The Bed and the Bachelor

by Tracy Anne Warren

  And to think I was worried about her when she knew precisely what she was doing. What else had she known?

  “Mr. Aggies, would you step out of the room for a moment? Tell Stowe to serve you a libation while you wait. I may have further questions.”

  “O’ course, yer lordship. And that’s right generous ’o ye about the drink. I could use a dram after the night I done ’ad.”

  Drake waited until Aggies had let himself out of the room and closed the door behind him. The instant he had, Drake sprang to his feet and crossed to the painting that concealed his safe. The chances were infinitesimal that she’d gotten inside and taken the cipher, but he had to know. Taking hold of the chain, he pulled the key from under his neckcloth and off over his head. Fitting it into the lock, he opened the safe with a gentle click.

  The cipher was kept inside a small leather sheath that he habitually kept on the right side of the interior. Removing it, the burn in his chest increasing, he untied the fastener.

  And there it was, the cipher folded and tucked away exactly as he’d left it. For a moment, he stood unblinking, wondering if Aggies had been wrong after all. Perhaps Anne—or whatever her real name might be—had met with Jones for an entirely different reason; although what that reason might be, he couldn’t fathom. Reaching in, he withdrew the page and opened it to reveal the numbers and symbols of the code, formed in his own distinctive black handwriting. He read it through, just to be sure the mathematical formula was the same, and found that it was. Puzzled but satisfied of its authenticity, he began to put the parchment away.

  And that’s when it came to him, drifting upward like a taunt, a silent slap that made his blood run hot and cold at the same time.

  The scent of violets.

  And Anne.

  Night darkness lay like a shroud over Sebastianne, the odors of sea brine, sweat and rotting fish permeating the hold of the small sailing vessel that was taking her home to France. The plan was to smuggle her in through Le Havre, since it had been deemed far too likely that the English would be suspicious of any ship making the shorter crossing to Calais.

  Weary to the bone and numb with cold, she forced herself not to think of what—or rather whom—she had left behind. Ever since she’d left the town house on Audley Street late yesterday morning with Drake’s cipher burning like a brand in her pocket, she’d been surviving on sheer nerve alone.

  Traitor, thief, betrayer had run like a litany through her brain as she’d walked to the rendezvous point in Cheapside. She hadn’t cared if Vacheau might be angry with her for not waiting until the next day to keep their scheduled appointment; she’d just wanted out. The protective house, which was not to be accessed except in an emergency, was the only way she could think of to get a message to him. But as far as she was concerned, the situation constituted an emergency. She didn’t dare remain at Drake’s town house, and who knows what might occur if she stayed in a hotel.

  As Lord Drake’s housekeeper—former housekeeper—it was unlikely, but still possible that someone might recognize her, particularly if she stayed in a reputable lodging. As for the disreputable ones, she wasn’t going to risk her personal safety to satisfy Vacheau.

  And so she’d gone to the contact house in Cheapside and sent her note.

  Just as she’d expected, Vacheau had been furious.

  “Didn’t I say I would find you tomorrow?” he’d hissed as he slid like a serpent onto the church pew beside her. “Your stupidity might have compromised us.”

  But he’d seemed well enough pleased when she’d handed him the cipher. She’d shivered at the soulless smile that had crossed his lips when he’d received his prize.

  Soon after, her heart had pounded with fear when he’d told her he believed someone had indeed followed them to the church and was watching. Fearing capture more than Vacheau, now that she’d stolen the cipher, she let him whisk her out of the church and down a series of narrow alleyways until he’d deemed it safe to stop. His concern had nothing to do with her welfare, she knew, but with the plan instead. Her arrest would have instantly alerted the War Office and made Vacheau’s work in England impossible and any chance of escape back to France extremely difficult indeed.

  Setting events in motion, he’d put her in a coach bound for Southampton, where a fishing vessel flying a Dutch flag would smuggle her into France. The transfer had gone surprisingly well although she’d been compelled to bribe the ship’s crew for a blanket and something to eat. The bread, cheese and wine she’d been given had proven plain but filling. As for the blanket, it left much to be desired, the wool moth-eaten and musty-smelling.

  She was so cold at the moment, though, she didn’t much care, huddling beneath the cover as if it were all that was keeping her from turning to ice. Listening to the chilly waters of the Channel slap rhythmically against the ship’s hull didn’t help matters either, nor did the misery that had settled upon her, thick and impenetrable as a fog.

  Ever since Drake had kissed her good-bye, she’d been unable to shake her sorrow. Her heart still beat, but some vital part of her spirit seemed to have died, snuffed out like a guttering candle. Perhaps that was the real reason she couldn’t get warm because there was nothing but ice left inside her.

  She wondered where Drake was and what he was doing. He must have returned to the town house by now, the new baby long since born. She wondered if the duchess had given birth to a boy or a girl, and realized she would likely never know. Just as she would know nothing more of Drake unless one of his mathematical exploits made its way into the newspapers or a scientific journal.

  What had he thought of her disappearance? The original plan had called for her to hand in her notice in person and depart. But she’d known Drake would ask too many questions if she suddenly announced her decision to leave, and more if she abruptly tried to end their affair.

