“Ah, ah! Such language,” he reprimanded with a back-and-forth wag of one finger. “One loathes to employ such measures as conscripting boys, but the war must be waged, after all.”
Yes, appalling as it might be, she knew, such innocents were used as fodder and decoys: boys too young and too afraid to know how to protect themselves from English guns and bayonets. She’d even heard rumors that such children were preyed upon by their fellow troops, exploited because of their weakness and vulnerability, robbed of food, clothing—and worse.
“As for your papa,” Vacheau continued in a matter-of-fact voice, “I am surprised they haven’t sent him to prison for his continued incompetence. Even now, he refuses to aid us, claiming he is unable to comprehend this code of Byron’s. But I think he comprehends far more than he says, and were it not for the few friends he has left in the government, he would be made to put that brain of his to better use.”
“He is an old man and not able to work the way he used to,” she defended, in spite of knowing that her father was as clear-minded as ever when it came to his mathematical endeavors.
Still, while it was true that her father had no great love for the Emperor or his war, she felt sure he would have replicated Lord Drake’s work by now if he could. Given the threats and hardships their family had endured over the past couple of years, he would have done nearly anything to see her and her brothers freed from the schemes and coercions of vile cochons like Raoul Vacheau.
It was the only time she’d ever lied to her father, knowing he would be adamantly opposed to her coming to England to steal the cipher. But she’d been unable to see any other way out of their dilemma. If she didn’t comply, Luc and Julien would be sent to fight and likely die on some forlorn battlefield, while their father would be thrown into prison. A long bout with pneumonia last winter had already weakened his lungs, and she knew incarceration would be tantamount to a death sentence.
And so she’d concocted a story about a sick cousin in Paris who desperately needed her aid. She’d worried her father would see through her ruse, but worn down with lingering grief over her mother’s death and the stresses of the war, he’d accepted her tale with few questions asked. Her brothers had taken a bit more convincing, particularly Julien, who understood far more than he ought for a boy of twelve, but in the end they’d accepted her story and waved her on her way with promises to return as soon as may be.
As for herself . . . well, she didn’t want to imagine what men like Vacheau might do to her should she find herself alone in the world. Prison, she suspected, would be far preferable to the degradation they had in store.
She couldn’t suppress a shudder at the idea.
“You wouldn’t want your papa sent away, now would you?” Vacheau taunted softly. “Or your dear petits frères either.”
“No,” she whispered in a strangled tone. Forcing her chin high, she met his soulless black gaze. “Are we finished now? I will be missed for certain if I delay much longer.”
Displaying his teeth in a cruel smile, he gestured with an arm toward the entrance to the alleyway. “You are right, you ought to run along. Don’t forget. One month and no more.”
One month.
So little time to save everything she held dear.
She walked back the way she’d come, willing herself not to break into a run for fear she might fall and draw Vacheau’s mocking laughter. At the edge of the lane, she paused and glanced back, expecting him still to be watching. But he was gone, vanished like the wisps of smoke that curled from the coal fires used all over the city. Even so, she knew she had not escaped his notice. She wondered if she ever would again?
Emerging into the sunlight and crowds of milling passersby, she breathed more easily. She walked several feet and turned a corner, stopping in front of a stall filled with a selection of fresh blooms. She lifted a bouquet of violets to her nose, relishing their supple petals and sweet fragrance.
“There ye are,” Jem declared, appearing suddenly beside her.
Sebastianne jumped and nearly dropped the flowers. “Jem, I didn’t see you.”
“Did I startle ye? It’s right sorry I am, missus. Do you have everything ye need? I’ve got the cart just there.”
Glancing sideways, she noticed the dog cart, the horse who pulled it waiting with patient unconcern. “Yes, my shopping is nearly concluded.”
Forcing her mind to recollect exactly what she’d purchased before Vacheau had shown up, she told the stable hand the items, including the strawberries, that he needed to retrieve. With a nod, he hurried off, promising to find her again in five or ten minutes.
