by Karen Ranney
She hadn’t expected that.
“Did you?”
He nodded. “At the War Office.”
She frowned at him. “That isn’t unusual. He has several political protégés who work in the government.”
“Does he? Do you know their names?” he asked.
She knew them very well since she’d attended every event to introduce the three men to potential campaign donors. “Harry Taylor, Roger Mount, and James Parker. Those are the ones he’s working with this year.”
“Roger Mount?”
She nodded. “What were you doing at the War Office, Adam?”
“Meeting with the man who sent me to Marsley House.”
She held herself very still. For some reason it was important for her to remain calm and composed.
“I don’t understand,” she said. There, her voice didn’t sound plaintive at all.
“I’m not a majordomo, Suzanne.”
“Then why are you working at Marsley House?”
“Being at Marsley House is one of my assignments,” he said.
“One of your assignments.” She pulled her hands free.
How odd that she’d become a magpie in the past few minutes. She could only repeat what he was saying, which didn’t aid in curing her confusion.
“Yes.”
“You’re not a majordomo. But you took the position.”
“For another reason,” he said.
“Another reason? Are you telling me that you are spying for my father?”
“No.”
“Is your name really Adam Drummond?”
“Yes.”
“And Rebecca? Was she real?”
“I wouldn’t lie about her.”
“Were you really in the army?”
“Yes.”
“What other reason, Adam?”
He didn’t say anything, only stood and walked to the door leading to the garden. For a moment he remained there, staring out at the plants and flowers, his back to her.
“Would you be content to know that it was important?” he finally asked.
“No.”
He turned and came back to the table, taking a seat opposite her. This time he didn’t grab her hands. She had the feeling he was not only physically distancing himself from her but emotionally as well.
“I was spying, but not for your father. I’m a member of a group of men who work for the government,” he said. “We find and keep secrets. We protect and guard.”
“That sounds very patriotic,” she said. “And as clear as London fog.”
His smile was rueful; his glance quick and shuttered.
“The Duke of Marsley was a traitor,” he said. “My mission was to find evidence to prove it.”
She stared at him, shocked. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’ve never had a mission that was more serious, Suzanne.”
She shook her head. “My husband was a great many things, Adam—a libertine, grossly unfaithful—but no one could fault his loyalty to the army or the Crown.”
“I have it on good authority that he wasn’t all that loyal.”
“Then whoever your authority was, he’s lying to you.”
“And my own experiences, Suzanne? Are they false, too?”
She felt cold in a way that had nothing to do with the weather. “What do you mean?”
“There were rumors at Manipora that someone betrayed us. One of the reasons the rebels didn’t overpower us at first is that we commanded cannon to the east side of our barricade. They also thought we had trenches filled with explosives surrounding the entrenchment. Someone let the rebel leader know that it had been a carefully planted lie. Someone gave him the plans of the entrenchment. Someone intimately familiar with Manipora.”
“He was no traitor, Adam. George always said that his time in the army, in India, was among his favorite memories. Men who used to serve under him would visit Marsley House every month. They seemed to love him.”
“Or they were looking for financial help,” Adam said, his tone dry.
“What kind of evidence were you searching for?”
“A journal,” he said. “Specifically from his time in India.”
She stared at him, suddenly understanding. “That’s why you’re always in the library,” she said.
Her voice had taken on a sharp tone, the same one she’d used with Ella. She didn’t try to soften it or ease her words in any way. He’d betrayed her and yet he would probably never understand why.
She hadn’t opened her heart since Georgie. She hadn’t stretched out a hand to another person. Even her faint attempts with Mrs. Armbruster were just that, attempts. With Adam—Drummond—she’d revealed herself completely. She’d hidden nothing from him, and all this time he’d been as transparent as a piece of slate.
He’d lied to her.
It wasn’t disappointment she felt. No, it was more than that. Something crucial and necessary had broken inside her.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Suzanne moved her hands to her lap and clasped them together. She felt sick, but it wasn’t a physical feeling as much as a soul-deep one. No wonder he had brought her here, someplace where she was stranded, cut off from everything she knew as familiar. She couldn’t summon one of the footmen to take him away. She couldn’t ring for a maid or send for her solicitor. Instead, she was trapped here, forced to listen to his notions about George.
“I will be the first to admit that George was a horrible husband. Or at least, the kind of husband I didn’t want. But he took great pride in his duties for the army.”
“I will wager that he enjoyed putting on his pretty red uniform jacket with all its polished metals and looking like a general.”
She would not gaze up at him or in any way acknowledge that his words were unfortunately correct. Sometimes she’d caught George standing in front of his portrait in the library, his chest puffed out and his chin lifted, almost as if he were inspecting the man portrayed in his finery.
“Did your father know your husband in India?”
She nodded. “They never discussed India, at least in my presence.”
But, then, they didn’t talk about much around her. Their last argument, two nights before George’s death, had been so loud that she could hear them from the second-floor sitting room.
