by Karen Ranney
He didn’t want to live that life any longer, a realization only weeks old, ever since meeting Suzanne.
She’d taught him, without words, that it was important to care about someone. To feel that his day was complete if he shared his life with her. To worry about someone else more than he did himself. He wanted to ask her thoughts, protect her from being hurt, and help her heal. He wanted to ask her opinion, share laughter with her, kiss her until they both lost the idea of time or place. He wanted to hold her when grief overwhelmed her, share his own sorrows with her and let her soothe him. He wanted the two of them to face the world together as a couple, a pair.
Yet that simple wish was a ludicrous and insane one. A dream dreamt by an idiot.
That thought kept him silent as they drove through London.
Adam had never been to Edward Hackney’s house and had not once considered that it might be only slightly smaller than Marsley House. The evidence of wealth was there not only in the Palladian architecture, but the sheer expanse of lawn that surrounded the home, protected by a tall brick wall.
The British Royal family had nothing on Hackney when it came to a palace. Adam was only surprised that Hackney hadn’t purchased a grand estate away from London so the man could hold political country house weekends.
A line of carriages was parked on the far left side of the road some distance away from the house. It took them nearly a half hour to make the approach and pull into the circular drive. Once the door was opened by a liveried footman, Adam left the carriage and helped Suzanne navigate the steps.
He didn’t know how women did it with all that material and flouncy skirt. He much preferred her naked, a comment that he might have made in another circumstance. He’d always been circumspect, but it seemed like his entire nature was changing.
“Your Grace,” the footman said. “Would you like me to send word to your father that you’ve arrived?”
“That’s not necessary,” she said. “I’m certain he knew the moment we entered the gate.” She glanced up at Adam. “My father knows everything that happens almost before it does.”
That comment concerned him. It made him wonder if Hackney knew about Roger’s actions in India. If Hackney was sponsoring Roger for Parliament, it seemed not only possible but probable that he’d been informed about everything in Roger’s past. He’d want to know about any scandal or anything embarrassing that might hamper Roger’s rise to power. Nor would Hackney want to be associated with anyone who could ultimately detrimentally affect his own reputation.
If Hackney had known about India, did that also make him a traitor?
Knowledge of a crime as well as the identity of the perpetrator should be shared with the proper authorities. The fact that Hackney hadn’t done so made him guilty, but to a lesser degree. His actions hadn’t caused the death of good soldiers and the massacre of women and children.
For that, Roger should be punished and Adam was going to make certain he was.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Suzanne was dressed in lavender, which her father had coaxed her to do. No doubt he’d think she had done so because of him. She was here, when she’d announced her intention not to attend. She was attired in a dress that was fashionable in its way and her hat, while not as large—or as outlandish as some, she noticed—had been designed by a famous London milliner. All in all, her father wouldn’t be displeased by her appearance.
On the other hand, he was bound to become apoplectic when he saw Adam with her. When he realized why they were here he would be enraged.
How very odd that she was looking forward to angering her father.
Most of her life, she’d done everything in her power to be a peacemaker. She had acceded to his most unreasonable requests. She had been conciliatory and understanding. More than once, she’d sublimated her own wishes for his. She’d married a man she hadn’t loved because he’d dictated it.
No more. Not again. Not one more time was she going to be the obedient, dutiful daughter. That behavior had garnered her nothing. Her father hadn’t been more approving. He hadn’t said anything kinder or nicer to her. Granted, her life had changed, but she couldn’t say that it had improved.
Marsley House was a colossus. It didn’t matter how many rooms it had. She could enter only one at a time. None of the objects, knickknacks, and belongings collected by the previous dukes added to her life in any way.
Nor did she care how many dresses she owned or how many hats, pairs of gloves, or shoes.
Money, possessions, and a title had never brought her joy. Only Georgie had.
If an angel appeared before her and said, “Suzanne Hackney Whitcomb, I give you a choice. All the money your father has given you, all the power and the prestige that your husband granted you, would you trade everything for the ability to see your son again? Choose.”
She would have spoken before the angel finished. She’d have given anything—any amount of possessions or trinkets or even her life—for a moment with her son. To be able to tell him how much she loved him. To be able to hold him in her arms for just a few minutes.
She blinked rapidly. Now was neither the time nor the place to lose her composure. Adam reached out his hand and grabbed hers. He was watching her with a look of concern.
People did not hold hands at London luncheons. They did not gaze into each other’s eyes the way the two of them were doing. She could tell that their behavior was eliciting curiosity and more than a few speculative glances.
What the rest of the world didn’t understand was that Adam was her lifeline right now. He added to her strength. He knew what she was feeling and realized how close she was to tears.
They entered her father’s house, a place she’d never felt that she belonged. It hadn’t been her home any more than Marsley House was hers. She held no affection for the stately architecture, the wide foyer with its stark white columns or the pink-and-gray-veined marble floor.
