by Kim Bowman
She strode through the doors wearing a pleasant expression. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting…”
“Jenks. Robert Jenks. Of the London Metropolitan Police. Assistant Commissioner—” The grandfather clock interrupted, chiming ten o’clock. “Specialist Crimes Directorate.” He stood and brushed the front of his coat and sketched a jerky bow. “Lady Devon.”
He smelled like London: coal smoke, soggy mold, and the septic odor of the Thames permanently absorbed into his wool coat. Probably inked into his skin. A reminder that she did not miss the city. “You have come a long way.”
Anger flashed across his expression before he schooled it. “Longer, actually. A bloomin’ madcap — pardon me, your ladyship — from York to Hampshire, and finally here.”
Her heart jolted at his mention of Yorkshire, Lowdry’s county, and Hampshire, Chauncey’s seat where Eastleigh lay situated. Could be a coincidence.
She ordered tea service and invited Mr. Jenks to sit. That he didn’t decline tea and settled in the chair meant he intended to stay awhile. She tried not to sigh.
“I am eager to hear what dire matter has wrested you from the square mile jurisdiction.”
Again, a flicker of hatred in his eyes. She observed his gestures closely, scrutinizing his behavior to identify what unsettled her so deeply. Something failed to add up.
“Yes, dire indeed. If not for the corruption of county magistrates, I would be sitting in my London office, minding my own jurisdiction.”
“Lord Devon serves as county magistrate.” If Mr. Jenks meant to include her husband in his accusation of corruption, he would find himself looking at the back door sooner than he could ask for his hat.
“I refer to the magistrates I consulted regarding a missing persons case. Each was uncooperative-like, something I found queer. Incidentally, Lady Devon, until recently I had another such case open for a Miss Duncombe, who mysteriously disappeared from Eastleigh, also in Hampshire.” The beady look of his eyes reminded her of a rat. He meant to say he knew her identity, but so what?
She gave him a bored, polite smile. “As you can see, inspector, I am not missing at all. In fact, I knew where I was all along.”
There! Yes, Mr. Jenks hated her. Whatever for? Certainly they had never met.
“How may I assist you, Mr. Jenks? You mentioned a missing person.”
“Sir Bernard Vorlay, of Winchester, Hampshire.”
Bless her years of practicing bland expressions. “Hmm. Oh yes. He visited here, months ago. One of Lord Devon’s army acquaintances, I recall.”
“And where did Sir Vorlay go after his visit?”
“How would I know? I suggest asking his valet, or his staff at home.”
“But he was never seen or heard from again after his stay at Rougemont.”
She volunteered no reaction.
“Do you know why that is, my lady?”
She furrowed her brows, giving his question the absurd look it deserved. “Why, no. I haven’t the faintest idea. I was not acquainted with Sir Vorlay.”
“But what did you observe of him?”
Other than his tendency to be a bawdy, greedy, traitorous rapist? “Not much. He was one of a dozen guests.”
Jenks leaned forward and tented his fingertips under his chin, as though he found the conversation exciting. “I have reports that there was some sort of altercation. Did you witness any trouble?”
“Good heavens, no. Naturally I am aloof to the rough ways of men.”
He started to scoff then stopped himself. He reached inside his coat for a cigarillo and gestured for a light.
Sophia arched a brow and nodded at a dish on the table, indicating he should extinguish it before he even managed to light it. Chauncey always smoked, and Sophia detested the smell.
Jenks cleared his throat. “Might Lord Devon answer the question, seeing as your ladyship has little in the way of information, begging your pardon.”
Sophia cocked her head, warning him to cool his impertinence. “I regret Lord Devon is—”
“Right here,” came Wilhelm’s voice from the doorway.
Jenks startled. She turned to see Wilhelm wearing a perfectly sanguine expression despite his obvious dishabille. He looked as though he’d jumped from the back of a horse into the drawing room: windblown hair, loose collar, and a wild look in his eyes. He’d probably come straight from the stables, judging by his dusty boots.
She caught his eye. “My lord, Inspector Jenks from London wishes to inquire about Sir Vorlay, reportedly missing these many months.”