“Spend your money on my daughter or my grandson. Not your mistresses and bastards.”
For his part, George had hated the fact that her father didn’t have to worry about money and had enough to finance the careers of various young men who craved power.
A thought occurred to her and it was so discomfiting that she pushed it away for a moment, but it kept returning. Would George have engaged in treason if it would have profited him to do so? If the rebel leader—and she wasn’t sure exactly who Adam had been speaking about—had promised him a king’s ransom, would George have succumbed? Surely not. He was the Duke of Marsley, the tenth in a long line of distinguished men.
Unfortunately, those same men had done what they could to dissipate the family coffers.
Yet if George had engaged in treason, why would he have agreed to marry her? Or had the lure of even more money been too much to ignore?
Wasn’t it telling that she didn’t know the exact nature of George’s character despite having been married to him for six years?
Another thought occurred to her, one that was just as unsettling. She could guarantee that Adam would never have betrayed his men or his country.
“As horrible as George was, Drummond, I didn’t hate him. But I want, very much, to hate you.”
If she hadn’t been watching him so closely, she wouldn’t have seen the way his eyes changed, became flat and expressionless.
“And do you?”
His question was a whip, a cat of nine tails against her raw and bleeding emotions.
It would have been easier if she could have hated Adam instead of understanding. He wanted to be able to blame his wife’s death on someone a
nd George was an available scapegoat. She would have felt the same if it could be proved that someone was culpable for Georgie’s death.
She pounded her fist on the table, just once. Adam’s eyes widened. Good. She wanted to startle him. Let him feel just a portion of what she was experiencing right now.
“How dare you do that to me. How dare you come into Marsley House and be charming and comforting and protective? How dare you make me think certain things, Drummond. How dare you kiss me.” That last was said in a lower voice. She should have been ashamed, not him. He had only ventured to kiss her. She had allowed it. No, she had gone on to encourage it. That night in the library, she’d sought it.
“Were you the one who pushed me down the stairs? In the library, was it you?”
His face changed again, became set in stone. “You would think that of me?” Even his voice was rough.
“I wish I did,” she said, shaking her head. “I truly do.”
They were exchanging too many truths. Honesty was causing a bloodletting. During those six years with George, she’d craved an end to the lies. Why, then, was she feeling the opposite now?
Adam confused her. He had from the very beginning.
“The fool mourns an idiot.”
“What does that mean?”
“You wanted to know what I said to you that night on the roof. That’s what it was. In Gaelic.”
“So even then you were warning me about George, is that it?”
“No,” he said. “Even then I was calling you an idiot for grieving for him. Gabh mo leisgeul. I hadn’t gotten to know you.”
“Did you kiss me because it was part of your assignment?” she asked, surprised at her own daring. Was she truly brave enough to hear the truth? Wasn’t it better, though, than always wondering?
“I kissed you because I wanted to,” he said. “It wasn’t the wisest thing to do and it was definitely in violation of my assignment. You weren’t the only fool in this, Suzanne.”
“Kissing me was acting the fool?”
“Yes,” he said. “Because I wanted to do it again, constantly. Or take you to my bed and keep you there for a day or two.”
She was no longer cold. In fact, her body was becoming strangely heated. Her heart, however, felt like it was breaking. She needn’t have worried about causing any scandal. The Duchess of Marsley and her majordomo. Not true. The Duchess of Marsley and a man of mystery. Suzanne and a fraud, a liar, and a spy.
She tried, she really did, but the tears couldn’t be stopped. She hadn’t brought her reticule, either, which meant that now she had no handkerchief, nothing.
“Suzanne.”
“Go away,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“You have to. I insist upon it. I demand it.”
“How like a duchess you sound,” he said. “Quite like Marble Marsley.”
“What?” She glanced over at him to find him holding out a pristine white handkerchief.
“That’s what they called you. The staff at Marsley House. At least, they did. I haven’t heard that name for a while now.”
“Marble?” she asked, dabbing at her tears.
“As in cold, unaffected.”
“Or like a crypt,” she said. “Like the crypt at Fairhaven.”
He looked startled.
She didn’t expect the knock on the outer door.
Adam strode through the room. She followed him, just in case it was her driver asking for instructions. If it was, she’d tell him that she very much wanted to return to Marsley House. Now, please.
“I brought you some biscuits,” Mrs. Ross said, extending a tray toward Adam. “I remember how much you liked my Scotch shortbread. You said it was just like what you could find in Glasgow.”
She shot a quick look toward Suzanne. “Are you from Scotland, too?”
Suzanne shook her head.
Mrs. Ross gave her a once-over, the look not so much rude as it was comprehensive.
“You’ve been crying,” the older woman said. She glanced at Adam for confirmation, but he didn’t say anything, leaving it to Suzanne to explain as best she could.
“We have just been talking about my poor dead George,” she said. “My husband.”
“It’s sorry I am,” Mrs. Ross said. “It’s a hard thing we widows face, doing without the men we love.”
