Marry in Secret

by Anne Gracie

He turned to Ashendon. “Ollie says you ‘know people.’ Do you know of anyone who could go to Mogador in my place, someone trustworthy, who could track down my men and negotiate their freedom?”

  Ashendon’s expression was enigmatic. “I don’t know of anyone like that.”

  “Damn.”

  “But I know someone who might.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The fever came the following day later in the early hours of the night. Thomas had barely left Rose’s room—George had given up her bed to him—when he heard the first signs: restlessness and agitated muttering. He felt her forehead; she was burning up.

  They’d discussed what to do if this happened, and he soaked a sponge in vinegared water, squeezed it out and began to wipe her down. She moaned and muttered.

  “Hush, Rose, you’re all right.” His voice seemed to soothe her. She turned her face to him.

  “Thomas?” But her gaze was blank, unseeing.

  “I’m here.” He kept wiping her down.

  The door opened. “I heard voices. What’s happening?” It was Emm. She took one look at Rose and said, “She’s delirious,” and reached for a cloth.

  Thomas caught her hand. “I can manage.”

  “But—”

  “You need your sleep.” His gaze dropped to Emm’s swollen belly, and he added gently, “You’re sleeping for two, remember?”

  “Thank you, Thomas,” Ashendon said from the doorway. “She’d take on the world if she could, my Emm.” He held out his hand. “Come to bed, my love. Thomas will manage.”

  Thomas sponged and soothed Rose through the night, giving her the medicine the doctor had left, and sips of the willow bark tea they had brewed in case it was needed. And finally, just after dawn, she started to sweat. The fever had broken.

  When Ashendon and Emm looked in that morning, Rose was peacefully asleep, her head on Thomas’s chest, his arms around her. Thomas was fast asleep, dried tear tracks on his cheeks.

  * * *

  * * *

  Several days later, when it was clear that Rose was well out of danger, Ashendon approached Thomas after breakfast. “That fellow I said who might know someone? Turns out, he does. Want to meet him?”

  “The fellow who knows people, or the someone who might go to Mogador?”

  “Both. He’ll see us at eleven.”

  The “fellow who knows people” turned out to be the Honorable Gil Radcliffe, a man who’d apparently attended their recent ball, though Thomas couldn’t recall meeting him. His office was at Horse Guards, which apart from housing the Household Cavalry also acted as military headquarters. Ashendon led him through a labyrinth of corridors with a casual familiarity that was revealing.

  Radcliffe was a tall, saturnine gentleman who dressed with a careless elegance. The other gentleman had already arrived before them. He sat quietly in a corner seat. Radcliffe introduced him as Wilmott. From the exchange between Radcliffe, Ashendon and Wilmott, it was clear they knew each other from school.

  Radcliffe rang for tea and a few minutes later an assistant brought in a heavily laden tea tray. Radcliffe poured and invited them to help themselves to milk, sugar and ginger biscuits. It was all very chatty and friendly and polite, Thomas thought sourly. Lady Salter would have enjoyed it.

  While everyone was fussing over tea, Thomas inspected the man who was supposed to solve his problems. He wasn’t impressed.

  Everything about Wilmott looked . . . moderate, Thomas thought. Mild of manner, bland of appearance. Of medium height, he was slender, with dark hair and dark eyes. Conservatively though expensively dressed, ordinary and totally forgettable. Not at all the kind of man Thomas had expected—or hoped for.

  Radcliffe added milk and stirred sugar into his tea. “Now Lord Brierdon, tell Wilmott about your little problem.”

  Little problem? Five enslaved men was hardly a little problem.

  Thomas explained the task and described what he knew of each man’s situation. “But it’s been several years—anything could have happened to them: sold on, traded, died. Tracking them down won’t be easy. And then once you find them, you will need to negotiate for their release—in effect, to buy them from their current owners.”

  He looked doubtfully at Wilmott. “You’ll need to be a skilled and cunning bargainer. Or find a trustworthy local agent who can do it for you. But I warn you, they’re sharks.”