“My lord,” Jenks mumbled, and Sophia observed him trying not to appear intimidated by Wilhelm, but clearly he felt inferior. But then, most men would. Wilhelm looked like the Warrior God of Virility next to the sallow, softer Mr. Jenks.
Wilhelm hummed and folded himself into the seat across from Jenks in a deceptively casual pose. “I’m not terribly surprised to hear such news. Vorlay is the sort of man who goes looking for trouble and finds it.”
“Then you admit to altercations with the aforementioned person?”
Wilhelm scraped a thumbnail across his jaw, drawing attention to the shocking knife scar running nearly the entire length. “Did I quarrel with Vorlay? Yes, sorely, on more than one occasion. I doled out punishment for his offenses, which he would be mortified to have disclosed. I believe he would say he got much less than he deserved from me. Does that match the report his valet gave?”
Sophia stared, trying desperately to maintain her calm façade. Wilhelm appeared cool and untroubled, a little cocksure, even. She noted his particular use of the present tense.
Jenks sputtered a mouthful of tea into his napkin. Disgusting. “You — you… admit to foul play?”
Wilhelm laughed, an odd sound, given the situation. “Foul play? Of course not. Ask a dozen of Vorlay’s acquaintances, and you will find a dozen men who wish him ill. Unfortunately he is that sort of man. When he turns up at some rat-infested opium den in the East End, you can ask him yourself.”
Jenks scowled, seemingly chastised to silence.
Wilhelm rested his arms on his knees, a picture of leisure. “Tell me, Mr. Jenks, who sent you here?”
Jenks stuttered on about the commissioner and magistrates, and Wilhelm silenced him with his palm thrust forward. “No. Who really sent you, Jenks? You seem like a fairly good sort, one who might act outside his mandate should something valuable be held over his head. What is it? An indiscretion? Property? Not a child, I hope?”
At his words, Jenks turned ghostly pale and clambered out of the seat. “I—I must be going. Good d-day, my lord. Lady Devon.” He practically ran from the room, and Sophia heard Martin remind Jenks to take his hat and cloak.
“I thought he would never leave,” Wilhelm complained, pouring himself two fingers from the brandy bottle on the table.
“So gallantly you spin falsehoods,” she whispered.
“Recall my words. I spoke nothing false. In fact, I disclosed a shocking portion of the truth.” Wilhelm downed the brandy in two swallows without pausing to wait for the burn. His throat was probably made of steel, like the rest of him. “Chauncey put him up to it.”
“What? How?”
“There is no missing persons case. Poor Jenks was probably blackmailed into falsifying one. Really, it’s quite boring, how predictable these villain-types are. I half-expected Jenks to be an imposter, one of the bounty hunters. Alas, I do think he was who he said, poor sod.”
“How can you be so sure there is no case under investigation? It would seem to the world that Vorlay disappeared, and suspicious he was last seen here.”
“It has been thoroughly managed, I assure you.” Wilhelm twirled the glass and peered at her through the facets, then lowered it. “Sophie, again I must ask for your forbearance and trust. I cannot reveal all my affiliations.”
“You mean the Brotherhood of the Falcon?”
He dropped the glass. Its shattering remained the only sound for long seconds. His voic
e came low and wary. “Where did you hear that name?”
“I cannot reveal my affiliations,” she echoed, arching a brow in challenge.
“Damnation. Anne-Sophia, you must never utter those words again, understand?” He rose, pecked a kiss on her temple, then left the room.
She meant to go after him, before she noticed a small envelope on the floor, under the chair Mr. Jenks had vacated. Making certain she had no observers, Sophia retrieved and opened it. Hardly surprising to see her father’s handwriting:
Torquay railway station. Thursday. Two o’clock train to Portsmouth.
~~~~
How had she ended up on a train with Wilhelm and Fritz instead of Aunt Louisa? One moment it had seemed they’d had Wilhelm in agreement, and the next he’d turned their arguments upside down and insisted on accompanying Sophia himself. Not only had he seemed undaunted by the prospect of attending Helena Duncombe, but he’d showed genuine concern for her supposed illness.
So far the plan was a disaster.
