Surrender Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Confused and uneasy, Whitley sought to make sense of the situation. This man could not have come from Charbonneau. Which meant that his cleverly worded message to his longtime acquaintance on Napoleon’s staff had fallen into the wrong hands and that could only happen if... Fright bloomed throughout his body. “Collard betrayed me,” he said dully.

  The gentleman nodded. “Collard and I have served each other’s needs well over the years,” said the stranger. “And when we met on his latest trip to Cherbourg, he mentioned you and said he thought you were up to something that might interest me. For a generous price he gave me your letter to Charbonneau.”

  Whitley had been very careful in what he had written to Charbonneau, fearful of what would happen should his letter fall into the wrong hands. On the surface his letter had simply been that of one old friend to another. Thankfully, he had written no specifics, but he had alluded to previous mutually beneficial meetings, meetings that could be construed as only references to former pleasant times and leaving the door open to another, hopefully delightful, meeting with Charbonneau.

  A surge of confidence went through him. This fellow may have read his message to Charbonneau and, while he might think that there was something in it for him, he couldn’t know anything.

  “I’m afraid that I don’t quite understand,” Whitley said. “What could my letter have to do with you? I have known Charbonneau for years. We often correspond with each other.”

  “Via a smuggler?”

  Whitley flushed. “France and Britain are at war. The normal avenues of communication are not open to me.”

  The words had hardly left Whitley’s mouth before his captor kicked him again in the face. Harder.

  As Whitley writhed and howled on the floor in pain, the man bent lower and said softly in his ear, “Do not waste my time. Tell me what is so important that you sent a seemingly innocuous letter to a member of Napoleon’s inner circle. And do not tell me again that it was merely a note to an old friend.”

  “Go to hell!” Whitley spat, scooting as fast and as far away from the other man as possible.

  “I shall no doubt do just that,” the man said, pacing beside Whitley. He kicked him again, this time in the ribs, and added, “And if you do not answer my questions, I assure you that you shall be there before me.”

  Whitley felt a rib snap and pain splintered through his chest. Breathless from pain, fear gnawed in his gut. He risked a glance at the other man and the cold glitter in those dark blue, almost black eyes terrified him, but greed overrode his fear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he cried. “I swear to you, I merely wrote to an old friend.”

  “Have it your way,” said the stranger and spent the next several minutes viciously applying his boot to any part of Whitley’s thrashing body he could reach. When he finally stopped, Whitley lay unmoving with his back to him, only a shuddering whimper now and then giving sign that he was still alive.

  “Tell me what I want to know,” said the man in the same calm tone he’d used earlier. Whitley only mewled and struggled to wiggle away. The stranger sighed.

  Removing his coat and lying it on a large boulder, he extracted a knife from his boot. He flipped Whitley over to face him. Squatting on his haunches, and with his face only inches from Whitley’s, he asked quietly, “Do you truly wish to die? Is what you have worth your life? Wouldn’t it be better to simply tell me ... and live?”

  Through his battered lips, Whitley managed, “Why should I? You’re going to kill me anyway.”

  “Not if I like what you have to tell me.”

  The man showed Whitley the slender-bladed knife he held in his hand. “I am very adept with this little instrument. I can keep you alive for hours, but before you die you will tell me, mon ami, what I want to know.” He smiled. “Of course, you could tell me now and save both of us time and pain.”

  “If I tell you, you won’t kill me?” Whitley asked eagerly.

  “I already told you I would not.”

  His body one long shriek of agony, Whitley eyed the knife. How much more of this torture could he bear? Was it worth dying for? Sickly, he realized that there was no safe way out for him. If he didn’t tell, he would die. If he told, he might live. And so he told.

  When he finished speaking, he held his breath. Would he live? Or die?

  His thoughts turned inward, the stranger remained silent for a long moment. Then rising gracefully to his feet, he said, “You are a fool. Too foolish, almost, to live.”

  When Whitley whined and shrank away from him, the man said disgustedly, “Oh, stop that. I have no intention of killing you.”