“Ye want those, miss?” the flower-seller asked, nodding at the violets she’d forgotten she still held. For a moment she hesitated, thinking to refuse and lay them back among their fellows. But after the dreadful stench of the alleyway, the innocent aroma of the purple blooms seemed exactly what she needed.
“Yes,” she said. “And I’ll take another bunch with me as well.”
Chapter 10
Drake relaxed into one of the pair of comfortable brown leather chairs in the Clybourne House study—the elegant, yet masculine room a favorite retreat for several generations of Clybourne dukes.
His brother Edward, the tenth—and current—man to hold the title, had done little to change the room since their father’s time, Drake noted. In the past few years, Edward had updated a few items of furniture, such as installing the chair in which he now sat, and replacing a worn rug from Charles II’s era with a new Aubusson carpet woven in shades of brown and blue. Otherwise, everything was basically the same—a large desk, a wall of ceiling-to-floor shelves lined with leather-bound books, and a few substantial pieces of furniture collected from different ancestors in varying epochs. The room always put Drake in mind of their father and how he’d sat behind the desk with the authority of a god—his edicts sometimes stern but more often benevolent.
There was one prominent addition, however, that Edward had hung with exquisite care above the mantel—a beautifully rendered portrait of his new duchess and their young daughter, Hannah. Mother and child sat close together on the settee in the family drawing room, their heads bent, lips smiling as if they were both privy to some secret bit of humor. But it wasn’t just humor that shone in their luminous eyes, it was happiness and the unmistakable glow of love and contentment. Their world was exactly as they wanted it, and it showed.
What must it be like to love and be loved that way? Drake mused.
He’d never given the question much consideration before, his work had always been his first—and some might say—only love. He was well aware that relationships—good ones anyway—took care and nurturing, and he couldn’t imagine a woman in the world who would put up with his erratic way of life. Nor could he think of a woman he’d want to put up with on a daily basis, imagining the never-ending list of demands and recriminations she’d likely dole out over his absentminded preoccupation and frequent need for quiet contemplation and solitude.
Only this morning, he’d awakened early and gone into his workroom, shutting himself inside while he got down as much as he could on the slate. Later, on the way to see Edward, he’d thought of a few refinements and sat in the carriage outside Clybourne House for ten minutes while he made additional notes.
As he’d finished, he’d come across the pencil sketch he’d done of Anne Greenway the other evening.
I really ought to tear the deuced thing out and give it a toss, he’d thought. But even as his fingers moved to obey, they stilled again, brushing across the page. With a sigh, he’d closed the cover and tucked the pad, drawing and all, back into his coat pocket.
“Brandy?” Edward asked, pulling Drake’s attention back to the present.
Drake’s brows drew together. “Seems a bit early, don’t you think?”
Edward stopped in front of the finely crafted satinwood cabinet where he kept
the liquor. “Considering your recent outing to the Park, I thought perhaps you could use something rather more robust.”
“Don’t remind me,” Drake groaned. “The tabbies’ tongues are wagging all over Town. If only I hadn’t decided to do the decent thing and take Miss Manning driving.”
Edward reached for the brandy, pouring shallow draughts into two snifters. “She seems a pleasant enough girl from what I’ve observed.”
“She is, but that doesn’t mean I have any interest in courting her. I did the polite thing, that’s all. You should have seen the reaction in the park, matrons’ eyes round as gibbous moons with speculation. If I’m not careful, the matchmakers and gossip dealers will have us married before the Season is out.”
“Would that be so very dreadful?” Edward asked in a quiet voice.
Drake’s jaw dropped, his chin so low it added a new crease to his neatly tied neckcloth. “Good God, not you too! I suppose Mama has been working on you. And Claire, for all I know. Why are women always after men to get married?”
“I believe they think it will make them happy,” Edward said with an amused smile.