How on earth would she get rid of him at Portsmouth? When Sophia arrived with Lord Devon and a ferocious-looking guard dog, Chauncey would assume she’d gone simpering to her husband, an act of defiance that would enrage him. She thought of Chauncey’s well-placed threats, how he’d proven he could hurt the Cavendish girls and ruin Wilhelm if Sophia failed to cooperate. Surely the best way was to placate, to feign defeat and obedience.
And Wilhelm? For all his spying and plotting, the fact remained that he was hot-tempered and vulnerable. Chauncey could not be quietly exterminated, and damned if she would let Wilhelm take the fall for her. She did agree — her father would leave them in peace over his dead body. So be it. But Wilhelm must not be the one to do it.
Lately visions had haunted her, so real in her dreams. Wilhelm, convicted of murder, swinging from a noose. She’d even begun to see details: his silver eyes glazed in dull grey, void of the fire and light she loved. His strong, scarred hands swollen stiff and tinged purple with death. She heard echoes of his piano music when she thought of his hands. Sophia stifled a sob into her palm. Make it go away.
At the noise, Wilhelm set his paper on the seat and looked at her. He lounged with his back against the wall, one foot propped on the opposite seat to counter the motion of the car jerking along the track. He watched her, awaiting an explanation.
“Just the usual pains,” she lied, pressing a hand to her abdomen. The adenomyoma hadn’t bothered her for… she paused to think, realizing it made weeks, no, nearly two months now. Not since she had miscarried the baby.
Wilhelm tucked her against his shoulder and rubbed his palm over her belly, heating her skin in a way that would have soothed her if she’d actually had the pains.
“What burdens you, love?” He brushed a fingertip from the corner of her eye over her cheekbone. She hadn’t noticed the tension there, but obviously he had. Mercy, how could she carry out her plan without her fairly supernatural husband discerning her duplicity?
A distraction. She hadn’t meant to tell him until she knew for certain, but… “Remember when you said lightning never strikes the same place twice?”
Comprehension dawned on his face immediately, but he appeared stricken with surprise. How cavalierly he’d dismissed the possibility that she might conceive after one careless night. It seemed despite her poor health, he was fertile enough for the both of them.
“Lightning, meet fate,” she mused.
He blinked, twice, then the most beatific smile spread slowly over his lips, dimples and all. His hand returned to her belly and rubbed thoughtful circles. His smile faded, and she knew he’d already begun worrying. “Are you sure?”
“Not entirely. But I think so. Where will you be in June of next year?”
Ah, she loved his crooked half-smile. “Not sitting in the House of Lords, apparently.” He held up the newspaper to block the center window as a waiter passed outside the aisle with a tray. He’d been surreptitiously observing all who walked past, both passengers and staff. Suspicious. In fact, he had been flighty since they’d left Rougemont. At Torquay he’d herded her quickly from the carriage to the railway car with her tucked under his shoulder and hidden from view. She’d assumed he was on the lookout for bounty hunters, as always.
At first she’d thought nothing of bringing Fritz along, but perhaps Wilhelm expected trouble. He’d purchased a private car. And he had pulled down the window shade even though — wait, an eastbound train should have the afternoon light behind it, so why did she see the sunset level with the window? Come to think of it, the shadows streaking across the fabric showed hills and tall forest trees, not rocky coastline.
“Wilhelm, darling… what is going on?”
He hummed absently, reading his newspaper. Upside down.
She leaned toward the window and pulled the shade aside, confirming the sight of moor land. Northern moors, by the look of them. “Wil!” She knocked his knee with her ankle to catch his attention. “I am on to you. Where are you taking me?”
He replied, “Hmm,” and now she knew he ignored her on purpose. She reached for his paper and crumpled it from the top corner down. When he finally raised his gaze to hers, she regarded him with pursed lips and raised eyebrows.
“He was at the station. I wanted him to think you took the rail to Plymouth.”
She made a noise like a miniature volcano eruption. “Wha— Chauncey, you mean? You saw him there?”
“Hmm.”