  Wilmott nodded placidly. “Understood.” He took another ginger biscuit.

  Thomas could hear him crunching it. He clenched his jaw. This fellow would not do at all. He had no idea. “What do you know about that part of the world?”

  Wilmott smiled. “Enough, I assure you.”

  Thomas doubted it.

  Radcliffe pulled out his fob watch. “Well, then, that’s settled. Sorry to hurry you along, gentlemen, but I have another appointment in ten minutes. Brierdon, if you could give Wilmott the details of your men, and make arrangements for the transfer of the money—”

  “No. This is not going to work,” Thomas said abruptly. “I need someone streetwise and tough, a man who can handle himself in a fight if necessary, someone who’s well acquainted with the culture and the region and the language, not a well-intentioned tea-sipping Old Harrovian. So thank you, but no thank you.” He got up to leave.

  “So you doubt me, you son of an English dog?” said a voice in fluent Arabic from behind him.

  Thomas whirled around.

  Wilmott lifted his teacup, sipped genteelly, set it down and let fly a flood of the filthiest gutter Arabic Thomas had ever heard: a torrent of creative, fluent abuse. If Thomas didn’t know better he’d swear that a genuine street Arab was hiding under the table.

  Wilmott finished his tirade, smiled blandly at Thomas and reached for another ginger biscuit.

  It surprised a long hard belly laugh out of Thomas. Ashendon joined in. Wilmott crunched on his biscuit and Radcliffe looked smug. “Never underestimate my men,” he said.

  “But how?” Thomas asked. “How does an Old Harrovian learn to speak like the veriest street beggar?”

  “Oh, I speak perfect cultured Arabic, too, and I read and write it perfectly,” Wilmott assured him. “Also Persian and French. If I need to converse with the caliph or the sultan, I won’t shame you, I promise.”

  “But how do you know all this?” Mention of both the caliph and the sultan heartened him. It sounded as though Wilmott might know something of the political setup in Mogador, as well.

  “My mother is an Arab,” Wilmott explained. “Her father, my grandfather, is a cunning old devil who was determined his grandson wouldn’t grow up to be an effete Englishman. I spent half my childhood with him in his palace in Alexandria, where he had me properly educated in the finer aspects of Arabic culture—history, poetry, mathematics, music and so on—and let me run wild the rest of the time. And during plague season, he placed me with the Bedouin, who educated me in their ways. I adored my times with him and have not yet decided which will become my chosen culture—I can fit seamlessly into both, you see.” He dusted crumbs from his fingers. “So, do we have an agreement?”

  Thomas held out his hand. “We do.”

  “Excellent,” Radcliffe said. “Now I hate to move you chaps along, but . . .”

  They thanked him and left. His assistant conducted them to a nearby empty office where Thomas briefed Wilmott thoroughly, giving him the details pertaining to each man and anything else Thomas could think of that might be useful. Wilmott asked questions from time to time and noted everything down in a little red leather notebook in a script that Thomas saw was neither Arabic nor English.

  They then made arrangements for him to collect the gold that would be used to buy the men’s freedom. “And of course, you must take a percentage—” Thomas began.

  “Nonsense,” Wilmott said. “Grandfather would disown me if I took
a penny for releasing men from slavery. He has no time for Barbary pirates and despises slavery of all kinds. Besides, I’m not going to Mogador just for you; Radcliffe has another assignment for me there.”

  Going home in the carriage afterward, realizing his men really did have a good chance of being rescued by Wilmott, it was as if a weight had lifted off Thomas’s shoulders.

  He looked at his brother-in-law sprawled comfortably in the corner of the carriage, staring out of the window, looking slightly bored. “I have to thank you, Ashendon, for arranging that. I can barely believe that such a man could exist.”

  Ashendon huffed a laugh. “Radcliffe is a collector of men with extraordinary skills. If he doesn’t know the kind of man you need, he’ll know a man who knows a man who’ll know another man who can do it.”