  So she’d done the cowardly thing and left a note in her room, resigning her post. In it, she said only that she’d had a change of heart about the job and living in the city and that she had taken a new post in the countryside. In a way, it had not been a lie. She would be living in countryside, she simply hadn’t mentioned that it would be the French countryside and that her new post consisted of caring for her young brothers and elderly father.

  As for her belongings, the few things she truly cared about—a silver-backed hairbrush and comb, a bottle of violet water, and a small brooch she’d brought with her from home—had fit easily inside her reticule. As for the rest—clothes, shoes and other essentials, she’d left behind. They’d been made for her as part of the role she’d played, and she had no use for them anymore. Besides, she would never have been able to carry a portmanteau from the house without notice, or drag it around London as she was fleeing from unknown watchers.

  She wished she could have said more in her note. Told him she was sorry. Explained that she’d never meant to cause hurt to him, or any of the others for that matter.

  She’d had no choice.

  She’d done what she had to do.

  But he would care naught for that, particularly if he had any idea what she’d done. Would he realize her true intentions? Would he discover she’d taken the code from his safe?

  She’d tried to be careful, copying the cipher in precise detail before returning the original to its proper place. She didn’t believe she’d left any clues, and yet there was always room for error.

  Had she made one?

  Then again, did it matter any longer? Even if he found out that she’d taken the cipher, he could do nothing to stop its passing into French hands. It was already in their possession since she’d given it to Vacheau the day before, or at least that was what Drake would think.

  Because the truth wasn’t always what it seemed.

  Aware that Vacheau was both devious and cruel, she knew she couldn’t trust him for an instant. He’d used threats and coercion to force her in
to his scheme, promising that she and her family would be left alone once the mission succeeded. But she didn’t believe his assurances and feared he would try to double-deal her. Once she returned home, she suspected he might renege on his promises and come up with another “little job” she could do for him. After all, with the cipher in hand, what sway did she have should he and his masters decide they wanted more? She’d been used once, badly, and she had no intention of ever being used again.

  And so, unbeknownst to Vacheau, she’d given him only the first part of the formula. The other part, the section of the equation needed to unlock the code, she’d kept for herself. Of course, once Vacheau realized what she’d done, her safety and that of her family, would once again be in jeopardy. Even her life might be in danger.

  But by the time he figured it out, her part of the cipher would be hidden somewhere safe, a place Vacheau would never find and that she would die to protect. It was her insurance, her bargaining chip, which she would play in order to win her family’s freedom for good.

  And her price for a true exchange?

  No less than a letter of free passage and personal autonomy, signed and sworn by Napoleon himself. No one would dare to trouble her with the Emperor’s pledge in hand, and should matters progress so that she was again in fear for her loved ones’ safety, they would flee the country if need be.

  Go to Italy, perhaps, or Greece.

  She thought she would like that, like the heat. Maybe the Aegean’s sun-kissed shores would be enough to melt the ice that had crystallized deep in her bones and solidified around her heart.

  She wondered again what Drake was doing and if he was sorry she was gone, or if he was even now cursing her very name.

  She’d left him a bloody note of resignation!

  After once more scanning the formal statement she’d written in her neat, flowing hand, Drake crushed the foolscap into a ball and flung it toward the unlighted fireplace grate inside her third-floor bedchamber. The paper bounced away and rolled beneath the washstand.

  Stalking toward the wardrobe, he wrenched open the doors and yanked out the clothes she’d left behind, tossing them onto her neatly made bed. Shoes came next, which he chucked in a clatter onto the floor.

  Nothing.

  Crossing to the small chest where she kept nightgowns, petticoats and shifts, he rifled through them, flinging each atop her discarded gowns.

  Nothing again.

  Not so much as a receipt or a hint of anything important left behind, just her servant’s attire and the lingering fragrance of her scent.

  His jaw tightened, a muscle bulging in his cheek at the reminder of violets and the cipher she’d stolen from under his nose. She was a thief and a traitor and when he caught her—and catch her he would—he’d see to it she was tossed into the deepest, darkest gaol they could find.

  For a moment he relished the thought of her behind bars, tears streaming down her face as she told him how sorry she was, begging his forgiveness and confessing her love.

  Sinking abruptly onto the bed, he fought the shallow ache in his chest. Picking up one of her shifts, he buried his face in the thin cotton and breathed her in.

  Ah God, how could she have left me without a single word of good-bye? Of regret? Did I mean anything to her, or was I nothing more than a mark?

  Stomach twisting, he looked out the dormer window at the growing dawnlight. He hadn’t slept. How could he when she had played him so false? When she had duped him with the skill of a consummate actress, a heartless charlatan.

  Clearly, that was exactly what she was.

  He would have to tell Ned, of course, and he, in turn, the War Office. The breach was serious but not irreparable. He’d already been working on an advanced code to replace the one she’d stolen. He would have to work harder, faster to get it finished. Even so, the loss would prove costly in the short term, a setback that England and her allies could ill afford to suffer.