  Leaving Whitley where he lay, he turned away and, after slipping the knife into his boot, he shrugged into his coat. He looked at Whitley and said, “I suggest that you consider another continent for your retirement. I understand that there are parts of America that remind one of England.” His gaze icy, he added, “Be aware that should you cross my path again or should I hear of any further meddling in things that don’t concern you, I shall make it my business to hunt you down and slit your throat—as I should do now. Understand me?”

  Hardly daring to believe his luck, Whitley nodded vigorously.

  The stranger swung on his heel and began to walk away.

  “Wait!” called Whitley frantically, struggling against his bonds. “What about me?”

  “I’ll send Collard,” the stranger said without slowing his stride or looking back. “He’ll set you free. And Whitley: I suggest you leave this area within the hour of being set free.” He glanced back at him. “If I hear that you have not ...”

  Whitley gulped and nodded and breathed a sigh of relief when the man disappeared. Alone in the cool, dim cave, despite the agony knifing through his body, Whitley fought to escape the ropes on his hands and feet. Had the man lied? Had he left him here to die?

  The bonds held tight and, when the pain racking his body grew too great, Whitley simply lay there panting and exhausted, hoping the stranger had told the truth. He waited what seemed like hours, testing the ropes from time to time, but always ending up flopping back down flat on the rough surface of the cave, defeated. When he finally heard the sound of someone scrambling over the rocks near the entrance of the cave, he could hardly believe it.

  “Collard! Collard! Is that you? I’m in here!” he shouted.

  It was Collard and, seeing the man’s stocky form in the faint light filtering in from outside, Whitley had never been so happy to see anyone in his life. “Thank God you came,” he cried happily, forgetting that Collard had betrayed him.

  Collard said nothing. He walked up to where Whitley lay and, taking out his knife, knelt down on one knee behind him.

  Eagerly Whitley thrust his bound hands out for Collard to cut. Collard snorted, grabbed Whitley’s hair, jerked his head back, and sliced his throat as neatly as a butcher dispatches a goat.

  Whitley bleated once, twitched and lay still. When he was certain Whitley was dead, Collard stood up, carelessly wiping his blade on his pants. “I don’t care what the man said,” he muttered to himself, staring down at Whitley’s corpse. “It never pays to leave behind a witness.”

  The newlyweds heard nothing about Whitley’s disappearance until Saturday afternoon when Garrett came to call. Marcus and Isabel spent a pleasurable morning wandering through the stables and barns, Isabel pointing out the changes she wanted to make and, since he thought her ideas were excellent, Marcus nodding in agreement. They smiled and laughed often, their hands touching and their bodies brushing against the other’s as they walked. Anyone observing them could tell in an instant that they were lovers and deeply in love. When Thompson announced Garrett, Marcus was in his office trying to catch up with various estate matters and Isabel was closeted with the housekeeper, familiarizing herself with the routine of the household and discussing the few changes that having a boisterous twelve-year-old boy in residence would require. At Garrett’s entrance, Marcus threw down the sheaf of papers duly pres
ented to him that morning by his bailiff with relief and rose eagerly to his feet, hand outstretched.

  After the two men shook hands and exchanged warm greetings, they seated themselves in a pair of overstuffed chairs on the far side of the room.

  “I do apologize for barging in on you this way,” Garrett said ruefully, “but I felt it was important that you know that Whitley has apparently disappeared.”

  Marcus looked shocked. “Disappeared? What do you mean? He left the Stag Horn?”

  “I mean precisely what I said, ‘disappeared.’ Whitley rode away from the inn on his horse very late on Wednesday night and no one has seen him since. Keating admits that Whitley was foxed when he left, but not too drunk to mount his horse and ride away. Most disturbing of all, his horse was in the stall when the stable boy woke Thursday morning, but there has been no sign of Whitley since then.”

  Frowning, Marcus said, “I assume that no one has found him lying with a broken neck in a ditch somewhere?”