  Thomas laughed. “What exactly is Radcliffe’s job?”

  “Making life interesting for the rest of us,” Ashendon said dryly. “And don’t you think it’s time you called me Cal?”

  “Cal?”

  “It’s what family and friends call me, Thomas. You’re family now.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since you put my sister before your heart’s desire.”

  “Your sister is my heart’s desire.”

  “I suspected as much.”

  And why could he say such a thing to Rose’s brother when he hadn’t yet said it to her? Had the terror he’d experienced at the prospect of losing her shaken his reluctance to speak the words loose?

  A little uncomfortable at the intimate direction the conversation had strayed into, they each stared out of their respective windows. After a while Thomas said, “Any sign of the swine who shot her?”

  “No. Nor any progress on the investigation into the marzipan poisoning.”

  “I’ve been giving some thought as to who this mysterious enemy might be, and I’ve come to the conclusion that, aside from some random madman, it must be either the duke or Cousin Cornelius; the duke in revenge for us ruining his wedding plans, in which case it’s not clear whether the intended target is Rose or me. I suspect either would satisfy him. Cousin Cornelius’s motive is both more obvious and more likely. He wants me dead so that he can return to being the Earl of Brierdon.”

  “Your reasoning is sound. Of the two suspects, my money’s on Cornelius.” Cal leaned forward. “So, do you have a plan?”

  Thomas grimaced. “Not exactly. But I’m not going to stay in London, waiting for whoever it is to try again. As soon as Rose is able to travel comfortably I’m taking her to the country. In London every second person is a stranger, and there’s no telling who they might be or what their intentions are. In the country, everyone knows each other and any stranger will stand out.”

  Cal considered it, then nodded. “A reasonable strategy. You’re welcome to stay at Ashendon Hall.”

  “I thought we’d go to Brierdon Court.”

  “Why there?”

  “I grew up there and I think I’ll be welcomed as the earl. Rose has never been to Brierdon, so nobody there could bear her any ill will. And it’s to be our future home. Now that Wilmott is taking on the rescue of my men, I need to think about becoming the Earl of Brierdon.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Once she’d turned the corner, Rose’s recovery was rapid. The doctor insisted on a week at least of bed rest, lest she reopen her wound, and it was driving her mad. But everyone was so attentive, so kind, she could not complain. Every day flowers and fruit and books and notes arrived from well-wishers.

  She and Thomas had decided to remain at Ashendon House for the duration of Rose’s convalescence because of the constantly available company there. Lily came every morning and spent most of the day with her, talking and sewing. George kept her entertained with scurrilous tales of the various callers who ostensibly came to inquire after Rose but were really there to nose out gossip and to meet the new earl.

  Finn came too, of course, padding across to place his big muzzle on the bed and eye her lugubriously, silently pointing out that people might be injured but dogs still needed to be scratched behind their ears.

  They played cards with her, did puzzles with her, read to her, sang to her, and in general could not have been sweeter. But Rose wasn’t used to enforced inactivity, and she was finding it very frustrating.

  “Take me out in the carriage, please, Thomas,” she begged him one morning, when the rest of her family went for their usual ride. “If I can’t ride, at least I can watch them and get some fresh air.”

  But he and Cal considered it still too dangerous. “We don’t know if that fellow is still out there, lurking. And until we know who he is, and who he’s after—you or me—we’re not going to risk it.”

  She pouted. “But if you knew for certain it was you this horrid man was after, you’d go out riding, wouldn’t you? It would be perfectly all right then, because you’d claim you were setting a trap for him. But you can’t possibly use me as bait—oh, no—because it’s too dangerous.”

  He refused to comment on that, mainly because she was one hundred percent right. He didn’t mind risking his own neck but he was damned if he’d risk hers.

  The day he met Radcliffe and Wilmott was a day they both celebrated. “So you won’t be going to horrid Barbary after all?”

  “No, I’m staying here with you, always.”