There were two dining rooms. One was small and accommodated a dozen diners. The other was much larger, given to occasions such as this, when thirty or more people would sit down to a meal lasting at least two hours. There, the grand mahogany table, a design her father had ordered and which had taken nearly a year to complete, would be arrayed with a king’s ransom in silver, gold, and crystal. The three chandeliers above the table would be lit despite the brightness of the day, illuminating the emerald green of the wallpaper and the curtains that mimicked the lush growth of the gardens surrounding the house.
Everyone would come away from a Hackney luncheon with praise for the food, the company, the ambiance, and their surroundings.
For now, the guests milled about the public rooms, a drawing room decorated in white and gold, and the library now open to visitors as it was never normally.
Her father was evidently attempting to make an impression on the various dignitaries in attendance.
Adam suddenly stiffened. She followed his gaze to see a man surrounded by a group of other men, some accompanied by their wives. When the crowd parted slightly, she recognized him as Roger Mount. She recalled meeting him at the last dinner party. He’d been almost obsequious to her, an annoying man she dismissed almost as soon as they’d been introduced. His wife, she remembered, was the opposite. She’d insisted on telling Suzanne who her father was and then describing her garden in excruciating detail.
Roger was shorter than Adam, a stocky man equipped with a perpetual smile. He looked entirely normal if a little self-serving but, then, she had met a great many political men who were just the same. Had he been responsible for her son and George’s death? He didn’t look evil, but did evil have an appearance? Perhaps innocuous-seeming people were the most dangerous.
She would have approached him if Adam had relinquished her hand. She glanced at him again to see him studying her.
“That isn’t wise,” he said.
She didn’t want to be particularly wise, but the chance to say that was gone when Adam squeezed her hand in warning.<
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“Daughter, you’re looking lovely.”
She glanced to her left to see her father standing there, flanked by his two secretaries, Jerome and Martin. She nodded to the men before greeting her father, turning her head slightly so that he could kiss her cheek, as was his habit.
This time he added a glare to the kiss. “Drummond.”
Adam smiled. “Hackney.”
“We need to talk. I believe you aren’t who you’re pretending to be.”
“I know exactly who he is, Father,” she said.
He stared at their joined hands. Any other time, she would’ve released Adam’s hand, but now she clung to it almost out of rebellion.
“Are you in the habit of demonstrating affection in public, Suzanne?”
“Are you in the habit of consorting with traitors, Father? Or even worse, being friends with the man who was responsible for your grandson’s death?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ask Roger Mount,” she said. “Demand that he tell you the truth, unless you already know it.”
Her father looked at Adam.
“He betrayed the East India Company, Hackney,” Adam said. “And the regiment stationed there, not to mention hundreds of women and children. He sold information about the entrenchment to the rebel leader.”
“That isn’t possible,” her father said.
“That’s what I said when I discovered that my maid was poisoning me,” Suzanne said. “On your orders.”
“I don’t understand.” The look of confusion on her father’s face was almost convincing.
“Do you deny that you gave Ella opium to give to me?”
“Of course I do. Why would I do that?” His brows drew together and his eyes narrowed. When her father was angry, the world knew it, and he was getting to that stage. Even his secretaries took a step back, ever so tactfully.
“You and I have had our differences, but you’re my daughter. I’d never do anything to harm you.”
She glanced at Adam.
“It’s entirely possible that Ella was giving you the drug to control you on her own,” he said. “The better to give her time to find the journal.”
“You two aren’t making any sense,” her father said. “Opium? Journal? Explain yourselves. Especially the part about how Mount’s a traitor. What’s your proof?”
“One of the soldiers who served under the duke in India came to see him,” Adam said. “I was attached to Manipora,” he added. “We all suspected that someone betrayed us to the rebels. He identified Roger.”
Roger was excusing himself from his coterie and beginning to walk toward them. He stopped some distance away, almost as if he sensed the tenor of the conversation about him.
“He’s responsible for hundreds of deaths at Manipora,” Adam said. “In addition, the duke confronted Mount with what he knew.”
Her father stared at Adam for a long moment. “Was he responsible for the accident?” he finally asked.
“I don’t know,” Adam said. “One thing I do know is the extent of Mount’s ambition. He didn’t give a thought to the deaths of a few hundred people. A few more wouldn’t concern him.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” her father said. “But I’m damn well going to find out.” Without another word, he started to walk toward Roger.
Chapter Fifty
Hackney approached Roger, stopping in front of the younger man. His expression must have warned Roger’s admirers. One by one they began to move back, almost as if they were afraid the encounter was going to result in violence.
There was every possibility it would.
“Did you have the duke killed?” Hackney asked.
Adam had to hand it to Hackney. What he lacked in tact he made up for in fury. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was enraged.
Everyone in earshot—which was everyone he could see—was watching.
Roger said something in response, too low for Adam to hear. He released Suzanne’s hand and made his way to the two men.