“Wilhelm Montegue!” She leaned over the aisle and gripped her hands on either side of his lapels. Fortunately for him, she’d barely resisted gripping her hands on his throat in a sudden burst of animosity mixed with panic. “Quit playing with me and explain!”
Fritz growled, confused by the quarrel.
“I kidnapped you,” Wilhelm answered carelessly.
Yes, she might want to throttle him!
He had the nerve to lower his eyes to her mouth. Slowly he raised his smoky-silver gaze to meet hers. It took a few hundred degrees of heat off the anger swirling at the top of her head and transferred it to a particular spot that had no business thrumming with such eagerness during a debate. An underhanded tactic on his part.
“I happen to know that Helena Duncombe is being held captive in Versailles. I have a double agent infiltrated among Chauncey’s henchmen for her protection. So I also happen to know she is not ill, unless you count Chauncey as a contagious disease.”
“Wil. What are you plotting? Tell me.” She smoothed her hands over his neck, and he still watched her with a lascivious invitation in his eyes. Interesting — he found her combative tendencies erotic.
“He nearly came up behind us. I bribed the porter to detain him. Then I convinced the conductor on the Plymouth-bound engine to call your name for the box car.” He reached to rub a fingertip back and forth over her bottom lip, teasing for a kiss.
She held him at bay, but then he ducked and worked his lips down her throat. “And so you hid us on another train.” She hissed though her teeth as he sucked on the sensitive skin at the base of her neck where it met her shoulder. “But that—” Her breath hitched; he tickled a nerve between her jaw and ear. “That doesn’t explain why we are heading north.”
“Lancashire to Ashton. The Tilmores will help us.”
“Tilmores? Lord Courtenay?”
“Yes.”
Oh, no. She’d been trying to remain calm, but alarm bells clanged in her head and cold water trickled through her veins. A sudden lost feeling made her tremble, competing with the numb sensation in her hands. Everything at stake, the entire plan gone up in smoke.
“Imagine my surprise when you told me you wanted to visit your poor bedridden mother. Such a heart-rending tale you gave, Sophia.” He said not a word about her deception but pulled her into his lap, gripped his fingers in her hair, and crushed his mouth to hers. He vented his anger on her lips, nipping, biting, arguing without words. Fritz poked his nose through any space he could find, whining for attention,
until Sophia ordered him to sit.
Wilhelm reached to tug the shade down over the aisle glass and leaned back against the wall, then pulled her onto his chest. Her protests flew away one by one, until the last stuck: war had just been declared, and it could not be undone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
On The Joys Of Surprising One’s In-Laws
The Tilmores were a bizarre family, and not only because Violet Villier lived openly at Ashton as Lord Courtenay’s mistress. Aside from being an unrepentant adulterer, he behaved with surprising indulgence for his children, allowing them in the drawing room with the company.
Lady Courtenay seemed perfectly tranquil about it all, caught up in local Lancashire affairs and apparently her own conquests. Off-putting at first, until Sophia accounted for the ways of the ton. It made her aware of how unfashionable she and Wilhelm must appear, an imprudent love match. Secluded in the southern end of the country, they had yet to face the scrutiny of their peers. Thankfully the Tilmores took little stock in doing so. This left Sophia free to observe them instead.
The lovely lavender-eyed young woman was Violet Villier’s daughter. Alysia Villier single-handedly maintained order in the house, with all the authority Lady Courtenay should wield but abdicated. The Tilmore children proved especially remarkable; they banded together, largely aloof of the adults in the room.
Andrew Tilmore, Lord Preston, the dazzling heir of Courtenay whom she had met at the ball, watched over his younger sister and brother with Alysia. They behaved like doting parents over the younger two. He seemed wholly unconcerned about associating himself with the daughter of his father’s mistress. In fact, after observing his subtle but tender attentions to Alysia for a while, it became apparent to Sophia that Lord and Lady Courtenay would have trouble on their hands at some point in the future.
Sophia was far too experienced to mistake such a serious look from a man for a woman; apparently romance drew no requisites in age. She learned Lord Preston would soon turn eighteen and go away to Oxford in the fall. Alysia could be no more than fifteen or sixteen. But the knowing, nearly carnal glances passing between them made even the jaded Sophia blush.