  No, he’d lost the cipher, and it was his responsibility to get it back, or at least do his utmost to mitigate the damage. His first duty, therefore, was to track and locate Anne Greenway.

  Assuming that was even her name.

  Bitter gall rose inside him at the realization. He thought he’d known her, thought he understood her and that she felt the same for him. To think he’d been on the verge of offering her marriage. Him, the confirmed bachelor brought to his knees. Well, thank God for her timing before he’d made a complete fool of himself, before he’d shown her exactly how vulnerable he’d become to her practiced wiles.

  So where had she gone?

  To the north, possibly to Scotland, Aggies had speculated. On her character, she’d listed her last place of employment as the Isle of Skye. Given all the lies she’d undoubtedly told, however, that was probably one as well.

  Another strong possibility was France. With the cipher her goal, it was clear she had been planted in his household by the French. Now that the code was in her possession, had they smuggled her out of the country? After all, it would be nigh impossible to find her inside the war-torn country, especially without getting caught.

  But it would be his pleasure to try, and worth every ounce of risk.

  As he turned over the options as to her possible whereabouts, a conversation he and “Anne,” for want of a better name, had had. Their words played inside his mind.

  Where does your family live?

  Ambleside, she’d answered in her lilting, musical voice. It’s a pretty place. Lush and green with deep blue lakes and rolling hills that look as if they could go on forever.

  Ambleside.

  In that unguarded moment, could she have possibly been telling the truth? Such vivid descriptions as the one she’d provided didn’t generally accompany falsehoods, particularly the sort conjured up on the spur of the moment. Had she revealed something real about herself in among all the lies and deceits she must have told?

  The journey to the Lake District was two, maybe three days, hard riding from London. It would be a good place to start, and maybe he would get lucky. If he didn’t, he would continue on to Skye and see what turned up there as well. In the meantime, Aggies and his men could continue to scout the docks and shipyards along the southern coast, hoping to find someone who’d seen a woman fitting his former housekeeper’s description.

  His lover as well.

  He was glad of a sudden that she’d insisted on keeping their affair a secret. At the time, he hadn’t cared, but now, he was relieved. He was even more relieved that he’d had no opportunity to tell his family of his plans to wed her.

  Aware of the ring that sat like a curse inside his pocket, he withdrew the box and flicked open the lid. For a long moment, he stared, studying the stone, mourning his love for her, his loss, her betrayal.

  She’d made him want things he’d never thought to want. She’d made him wish for a life with her that would last them all their days. She’d shown him the possibility of a future he’d never imagined he would ever desire.

  Then she’d left and taken his heart with her.

  But he was done wallowing in his misery. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of caring anymore. He was a logical man, and as such, knew he would recover. He just prayed it didn’t take him the rest of his life to do it.

  Staring a moment longer at the bloodred stone that now left him cold, he snapped the lid shut and closed the door on his dreams.

  Weary from the hair on the top of her head to the soles of her feet, Sebastianne trudged the last few yards to her father’s cottage near the village of Montsoreau. Her heart gave an extra beat when she rounded a bend and saw the small, greyish white stone dwelling come into view. The last rays of afternoon sun rained over the house, splintering off the small glass panes into a thousand golden starbursts of light. The aging oak front door, with its faded white paint, looked no better than when she’d left. In fact,
the house hadn’t changed at all.

  But I have, she thought, with a desolate sigh. Will I ever stop thinking about Drake? Will I ever quit missing him?

  She frowned, not liking the answer.

  But she was home at last, she told herself, and her family would welcome her with open arms. She needed their comfort now more than ever.

  She walked past rows of wild pink rosebushes, which turned the air sugary-sweet, then along the short, pebbled path. Reaching the front door, she stopped, hesitating to turn the knob.

  Should she go in and surprise them, or knock? She’d had no way of sending a message ahead to let them know of her return, so they would not be expecting her. Still, knocking on the door of her family’s home would feel odd, so she reached again and pushed it open.

  Instead of the raucous cries and vociferous greetings she expected, she encountered only silence. The wide main room that served as both kitchen and living space stood empty. The deep stone fireplace was cold, the scarred pine-trestle table bare of its usual assortment of foodstuffs and dishes. The copper pots and pans that hung from the gnarled wooden rafters above the fireplace held an even deeper patina of green than she remembered. And the bundles of fresh herbs and lavender she’d gathered just before she had left still dangled upside down along the wide, main beam, looking dusty and unused.

  Where are they? she wondered, as her stomach gave a queasy flip. Had Vacheau realized what she’d done and somehow gotten here before her? Surely that was impossible, since she’d traveled ceaselessly all the way from London four days ago. Or had one of his henchmen come for them? In England and unable to write, she had no way of knowing whether they were here or not. Perhaps Vacheau had deceived her and taken them away from the beginning.

  Stop it, she told herself, gulping against the fist-sized lump lodged inside her throat. You’re assuming the worst before you even know if you have reason.

  She would walk to the village, she decided, and see if her brothers and father were there. It was quite likely they were. And if not, the villagers knew her. They would know the truth and relate it to her, whatever it might be.