges. The breath left his body in a rush, and he could only stare at her in dismay.
He bolted back into the house, taking the corner so fast that the carpet buckled and slid beneath his feet.
He heard Willa calling for him to wait, but he wasn’t planning on slowing down until he had proved to himself that he hadn’t left a lung-sick man to die from smoke inhalation.
The rest of Nathaniel’s run through the house was a blur, but he was vaguely aware that his following was growing. More voices and footsteps rose behind him at every room he passed.
He flung open the door to Ren’s chamber, letting it resound with a crash against the wall.
There was no one in the bed, no one in the still-smoky room. Nathaniel sagged gratefully against the doorjamb. At least he didn’t have that on his consc—
“Is it over?” A creaking voice came from the curtained window embrasure.
In two long strides, Nathaniel crossed to the window and yanked open the draperies. Ren Porter was sprawled half on the window seat, half angled out the window. The cold night air was streaming over him, but his face and body were wet with perspiration.
“Good God, man! You’ll catch your death!” Nathaniel hauled him back into the room. “You there!” He gestured to a footman. “Get those pots steaming again! Build up that fire.”
“Oh no,” Ren protested faintly. “Not more fire.”
Nathaniel wrestled Ren gently into the bed again. “God, I’m so sorry I left you here. I thought—”
Ren coughed, then sent Nathaniel a wry, haggard grin. “You thought I’d given it another go?” He snorted. “Reardon, it’s all I can do to use the chamber pot right now.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Nathaniel rubbed his face. “I could have killed you!”
“I kill you. You kill me.” Ren shrugged. “I’d say we’re even.”
“You don’t want me dead any longer?”
“Well, I wouldn’t mourn you, but no, I don’t think I feel quite so murderous anymore.” Ren stared at him for a long moment. “To be truthful, I have my doubts about your treason.”
Nathaniel straightened. “If you would keep those doubts to yourself, I would greatly appreciate it.”
Ren’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm. I thought as much.” He glanced at the industrious footmen. Then he stroked one hand over the counterpane. “Nice cover,” he said meaningfully. “I used to have one very much like it.”
Nathaniel’s lips twitched. Ren’s file had revealed that on his last mission he’d been playing the disillusioned young lout ripe to be recruited for a bit of treason. “Thank you,” he replied. “I can arrange for you to have another if you’d like.”
Ren’s gaze flew to his. He took a deep breath, then another. “Not—not yet.”
Nathaniel nodded once. “I understand.”
He left the room, feeling quite a bit lightened by the fact that in the entire world there was one less person who hated him.
Then again, tonight’s fire was evidence that there were still some who did.
Willa stood in the doorway of her bedchamber, shocked at the state of the room.
Nathaniel came up behind her. “Your line
ns will be too smoky to sleep on. I have someone bringing fresh ones from the—”
He stopped, obviously as appalled as she was.
The room was a shambles. Her things were everywhere, tossed about in complete abandon. Books lay open on the floor, pages aflutter. Her lovely new clothing was strewn and trampled. Willa went to one side of the bed and knelt to pick up the shattered remains of Dick’s squirrel carving. The vindictiveness in that single bit of destruction made her feel sick to her stomach.
Nathaniel moved swiftly through the room, checking any possible hiding places. Cradling the splinters of wood in her hands, Willa stood to gaze at the mess around her. “Something isn’t right,” she murmured.
Nathaniel began to gather some of the books from the floor. Lily came in with a fresh stack of bed linens, gasped at the madness, then swiftly began to salvage Willa’s new clothes. Willa stood very still, thinking. Nathaniel examined a book he’d taken from the floor. “Why do you have Jeremy Cunnington’s Mathematical Concepts?”
“I liked what he said about the golden mean,” Willa said absently. Then she looked down at him. “Are the books ruined?”
Nathaniel looked around him. “I don’t think so. A few small tears, possibly, but nothing irreparable.”
Willa turned to Lily. “Are my clothes ruined?”
Lily wrinkled her nose. “Well, I don’t think I’ll ever get the smoke smell out of Mrs. Knight’s Court gown … but no, they’re mostly just thrown about.”
“Searched,” Nathaniel corrected. “They look like they were searched.”
“Precisely,” Willa said, nodding. “If the intruder was simply looking for something, then why this?” She held out the remains of the carving.
“Willa,” Nathaniel said sternly. “I think the more important question is … what were they looking for in your room and no one else’s?” He folded his arms and stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. “Is there something I should know?”
Willa looked up at him in confusion. “I—I don’t know why. … I don’t even know what they were after!”
“No?” He stepped aside. “Why don’t you go through your possessions and tell me if there is anything unaccounted for.”
It didn’t take long. “No,” she said finally. “Nothing has been stolen. The carving is the only thing I lost.”
“Are you sure?” His question was curt and detached.
“Nathaniel, I have very few possessions in the world. It isn’t very hard to keep track.” She looked around her at her tidied room. “Nothing is missing.”
Nathaniel forced himself to relax. Willa didn’t seem to be lying. There may have been something she had possession of without realizing it was important, but if nothing had been stolen, it was hard to imagine the intruder had found what they were looking for.
Lily made up the fresh sheets and Willa climbed wearily into bed. It had been a very long day. “Was it only this morning that I was presented at Court?” she asked Lily.
“Aye, my lady. And only this evening that His Lordship’s stepfather passed on.”
“It seems like forever,” Willa said sleepily.
Nathaniel stood just outside Willa’s slightly open door, listening. He hated that he had to suspect Willa like this, but there was something going on that he was strongly beginning to suspect was connected with her.
Upon arriving in England, Foster had ridden hell-bent for leather, straight to Derryton. Then after spending the night in the inn—
“Bad enough that Dan here mucked up her packing. Made a right mess, he did.”
