After the Kiss

by Karen Ranney

  Politeness prevented her from divulging her thoughts. Her former mother-in-law had been a rather demure woman of middle years. It had been difficult for Margaret to equate the retiring woman with a girl who had attracted a duke. Even her death, three years after Margaret had married Jerome, had been quietly done, almost apologetically.

  This mother-in-law, however, was proving to be quite a personage, even in Margaret’s thoughts.

  “I myself,” Robert said, “have avoided her at all possible costs. She terrified me as a child. She does so equally as an adult.”

  That information was not at all reassuring.

  Robert took his leave finally, a rather self-conscious departure. He glanced more than once at the closed door of Michael’s library, but he expressed no desire to see his friend again.

  After Robert had left, Margaret stood in the foyer, uncertain. To her left was the curving staircase. Ahead, the library.

  “Would you like a bit of spiced wine in your chamber, my lady?”

  She glanced at Smytheton. “Is he often like this?”

  The barrier between a newly made countess and a majordomo was not quite as solid as that of a woman born to the nobility. The question she asked breached that wall but, to her surprise, Smytheton answered her.

  “Only when he is involved in a cipher. Then, he is impatient with interruptions.” She understood the meaning well enough. It would not be wise to go into that room.

  “Are you certain you would not care for the spiced wine, my lady?” The barrier was back in place.

  Margaret shook her head. But instead of mounting the steps, she headed for the library. The man she had come to love so deeply had altered in the course of only a few hours. In his place was a man he had always claimed to be. Restrained, reserved, a man of logic and sensibilities.

  Cold.

  She was going to find out why.

  Michael was standing by the wall of windows when she entered the room. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it as if needing a bulwark.

  “What is it, Michael? What’s wrong?” she asked.

  His reflection in the window was of a stern faced man with watchful eyes.

  “I do not like feeling powerless,” he said finally.

  She frowned at him. “Do you?”

  “With you I do,” he admitted. “Perhaps I should be like my father and shoot out a window whenever I lose control.”

  “Yet tonight you were too restrained.”

  “A ruse,” he said dryly.

  “One that served its purpose,” she said, coming closer. “I was convinced of it. And your rudeness,” she added.

  “I apologize for that,” he said, turning to face her. “I was distracted by my thoughts.” He seemed to study her face in the faint light. “I’ve solved the code,” he said finally.

  He walked to his desk, picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to her. “It was only an accident that I was able to solve most of the code with two of the books. But then, my knowledge of the Cyrillic cipher helped, too.”

  She read the translated code once, then again, attempting to find some meaning in it.

  Captain Athir has been assured that the Navy will not interfere. Therefore, our package can proceed safely on Feb. 24 to the southern coast of France to be met by Lady C.

  “What does it mean?” she asked, glancing up at him.

  “There is an island not far from the southern coast of France. And the date would be correct.”

  “What island?”

  “Elba.”

  She stared down at the paper in her hand. “But wasn’t it on Elba that Napoleon was imprisoned?”

  “More correctly, he was awarded sovereignty over Elba when he went into exile. But someone helped him back to France. Someone with wealth and influence.”

  “Is this why you’ve been so distant tonight?”

  “No,” he said. “It was because I was trying to think of a way to protect you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because both Babby and Robert know you have the Journals and at the moment you’re the only person associated with them. Grounds enough for charges of treason.”

  She looked up at him, stunned.

  “Treason?” She stared down at the paper in her hand. “Do you believe I had anything to do with this?”

  “No, I don’t,” he said firmly. “But my word wouldn’t be enough to save you. Nor the fact that you were shot.”

  “You think someone shot at me because of the Journals?”

  He nodded. “It’s a possibility.”

  “But why?”

  “Perhaps to silence you, even to obtain the Journals.”

  “Or to prevent you from learning this secret?” She felt a frisson of fear as she realized it made sense.

  His slight smile acknowledged the truth of her words.

  She sat on the edge of his desk, suddenly feeling light headed. Normally Fate hangs on the swing of a pendulum. But never so clearly. She had never before been able to say—this is where it happened. This is where I erred. I should have turned left, or said no, or gone to the market, or chosen blue. Yet Margaret saw the moment Fate swung in her direction in perfect and unremitting clarity. The moment she’d thrown the strongbox out the window minutes before the bookshop was engulfed in flames.

  Because of those stupid books, she had brought danger to Michael and to her unborn child.

  “Penelope always said they were cursed,” she said dully, “and now I’m beginning to believe her correct.”

  “I think we’re dealing with something or someone more tangible than a curse.” He closed both books and returned them to the safe. “I can’t even ask for help from the Foreign Office, Margaret, until I am certain you will not be charged.”

  “Would they truly think I’m a traitor?’

  “Not if I can prevent it,” he said somberly. “Who else knew you had the Journals?”

  She thought back. “There was a list of men tucked into one of the volumes. I wrote to three of them,” she said, repeating their names.

  “Was your note like the one you sent Babby? Without giving many particulars?” he explained.

  She nodded. “I didn’t want to hurt my reputation,” she said, smiling ruefully. “I thought that if I sent the letters through Samuel no one would know it was me.”