  Garrett shook his head. “That was the first thing Keating did Thursday afternoon when he discovered that Whitley was not in his rooms. He was certain that was exactly what they would find, but a search found nothing. No body. No signs of anything amiss all along the road for a few miles in either direction. Of course, it’s possible that whatever happened occurred some distance further, but that doesn’t seem likely. Keating was fairly certain that Whitley had been going to visit Mrs. Halley when he left and, when they did not find his body, Keating then thought to see if perhaps Whitley had remained at Mrs. Halley’s longer than expected.”

  At the mention of Mrs. Halley, both men smiled slightly.

  Mrs. Halley was an accommodating widow of an uncertain age who lived in a tidy cottage a few miles from the village. When she had moved in five years ago, there was some speculation that “widow” was an honorary title, but since she was an amiable soul with genteel manners and plied her business very discreetly, she was accepted into the village by all but the most puritanical. While Marcus had never visited the widow, it didn’t surprise him that Whitley had been a client.

  “I take it he was not there?”

  “No. Mrs. Halley said that she had not seen him since last Sunday ... when he had come to call.”

  Marcus rubbed his chin. “The horse in the stables is troublesome. Someone returned the animal.”

  “I agree.” Garrett leaned forward. “I don’t like it, Marcus. When I was at the inn last night and inquired after Whitley and learned what I did, I insisted that Keating let me see Whitley’s room. He did. The room looked like just what you would expect. His clothes, everything was still there. It looked like he had just stepped out and had every intention of returning. Keating has the wind up and I don’t blame him. Whitley had no reason to disappear and, if he was going to leave the area, why didn’t he pay his bill, pack his things, mount his horse, and ride away? His disappearance makes no sense.”

  “Unless he managed to make contact with someone who was interested in buying the memorandum,” Marcus said grimly. “It’s entirely possible that the French are now in possession of the memorandum and that Whitley is feeding the fish at the bottom of the Channel somewhere.”

  Garrett nodded. “I’d already thought of that.” He frowned. “Except the return of the horse, that bothers me. Why would someone do that? Why not just turn the animal loose? Or steal it, for that matter. I seem to recall it is a good-looking horse; any horse thief would be happy to take it.”

  “Probably because we’re not dealing with a horse thief and I can think of one good reason not to simply turn the animal loose: whoever is behind this wouldn’t want it found in the area where Whitley may have been dispatched.”

  “You think Whitley’s dead, don’t you?”

  “I feel that is his most likely fate. I can’t think of any other reason for him to disappear so mysteriously, leaving all his belongings behind. And since the horse was returned, we know that someone else was involved, because I’ll wager that it wasn’t Whitley who put the animal in the stall.”

  “You think he went to meet the buyer on Wednesday night and that they took the memorandum and killed him?”

  Marcus nodded. “That’s exactly what I think happened.”

  Glumly the two men stared at each other. “So the memorandum is probably in the hands of the French by now,” Garrett said bitterly.

  Marcus shrugged. “Probably. But until we find out what happened to Whitley we won’t know for certain.” Marcus stood up and took a turn around the room. Looking over at Garrett, he said finally, “We have to let Jack and Roxbury know.”

  “I’ve already done that. I sent off a message to Jack at first light.”

  “So until we hear from Jack or Roxbury we are at a standstill,” Marcus said. Stopping before one of the tall windows that graced the room, he stared out sightlessly at the beautiful, rolling expanse of garden that met his gaze. “It is possible that Whitley’s disappearance has nothing to do with the memorandum,” he said slowly, a moment later.

  Surprise on his face, Garrett asked, “What do you mean?”

  Marcus came back and sat down again. “One of the reasons why we never tackled Whitley directly was because we had no sure proof that he even had the memorandum. It is more than likely that a real spy, someone like that Le Renard Jack mentioned, has the memorandum. We had suspicion aplenty, and circumstances certainly put Whitley in a position to have snatched the memorandum, but all we really had were suspicion and circumstance.”

  “And,” chimed in Garrett, frowning now, “his belongings were searched by both you and Jack and neither one of you ever found anything incriminating.”