Suzanne nodded.
Mrs. Ross startled her by entering the room, reaching out, and patting Suzanne on the upper arm, a gesture of comfort and one she’d never before received. Had that been because she was a duchess? Most people were intimidated by her title. Or had she appeared cold and unaffected, like marble?
“Thank you, Mrs. Ross.”
The two of them looked at each other and nodded, a wordless communication that had nothing to do with Adam, who still stood there with a tray of biscuits, glancing from one to the other.
In the next moment, the landlady turned and left the sitting room. Adam closed the door behind her and retreated to the kitchen, placing the tray of biscuits in the middle of the circular table before going to a cupboard against the far wall. A minute later he returned with a bottle of wine that he uncorked and sat beside the biscuits.
“Mrs. Ross really does make excellent shortbread,” he said.
“It’s the middle of the afternoon,” she said. “Surely tea would be better.”
“I might not ever have you in my rooms again, Your Grace. I think it’s a momentous occasion and needs to be celebrated.”
Perhaps he was right. Besides, she’d followed rules all her life, all the ones laid down by her governesses, her father, George, plus all the ones that society decreed. On this one occasion, on this singular day, with a man who wasn’t a majordomo after all, but a hero and a spy, she would defy every convention. It was better than her tears. Or her anger. She’d drink a glass of wine and have a piece of Scottish shortbread and try to hate him.
“Why now?” she asked. “Why tell me the truth now?”
He didn’t meet her eyes, a clue she’d noticed when Adam didn’t want to answer. He also blew out a breath from time to time, as if the effort to hold back his words was too much.
She’d evidently been studying him assiduously to notice those traits. Or the fact that he could sometimes hold his face just so, as if refusing to reveal any of his thoughts or emotions.
She was content to wait for an answer as she sipped her wine. She hadn’t had any spirits since attending her father’s dinner weeks ago. At least now she wasn’t taking that hideous tonic. If she did something improvident it would be difficult to blame it on anything else other than her own wishes and wants.
He took a sip of his wine and placed the glass on the table before meeting her gaze.
“Because I thought it was possible that your father would tell you first.”
That was a surprise.
“Why did you care? Is that the only reason for your honesty, Adam? Because you thought you’d be found out?”
He looked away and she had a feeling that he wasn’t going to answer.
She sipped at her wine and waited.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Being at Marsley House was my duty,” he said.
“Do you always do your duty, Adam?”
“Yes.”
He was determined to give her the truth, even if it was harsh or difficult to hear.
She nodded and that simple gesture had the effect of disturbing him greatly. He wanted to know her thoughts, but Suzanne was like an ornate puzzle box. Brute force would not open it. Instead you needed to use a deft touch and patience.
He topped off his glass then held it aloft.
“Firinn,” he said. “To truth.”
She finally raised her own glass and clinked it with his.
Her look was directing and unflinching. He could get lost in her eyes.
Marble Marsley. He’d never considered that the staff might have been talking about her grief, and he should have. The appellation wasn’t an unkin
d one as much as one of understanding.
“To truth,” she finally said.
They each took a sip of wine.
“Why do you think George was responsible for the massacre at Manipora?” she asked.
She had mastered the art of ensuring that her voice gave nothing away. She sounded perfectly calm, entirely reasonable. If he hadn’t seen her fingers trembling, he would have thought her unmoved by the question.
“Because he was the most logical person. He met with the rebel leader twice. He knew Manipora well. He’d made foolish decisions in the past that had resulted in casualties. He might have thought that trying to end the siege was wise. Or he might have given out the information accidentally.”
“Do you think him that much of an idiot?”
“Yes,” he said, making no apologies for his bluntness.
She took another sip of her wine, then carefully placed the glass down on the table. She stared at the crystal pattern for a moment before asking, “Did you take these goblets from Marsley House?”
He sat back in his chair, his gaze not veering from her. He was beginning to understand Suzanne Hackney Whitcomb. She used words as bricks, not only to pummel her opponent, but to build a wall between her and anyone else. Insinuating that he’d stolen something was one way to anger him. Added to that was the hint that he couldn’t have afforded his own crystal goblets. Or that he was too much a member of the hoi polloi to drink his wine from a glass.
“You know I didn’t,” he finally said.
She glanced at him and then away.
“Yes. No, I mean—” She looked at him again. “No, of course you wouldn’t have. Forgive me.”
“Anything.”
She took a deep breath then released it. “It makes no sense, Adam. Let’s say you’re right and that George did have something to do with what happened at Manipora. Why would he make a record of it? Why would he write anything down? He had a secretary who was privy to everything George did. Why put a secret like that into words so Sankara could read it? Or anyone else, for that matter?”
“For the same reason that anyone writes about his triumphs and his tribulations. To be heard. To let someone else know what he did. To be praised or lauded, perhaps. To be judged in future years. I don’t know, Suzanne, but then, I don’t know why Whitcomb kept journals since he was twelve.”