“I found the journal, Roger,” Adam said in a low voice.
Up until then Roger had ignored his approach, but the moment Adam spoke, the other man turned to him.
He’d never seen a man’s face change so quickly. It was like one side of Roger’s nature flipped to reveal another, truer self. Something in the depths of his eyes flickered. His face stilled and became almost painted on.
“There never was an informant, was there?” Adam said. “The duke himself told you what he knew. He also told you he’d recorded the truth. No wonder you’ve been looking for the journal ever since he died.” He asked another question, one that had occurred to him when he’d read the duke’s words. “And me? I was dispensable, too. You probably had plans for me after I found the journal.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
There was no way this was going to end well. If nothing else, he needed to get Roger to another room, somewhere their conversation wouldn’t be overheard. He’d spotted a former general and the Lord Mayor of London among the guests. The last thing the Silent Service needed was to have their mission or this assignment publicly known. He’d already said too much and Hackney didn’t look like he was going to keep silent.
Suzanne approached, halting when she reached Roger. “You killed my son, didn’t you? And my husband.”
“Of course I didn’t, Your Grace,” Roger said. He didn’t get a chance to explain—or prevaricate.
“You damn bastard!”
Edward Hackney pulled his fist back and struck Roger so hard that his nose became a geyser of blood. Roger stumbled, fell to his knees, and was hit again before he could right himself. Hackney looked as if he’d continue pummeling the younger man if Adam hadn’t pulled him back.
“Let me go! That bastard killed my grandson. He deserves everything he gets.”
“I agree, but now is not the time. Nor is it the place.”
Hackney was wild-eyed, his face florid, his hands still balled into fists.
There wasn’t a doubt in Adam’s mind that Hackney wanted to hit him, too. If he did, he’d be hard-pressed not to return the blow despite the man’s age. Maybe there was something in his face that indicated he wouldn’t be as easy a target as Roger, because Hackney dropped his fists.
“Is it true?” Hackney asked. For the first time, he sounded his age. “Did he kill Georgie, Suzanne?”
She went to her father and grabbed his arm. Adam saw the minute her anger fled to be replaced by sadness.
Hackney looked tired and defeated. “I didn’t know, Suzanne. I didn’t know.”
She nodded in response, patting his arm.
“You’re one of his operatives, aren’t you?” Hackney asked, glancing at Adam.
“No,” Adam said, determined to clear up that point. “I was just attached to this operation.”
He was acutely aware that he was broadcasting his role in the War Office to any interested party. He wasn’t going to say anything else.
Bending down, Adam grabbed Roger under the arm, and hauled him upright. He gestured for one of the servants and sent him after their driver. He didn’t trust Hackney’s staff, but he knew Michael. He would help Adam get Roger to the authorities.
“What are you going to do with him?” Hackney asked. “He should be bloody well shot at dawn. Or blown from cannon.”
Adam didn’t say anything, but he wanted to ask if the former East India Company director had ever seen that particular death sentence carried out. It had been a favorite of the duke’s. A man had to see it only once before deciding that he would do anything rather than view it again.
Suzanne still had his arm and was regarding her father with some concern. As well she should. Hackney’s florid face had become nearly white.
Something caught his attention, movement on the edge of the crowd that had formed around them. He turned a dazed Roger over to Michael and stepped away, ignoring the questions that followed him.
It
had been too easy.
Roger’s capture, the knowledge that he was the spy, had all been too easy. Granted, searching for the journal had been a trial, but everything else? Something wasn’t right and the feeling was only minutes old.
The man walking swiftly toward the door told Adam that his instincts were spot-on.
He began to push himself through the crowd. Just when he thought he’d lost him, Adam caught sight of Oliver sliding out the front door, heading for the iron gate.
He began to run.
Catching up to him just before he hit the street, Adam grabbed the other man’s arm and whirled him around.
“You’re the traitor. Not Roger. You.”
Oliver didn’t have Roger’s ability to smooth his face of all expression. It wasn’t difficult to see the sudden hatred in his eyes.
“But Roger knew, didn’t he?”
“He didn’t know,” Oliver said. “He didn’t know anything.”
“But he figured it out soon enough, I’ll wager. When? After the duke visited him? All his ambitions would go up in a puff of smoke if someone learned his secretary was guilty of treason. Nobody would believe that he hadn’t known, too.”
Oliver’s only response was a smirk.
Roger had cautioned him about letting his personal opinion color his judgment on this assignment, yet that’s exactly what he hoped Adam would do. He’d counted on Adam’s dislike of the duke to blind him to the truth. He depended on Adam’s thirst for some kind of justice to keep him focused.
It had almost succeeded. But for Suzanne, it might have.
Oliver didn’t fight him as Adam dragged him back to Hackney’s house. For good measure, he solicited the help of two of Hackney’s burly footmen, but Oliver didn’t struggle. He was one of those snake-like creatures who preferred operating in the shadows than being overt.