  “I’m so glad we’re not going to that place. It really would have been dangerous, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes. But I wouldn’t have let you come with me, you know.”

  “Oh, and how do you think you could stop me?”

  So in the spirit of full disclosure, he confessed his plan.

  She bridled. “You were going to lock me in that horrid little cellar?”

  “Not for long—don’t look so horrified—just until my ship had sailed. Your brother promised to come along in good time to let you out.”

  “Cal knew about this?” she said wrathfully.

  He made a placatory gesture. “I needed someone reliable to let you out. And it’s not horrid, I had it cleaned out especially, not a cobweb or spider left. I put in a comfortable chair, and even provided you with some food and drink. And a chamber pot.”

  “A chamber pot?” she repeated unsteadily. “Thomas, that’s outrageous! Ludicrous! Absurd!”

  “What’s absurd about a chamber pot? Very useful things. You’d have been mighty put out if you’d found yourself caught short in there without one.”

  “No, I meant your plan to imprison me in the cellar. How iniquitous! How diabolical!” She darted him a mischievous glance. “How coincidental.”

  He frowned. “Coincidental?”

  She giggled. “I told Briggs to mop out the cellar and put in a comfortable chair and table and a little rug. I was planning to ask you to fetch me some wine just before we were due to leave, and then keep you there for hours, until your ship had well and truly sailed. But”—peals of laughter spilled from her—“I didn’t even think of a chamber pot.”

  * * *

  * * *

  A week after the attack on Rose the doctor inspected her wound, pronounced it to be healing beautifully and said she could get up the following day and walk around a little, but told her to keep her movements gentle and undemanding. “Definitely no riding for at least another week, probably two,” he said when Rose asked him when she could ride out again.

  But Rose had been sleeping badly, partly because she could only lie on her side or her stomach and partly because she kept waking up with dreams of being shot again. Thomas knew what it was to live with nightmares; he still had them, though not as frequently as before—and now that he came to think of it, none at all since he’d sent Wilmott off.

  But once nightmares became a regular thing, it got so that you didn’t want to go to sleep at all, for fear of what the night might bring. He didn’t w
ant that for Rose. And he thought he had a solution.

  After the visit, Thomas drew the doctor aside for a private consultation. He asked his question in a low voice.

  The doctor’s eyebrows shot up. “You what?”

  Thomas explained.

  “Bless my soul! Young people, eh?” He removed his spectacles, polished them and eyed Thomas thoughtfully. “I would leave it a few more days yet, but after that, as long as you’re not too, ahem, vigorous, I don’t see why not.” He gave Thomas a stern look. “But the moment there’s even the slightest twinge, you stop, young man, understand?”

  Thomas was well satisfied with the answer, and he hoped Rose would be too.

  Three nights later, he put his plan into action. They’d been sharing the bed ever since Rose’s fever had broken, but it was all very chaste and . . . frustrating.

  They were preparing for bed, or rather he was. Rose had attendants to prepare her for bed, after which the maids departed and Thomas entered the bedchamber.

  Rose spent most days in a loose morning gown with a kind of light wrapper over it to protect her dressed wound. But for bed, in case she accidentally rolled over and rubbed the dressing off, Emm’s maidservant wrapped a bandage firmly around her upper body, which effectively bound her breasts almost flat, and then slipped a warm flannel nightgown over her.

  Thomas removed his coat and waistcoat, hung them up, then pulled his shirt off over his head. He folded it neatly.

  Rose sat on the bed watching him. Lord, but she loved looking at him, so lean and tough and hard with those powerful bronzed shoulders and arms, and that firm, flat chest. A purely masculine kind of beauty, leashed power, toughness and grace.

  “People who think that only women can be beautiful are stupid. Men are beautiful. You are beautiful.”

  He looked at her a little askance, as if he didn’t believe her. “If it weren’t for the scars, you mean.”

  “Even with the scars. What was done to you was ugly, but you are not the slightest bit ugly. Far from it.” Though she would never say it to him, in her eyes the scars only added to his masculinity.