  “Which didn’t mean Whitley didn’t have the memorandum, only that we didn’t find it.” Marcus sighed. “I wish I’d followed my first instinct and beaten the truth out of the man.”

  Garrett laughed without humor. “You, too? That thought crossed my mind more than once.”

  They shared a wry smile.

  “I repeat: we still don’t know that Whitley has the memorandum and if his disappearance is connected to it.” A silence fell as they turned this thought over in their minds.

  “Do you think we’ve been chasing shadows?” Garrett asked eventually.

  Marcus grimaced. “It’s possible. Considering the sort of fellow he is, or was, there are no doubt any number of people who would not shed a tear if he died or disappeared.” Myself among them, Marcus admitted. Without question Isabel was not the only person that Whitley had attempted to extort money from over the years, nor would she have been last; was it possible someone from Whitley’s past had murdered him? Marcus liked that idea, but he was not entirely at ease with that explanation. The likelihood of Whitley having possession of the memorandum surrounding Wellesley’s planned invasion of Portugal was too important to dismiss out of hand.

  His expression troubled, Marcus stared at his gleaming boots. “If Whitley had the memorandum, where would he have kept it? As you mentioned, we’ve been through all his things and didn’t find it. And if he were going to meet a buyer for the memorandum on the night he vanished, wouldn’t he have brought it with him? And if he did, where had he hidden it so that none of us ever found it?”

  “You don’t think he left it in London, do you?”

  Marcus shook his head decisively. “No. If he had it, he brought it with him. Besides, if he had left it in London and was preparing to meet a buyer, he would have had to go get it—and we know he never left the vicinity.”

  “Maybe he just buried it in the ground somewhere,” Garrett offered dejectedly. “Or was wearing it.”

  An arrested expression on his face, Marcus considered that idea. Whitley had been wearing the locket. But thinking back to the night he’d stripped Whitley naked and tossed his clothes and boots into the fishpond, Marcus shook his head again. “That I doubt.”

  Rising to his feet, Garrett said, “I won’t keep you any longer. It appears that we shall have to await Jack and whatever events
transpire.”

  Long after Garrett left, Marcus sat in his chair, looking blindly into space. Considering only his own desires, it would be a good thing if Whitley were indeed dead. Edmund would be safe and he and Isabel could put the past firmly behind them. But if Whitley’s death was connected to that damned elusive memorandum ...

  There was still enough time, he admitted, to change the date and place for Wellesley’s invasion of the continent, but with Portugal eliminated it narrowed down for the French the most probable areas of a British landing. And that knowledge alone could cost Britain the element of surprise and the lives of countless good Englishmen.

  Isabel found him there some time later and, seeing the worried expression on his face, she shut the door behind her and walked quickly to him. “What is it?” she asked, sinking down onto the floor beside his chair, her hand resting on his knee.

  He looked at her, his heart lightened by the mere sight of her, and for just an instant, Whitley and the problems he presented vanished from his mind. He sat there simply taking pleasure in her nearness, smiling at her.

  Impatiently, Isabel shook his knee. “What is it? And stop staring at me in that idiotic fashion.”

  He laughed and pulled her up into his lap. His laughter fled, though, as he considered what to tell her. About the memorandum? No. Whitley’s disappearance? Yes. She’d hear it soon enough.

  “Garrett came to call,” he said slowly. “And apparently, our friend Whitley has disappeared.”

  Frowning, she twisted around in his lap and looked up at him. “What do you mean, ‘disappeared’?”

  Marcus quickly told her all that Garrett had related to him. The news that her nemesis had vanished didn’t seem to please her any.

  Sitting up, she said firmly, “I don’t believe it. Whitley is a snake, and while I’ve wished a million times that he’d just slither away and go back to whichever rock he crawled out from under, I can’t imagine him doing so.”

  “You don’t think someone from his past might have caught up with him and murdered him?” Marcus asked with a raised brow. “If you will remember, we haven’t ruled out murdering him ourselves.”