“Well, I am happy, exactly as I am.” Drake reached out a hand. “Now give me that drink. Seems I can use it, after all.” He swallowed half in a single gulp, glad for the burning slide of the alcohol down his throat. “But look, that’s not why I came ’round here today. I have other things to discuss.”
Serious once again, Edward lowered himself into the chair opposite. “What things?”
Drake swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “I’m not certain, mind you, but I think the house is being watched.”
His brother grew still. “Your town house, you mean?”
Drake gave a nod. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have noticed, but there’s been a dustman along the street several days in a row.”
“And what makes you think he’s not what he appears?” Edward asked, before taking a slow drink from his glass.
“Have you ever seen a dustman wearing polished boots? This one’s gleam like he takes blacking to them every night. And his clothes—”
“Yes?”
“They’re shabby and worn, rather filthy actually, but they don’t look old. There’s something about the fellow’s clothes that reminds me of an actor dressed for a role, as if he’s treading the boards at Drury Lane.”
“Hmm? Well, I always believe in abiding by one’s instincts,” Edward mused aloud. “If your hackles are up, then you ought to pay attention.”
Drake met his brother’s astute blue gaze. “Precisely the reason I decided to mention it to you. I thought perhaps you could put a man or two on surveillance.”
“I know just the ones.” Edward agreed. “Consider it done.”
Drake cradled his brandy glass inside his palm and gave the alcohol another slow swirl. “Can’t say I like the idea of men watching the house, even if they’re your men. Then again, there is the cipher to protect.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to move the original here to Clybourne House, or even to Braebourne? The French would never manage to get their hands on it there.”
“They haven’t gotten their hands on it in Audley Street, nor will they,” Drake countered before giving a resolute shake of his head. “No, it’s secure enough where it is. They may be watching the house, but they’ll never get into my safe.”
I’d be able to get into that safe if I could only figure out a way to secure the key. But how, when Lord Drake wears the deuced thing around his neck! Sebastianne suppressed a grumble of frustration as she leaned back in the chair in her office, the list of accounts she was supposed to be reconciling forgotten beneath her unmoving quill pen.
Nearly a week had elapsed since her troubling meeting with Vacheau, yet she was no closer to a solution than she had been that morning at the market. After all, she couldn’t very well walk up to Lord Drake and ask if she could borrow the key. And trying to steal it from him while he was sleeping—tempting as that notion might be—was nothing short of absurd. Even if he was an unusually heavy sleeper—which she doubted—she was sure he would wake up if she tried to slip the key from around his neck one night.
Of course, if all she cared about was stealing the key, she supposed she could knock him out with some heavy object, take the cipher, and run. But as much as she needed that key and the code, she would no more resort to violence against Lord Drake than she would against one of her brothers. In truth, Vacheau’s threats against Lord Drake had shaken her, leaving her dreams plagued with nightmares in which he was set upon and left beaten and bleeding and worse.
On more than one occasion, she’d awakened trembling and afraid, gasping into the warm summer darkness as she came awake only to find herself alone in her attic room in the town house, the sheets tangled around her. Yet in spite of the lies and thievery she was sworn to commit, it would be best for everyone, particularly Lord Drake, if she found a way to infiltrate his safe, copy the cipher, and leave. Only then would he and his household be safe. Only then might she rest easy knowing she’d kept Vacheau from their door.
But she could do none of these things, not without that key!
Tapping her quill absently against the ledger again, she racked her brain for a solution.
She was still deep in thought some while later when a light knock sounded at her door. Glancing up, she straightened in her chair and carefully laid down her pen. “Come,” she called.
The door opened, and Polk, the scullery maid, stepped inside. She halted less than a foot inside the room, her work-roughened hands twisted into her apron. Her cheeks were usually fair and florid, but today they were as pale as the chalk in Lord Drake’s workroom. “S-sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” the girl said in quiet tones, “but I’m feeling ever so peaked. Mrs. Tremble said what I could come and ask ye fer a cure.”