  “I wonder if he’s had another visitor,” he said. “Someone who convinced him to divulge your identity?”

  “As you did?” she asked wryly. “I doubt it. Samuel is a very careful man. He must have trusted you to do so.”

  “Less trust,” he admitted, “then the fact that I purchased three bolts of cloth from him.”

  “A bribe?” she asked, smiling silently.

  He only nodded absently in response. She knew that look well. He was concentrating upon the problem, sorting out the solution in his mind.

  “It would have taken a massive effort to get Napoleon off Elba,” he said. “Jailers were bribed and a ship arranged, acts that required both power and money. Perhaps one of those men is involved.”

  “What are you going to do, Michael?”

  “I need the first Journal. There’s a chance that the first book might hold a clue to the identity of the traitor.”

  “Why three books? Wouldn’t one have sufficed?”

  “It’s a question I’ve asked myself. Less dangerous, I think, to have the information spread between three volumes. They were, no doubt, sent at different times to the recipient in England.” He glanced over at her. “Where did Jerome get them?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, thinking back to the day of the fire. “I had never seen them before.”

  She glanced at him, startled by the thought that occurred to her. “Do you think Jerome might have been involved?”

  He shrugged. “At this point, I don’t know who to suspect.”

  “We’re both in danger, aren’t we?” she asked, afraid for him. By the look on his face she knew she was right.

  “Be
careful, Michael,” she said softly.

  He enfolded her in his embrace and for long moments they remained that way, needing the closeness.

  “I will not see Babby until the morning,” he said against her hair. “I will be safe enough. And I’ll set Smytheton to guarding you,” he said, in an obvious effort to lighten their mood.

  “He will do nothing but scowl disdainfully at me,” she said, looking up as she wrapped her arms more tightly around him. She forced a smile to her face. An expression to ease his mind and hide the sudden chilling taste of fear.

  Chapter 34

  A loving embrace is important

  in the early days of a union,

  in order to eliminate anxiety.

  The Journals of Augustin X

  Michael discovered Babby at home, and was gratified to find that his friend was not entertaining, nor was he regaling some intimate friends with newly discovered gossip.

  The safest course was to ask to look at the book, giving Babby as innocuous a reason as possible, something that wouldn’t spark his curiosity. The last thing Michael wanted was Babby speculating about the Journals publicly.

  Unfortunately, his caution wasn’t necessary.

  “I’d let you borrow the book, Montraine, but I haven’t got it,” Babby said, looking crestfallen.

  “Do you sell it, Babby?”

  “Stolen, Montraine. Can you imagine? I get my library in some semblance of order finally, and the deuced thing’s stolen. I would think my life cursed if I hadn’t found the most wonderful lady love in the past months. I must recommend her to you.” He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned at Michael.

  “I’m married, Babby,” Michael said, smiling slightly. Stating it to Babby was the equivalent of sending a notice to the new Sunday Times. “And due to be a father,” Michael added.

  The news didn’t even halt Babby in mid-breath. “Do I know her, Montraine?” Babby squinted up at him.

  It was the first time Michael realized that his friend did resemble a hedgehog, albeit one with a waistcoat of bright yellow and embroidered with orange flowers.

  “You do, Babby. It’s because of you that we met at all. Margaret Esterly, if you’ll recall.”

  Babby’s eyes widened. “A plebeian marriage, Montraine?”

  “Not at all,” he said easily. “Margaret is the least common woman I know.”

  “A love match, then?”

  Michael grinned, thinking that Babby, for all his silliness, had cut to the core. “Very much so,” he said.

  “About the book, Babby?” he asked, to get his friend back on course again.

  “It was the damnedest thing, Montraine. They didn’t steal all my books, just the one. I wouldn’t have minded so much if I hadn’t just had the whole place catalogued. Don’t think I would have even discovered it missing without that new secretary of mine. Every damn volume was on the floor. Took days to put it back together. I say,” he asked, his eyes brightening, “I don’t suppose that wife of yours has any more of those books for sale? I’d offer to lend them to you at any time, of course.”

  “I’ll ask her,” he said.

  It was the easiest answer. But he had every intention of asking Margaret to give the books to the Foreign Office. It was, he reasoned, the safest place for them.

  At first Margaret thought it was Molly returning from the market. But then, it was the maid’s half day off, and it would be unusual for her to return early. She walked out of the library, where she had been reading a thoroughly wonderful novel, and stood in the foyer.

  “Michael?” His name echoed back to her from the dome. She looked up and smiled. It was a French blue-and-pewter kind of day. The sunlight streaming into the dome had a silver cast to it as if the threatening rain had dimmed the sky.

  “Smytheton?”

  She turned at a sound and her heart nearly stopped.

  A man stood there, a stranger with a face like a bag of rocks. A giant of a man with huge hands. And in one of those hands he held a pistol aimed directly at her chest.

  “Come out of the room,” he said. His voice was low, absurdly soft for a man of his size.

  She remained frozen in the doorway.