“No, mum! Her room was already—”
“Nonsense,” Moira scolded. “Shame on you, blamin’ Willie, and her bein’ as neat as a pin!”
Willa’s room had been a mess before her guardian’s son had packed her things. Willa’s room in the inn—where Foster was staying.
Apparently Foster had not found what he wanted, for he’d then turned toward London and taken no care to cover his trail. And now Willa’s room in Reardon House had been ransacked as well.
It seemed he’d attracted Foster’s attention after all.
There was a public house on the docks, a place too rough for anyone not already guilty of a few major crimes. The floor was not really made of dirt. It only looked that way because of the decades of grime that carpeted it. The trestle tables had been broken in brawl after brawl until patrons had to be careful where they put their elbows, so as not to get splinters.
The ale was foul, the tavern maids fouler.
This establishment went by the unlikely name of The Red Squirrel.
Sir Foster had finally made contact, just not in the way Nathaniel had expected. Nevertheless, the message had been unmistakable. Too bad about Willa’s carving.
Nathaniel swaggered into the tavern and took a seat at one of the rough tables. His manner was crude and grim, his clothing rough and dirty. He’d fouled his long hair and let it string down over his eyes.
He still looked far better than most of the clientele. After all, he still had both his eyes.
Nathaniel curled his fist, watching the way his fingers wrapped around his nearly empty tankard. He wasn’t drinking so much as splashing the stuff into his face and letting it run down his stubble, then ostentatiously wiping his mouth on his arm.
He tossed his empty tankard onto the floor as was the custom here. The ale maids kept the tankards running in fast circulation. The next one he got had dirt on the rim.
Of course. Washing the tankards would have a deleterious effect on the patrons’ drinking speed.
Tonight, it suited him to be in the roughest, most anonymous place one could find. Unfortunately, it was a very quiet night in this den of iniquity. Most of the patrons sat sullenly drinking and watching the barmaids bustle past.
The woman nearest Nathaniel smiled at him, and he nodded politely, although he wasn’t interested. He’d sooner sleep with Blunt. He’d much sooner sleep with Willa.
He was working. There was no place in his work for thoughts of Willa. He needed to be the Cobra. Focused. Committed. Obsessed.
Someone stumbled into his bench, and Nathaniel gave him a halfhearted shove before he sent the last of Nathaniel’s ale to the floor. It hadn’t been much of a push, but the fellow turned and shoved another patron, who sprawled across the laps of several other patrons, knocking at least one barmaid off someone’s knee.
Someone took offense at the interruption of his negotiations, someone else took offense at his offense, and the brawl was on.
Now, there was a thought. A good fight would take the edge off the burning in Nathaniel’s gut. Still, it wasn’t right to make someone else pay for his troubles. It still lacked a few hours until dawn, but Nathaniel didn’t think Foster was going to show.
Nathaniel stood, moving just in time to keep from being smashed by the body that was flung down onto his splintery table.
“What’s the matter?” the man cried up at Nathaniel through the crimson flood from his broken nose. “Get up and fight, ye bloody coward!”
That tore it. With great satisfaction, Nathaniel grabbed the man by the collar and gave him a thudding blow to the belly.
“Aye, that’s the way,” wheezed the man. And landed a beauty of a right to Nathaniel’s jaw.
As he landed blow after blow, and took a few as well, Nathaniel threw himself fully into the fray. Yes, indeed, a good fight really fit the bill.
Until one wiry bearded individual pulled a knife on him.
“There now!” Nathaniel raised both hands. “There’s no need for that, good sir!”
The man said nothing, only turned his back to the brawl behind them and focused his attentions on Nathaniel. He took a hard swipe with the knife. Nathaniel sucked in his belly just enough that the blade only snagged a button off his rough workingman’s jacket that he’d worn to blend in.
The next swipe caught the wool of the jacket itself. Damn! This bloke was entirely serious!
Nathaniel became seriou
s, too. He didn’t want to kill the man but would if he had to. He tried one more time to placate the fellow. “I’ve got some coin. You could take it all and good travels—”
The knife cut through his rough wool weskit like it was bread. He even felt a scratch on his skin. “Oh, now that is simply too much!”
Reaching behind him, he grabbed a sturdy chair and swung it at his opponent.
The fellow went down like a hammered bull. The now-unconscious man’s cap was knocked off and his distinctly bald head revealed. Nathaniel blinked. Foster.
25
Nathaniel still had not come home. His room was waiting for his return. The fire crackled, the bed was turned back, his dressing gown was laid out, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Willa had waited in her room for hours; then she had come in here. Trailing her fingers along the mattress of the bed, she touched the dark green silk dressing gown laid across the foot of it. Picking it up, she let the silk slip through her hands until she held the lapels, then she brought it to her face.
It smelled of him, of tobacco and a hint of sandalwood, and Nathaniel. He had done no shopping for himself when they had arrived. This must be from before.
She would have liked to have known him before. Had he laughed more easily then? she wondered. Had he captivated every woman he met the way he had captivated her?
She slid the dressing gown over her nightgown, pulling the lapels up to her face again. It engulfed her, the sleeves hanging off her hands and the hem trailing on the floor, but she wore it anyway. She wanted to feel as close to him as possible.
Restless, she left his room and wandered the hall. She ended up near Ren’s room and decided to check on his fever.
Ren could not sleep. It was very late, he knew, for he could hear the chiming of a clock in some other room. His head was aching most seriously.
He had stubbornly refused a dose of laudanum before the footman who was seeing to him had retired for the night. The man had shrugged and set the bottle on a chest across the room. It might as well have been across the Channel, for all the good it did Ren.
Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 01] Page 25