Sebastianne rose quickly to her feet. “Well, of course. Come and sit—” She gestured toward a very comfortable, upholstered armchair set at an angle near the empty fireplace grate. “You truly do look most unwell.”
“I c-couldn’t sit there, ma’am,” the girl protested at the suggestion. “It’s much too fancy fer me.”
Sebastianne made a tsking sound beneath her breath and came forward to lead the maid toward the chair. “Don’t be silly. Of course you must sit. Now tell me what ails you?”
A tear leaked down Polk’s plump young cheek as she sank against the cushions. “It’s me head. Hurts something fierce. I gets like this sometimes, but I never know when or why they come on.”
“Megrims. My Maman—I mean, Mama—used to have them,” she said, hoping the girl was too unwell to have caught her unintentional slip. “I know how dreadfully she always felt,” Sebastianne hurried on. “Would you like some laudanum?”
“Oh no,” the maid refused. “I can’t take it ’cause it always turns me sick and gives me the heaves. I were wondering . . . that is . . . Mrs. Beatty used to stir up a powder that puts me straight to sleep. Do you think you could give me something like that?”
“A sleeping draught?” Pausing, she cast her mind over the array of recipes and remedies she’d learned while studying to be a housekeeper. A good housekeeper, after all, was knowledgeable about more than the preparation of foodstuffs and cleaning aids, she could also concoct cosmetics, perfumes, and a wide variety of medicaments designed to alleviate a broad host of ailments.
“Yes,” she told the young maid, “I believe I know something that should help the pain and allow you to rest. You go on upstairs to your room, and I’ll send someone along with the remedy shortly.”
On a tremulous sigh, the girl stood and walked slowly into the hall, then up the staircase, clutching tightly to the railing as she went.
Sebastianne, her mind already filled with potential ingredients, made her way to the stillroom. Once there, she inspected the various bottles and canisters that contain
ed herbs, roots, tinctures and extracts. After a long minute’s thought, she decided on white willow bark, feverfew and linden for the pain with valerian, passionflower and a pinch of catnip added to aid with sleep.
Putting the herbs into a pestle, she began preparing a compound that could be steeped into a tea. She was applying her strength to grinding when the answer to the problem of the key abruptly appeared.
A sleeping draught! Of course, why didn’t I think of that earlier?
Difficulties would still remain, she knew, since she would have to enlist the help of a far-more-skilled herbalist than herself. She had neither the expertise nor the assortment of ingredients required to fashion a sleeping serum strong enough to knock out a man as large and vital as Lord Drake. The herbalist would need to take particular care as well that their formula caused no lasting harm nor resulted in deleterious aftereffects.
Locating such a person would doubtless take some time and effort, but surely in a city as vast as London, a reliable chemist could be found. Loath though she was even to think of resorting to such means, she would contact Vacheau if need be. Before she’d come to Lord Drake’s residence, she’d been provided a communications point where she could leave a message. So far, she hadn’t used it and wouldn’t unless she had no other choice. For now, however, she would see what she could come up with on her own.
With a plan finally in place, she made herself focus on completing the headache powder for Polk. Rolling it into a small square of brown paper, she went to the kitchen to turn it into tea.
Chapter 11
“His lordship will be taking dinner at home tonight,” Waxman informed the staff as the valet strolled into the kitchen several afternoons later. “Lord Drake informed me that he is embarking on an important new experiment and prefers not to be unduly disturbed.”
At the news, Sebastianne’s fingers tightened against the handle of her teacup. She was seated at the small kitchen table, where she’d been having a chat with Mrs. Tremble and sampling her fresh-from-the-oven Banbury cakes. Casting down her gaze, she worked to regulate her features in case they revealed the sudden leap of nerves that made her heart pound like one of the cook’s best wooden mallets.
The Bed and the Bachelor Page 10