  “I’ve orders to take you somewhere,” he said, pleasantly. “If it’s necessary to shoot you first, then I will.”

  Reluctantly, Margaret moved into the foyer.

  He stepped into the library, gun still pointed at her, then took an envelope from his pocket and threw it inside the room.

  “Whose orders?” Margaret marveled that she could speak.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked toward her, pressed the barrel of the pistol against her back. She began to move where he directed her, toward the rear of the house.

  “Where are we going?” That elicited no response either.

  Where was Smytheton?

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Move along,” he said, pressing the pistol against her spine.

  Slowly, Margaret walked down the hall and into the kitchen. Smytheton lay on the floor, his head bloody.

  She ran to him, knelt at his side, but the giant grabbed her arm and pulled her out the door.

  At the back of the townhouse a carriage was waiting. The man reached past her, opened the door, and pushed her inside. She struggled, pulled away from him, but he gripped her injured shoulder so tightly with one hand that she almost fell to her knees in pain. He pulled her up, threw her roughly back into the carriage. Margaret stumbled, righted herself, and sat heavily.

  A moment later she heard the crack of a whip and the vehicle was in motion.

  It concerned her that the driver had neither bound her nor blindfolded her. She peered through the curtains as they traveled quickly west. Evidently, he didn’t fear that she would speak of this abduction. Why? Because she was not expected to return from it?

  She pressed her hand against her throbbing shoulder, leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. Where was she going, and why?

  Margaret knew her destination soon enough. They headed further west, then north, her suspicion realized with each passing landmark. They were headed toward Wickhampton, the Duke of Tarrant’s estate.

  She licked suddenly dry lips, attempted to calm the frantic beat of her heart as Michael’s words came back to her.

  It would have taken a massive effort to get Napoleon off Elba. Jailers were bribed and a ship arranged, acts that required both power and money.

  Was Tarrant the man behind Napoleon’s escape? If so, what did he want with her? She didn’t have the Journals with her, nor had the driver demanded them. Suddenly, she knew. She was only bait. And the prize? Michael.

  The carriage pulled into the gates of Wickhampton, but instead of circling in front of the main door the vehicle halted in front of one of the wings.

  The door was opened by the hulking driver once again. This time she didn’t struggle or call for help. She was no match for the man or his pistol. She simply kept silent as he retrieved a large iron key from his pocket and opened the vine-covered door at the end of the building. They climbed up a small set of steps to another door, one that opened into a corridor.

  Evidently, this wing was not often used. The late afternoon sun streamed in through the windows and created a sunny tunnel of dust-laden light. But there was no sound other than their footsteps echoing on the bare wooden floors. No servants, no clink of dishes, no chattering maids. Nothing to indicate that there was any other occupant in this part of Wickhampton.

  The burly driver still held tight to her arm and seemed to be counting the doors they passed. A moment later he opened one to reveal an empty bedchamber, the furniture adorned with dust sheets.

  He pushed her into the room, then closed and locked the door. The sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway indicated that he had left her again. To tell the duke that she was his prisoner?

  She wasn’t about to remain meekly in place and wait until the Duke of Tarrant decided her fate. She began to tear off the dust co
vers one by one, revealing two chairs, a table, and the dust laden counterpane of a fourposter bed.

  There was nothing sharp, nothing pointed. No fireplace tools.

  The windows were coated with a dulling layer of dust. The view they revealed was that of an immaculate lawn beneath a darkening sky. Not one servant or gardener in sight. She pulled at the windows, but they wouldn’t open.

  She turned away, saw the bulge beneath the counterpane, and felt a surge of triumph.

  A bed warmer. The duke’s maids were evidently not very industrious. The one who had last tidied this room might well be called lazy. Bedwarmers were normally removed in the morning, emptied of their coals or embers, and stored beneath the bed. This one had been left in place. Margaret blessed the lazy maid even as she realized what she’d found.

  Her weapon.

  Margaret’s arm was still so weak, she doubted she would be capable of more than one good swing with the bedwarmer. The one asset she had was the element of surprise.

  Standing in front of the door, Margaret practiced hefting the warmer. It was heavy even emptied of its long dead coals. If she aimed it at the middle of the door, she might be able to smash the pistol out of the driver’s grip. No, that was silly. She hadn’t the slightest idea how to fire a gun. She suspected there was a good deal more to it than simply pointing it. She’d be better off aiming for his head. She’d never coshed anyone before, had never had the idea of doing so.

  To save Michael, Margaret realized she was capable of almost anything.

  Michael took the precaution of visiting the draper before returning home. Samuel had not been contacted by anyone wishing to find Margaret. But he was all too happy to give Michael a few more bolts of cloth in honor of his marriage.

  It was full dark by the time Michael reached home, armed with congratulations from the draper and his and his wife’s best wishes to Margaret. Michael decided that he knew just the way of delivering such affectionate greetings.

  Despite the fact that his errand to Babby’s had been futile, Michael felt an almost exultant joy. An emotion not difficult to trace to its source. While he had been pleased with the tenor of his life and proud enough of his accomplishments in the past, it felt as if that man had been only a shadow of who he was now.