He sorted through the leaves and noted some had a sandpapery texture, but he wasn’t sure what they were. With a shrug, he tore them into pieces and began mashing them with the mortar and pestle. The scent filling his nostrils brought with it a promise of spring. “Tell me about your night. Were you able to locate the man you believed organized the theft?”
“When Turner and I first arrived to watch the man’s house, we spotted him through the windows. He left about two hours later, and I had the impression he was heading for an appointment— there was something about his stride— as though he had someplace he needed to be.” Frederick removed his less injured hand from the ice water, flicked off the water, and took a sip of straight whiskey from his glass, grimacing again. “We followed him, but he must have known we were there. He lost us.”
“I thought you were taking Josephine.”
“It’s safer not to involve her. I sent her home and brought young Turner instead.”
Robert did some quick mental calculations. If Frederick and Turner had watched the man’s house for two hours before he went anywhere, he could easily be the same man Antonia had met at the soirée. “What’s his name? What does he look like?”
Frederick glanced down at his bandaged hand. “I’ve been ordered not to reveal his identity to anyone, not even you. It could put his life in danger.”
A bright spark of irritation shot through Robert, but he quashed it. After all, he shouldn’t begrudge Frederick his secrets. Robert had his own to keep and didn’t need the burden of anyone else’s. “What can you tell me?”
“Almost nothing. You’re quite good at piecing together random scraps of information and creating a coherent explanation. And too often, you’re very close to the truth. I can’t risk letting you guess who he is.”
“What of Josephine? I’m surprised she let you put her off so easily. Did you lie to her to convince her to leave?”
Frederick gave a grimace of disgust with himself. “What else could I do? The woman is altogether too tenacious.”
Robert cocked his eyebrow. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“It would appear your relationship with Josephine is deeper than you led me to believe.”
When Frederick’s gaze met Robert’s, he appeared confused. “What makes you say that?”
“You’re protecting her rather than using her.”
“I-I—”
Robert held up his hand, forestalling his brother’s explanation. “It was an observation, nothing more.”
“Hmm.” Frederick’s gaze seemed to turn inward.
“She’s right for you. You must see that. You should marry her. Commit to her.”
“And drag her into a life of espionage? A life where the revelation of Father’s crimes might topple our family without warning? I think not.” Frederick gestured toward the pestle. “You’ll need to smear the goo on a bit of flannel.”
Robert lifted the large piece of flannel from the pile of Mrs. Drummer’s supplies. “This is too big.”
“I suggest you cut it up.”
Robert checked the sack. No scissors. He crossed to his sister’s embroidery box and flipped it open.
“You’re a great one to talk about commitment. You've avoided it for years,” Frederick said, ignoring the interruption.
“What on earth are you on about? There’s no woman in my life.” Robert paused, thinking of a pair of copper eyes that had softened with desire just a short time ago, then shook himself. He refused to think of her right now.
Robert poked through the sewing box, shoving aside a lace-edged white handkerchief Emily had been embroidering. The strands of embroidery floss were in varying shades ranging from pale pink to fuchsia. Beneath it he found a variety of buttons and thimbles and— yes— scissors.
“I meant you need to commit in a broader way. Stop holding yourself aloof from entanglements. You can’t continue to remain detached from life. ‘No man is an island,’ and all that.”
“Don’t quote John Donne to me.” The sewing basket wouldn’t close, and Robert gave the contents an exasperated shove. A sharp stab of pain pierced his fingertip, and he yanked it back to see a small pin dangling from the end. He plucked it out and dropped it back in the sewing basket. A tiny bead of blood welled up on his index finger, and he yanked it away from Emily’s white handkerchief. She’d be furious if he left a stain.
“You act as though I do nothing but gad about all day, gambling and wasting my time.” He pressed his fingertip against his palm. When he examined it, the blood had ceased to flow.
“That’s not what I—”
“How dare you accuse me of lacking commitment? For years, I’ve worked to restore the money Father stole from the people he convinced to invest in his railroad scheme. With Daniel’s help, I’ve saved many from financial ruin.” Squire Winter among them. “I only wish I could move more swiftly, but earning money takes time, as does finding the best way to help.”
Frederick’s jaw dropped. “That’s what you feel obliged to address? The money? What about Father’s treason?”
“I think you and your conscience are already addressing that particular aspect.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Robert stared at him stonily. “Don’t be obtuse. You’ve dedicated your life to the Queen. You root out secrets and spies for her. Exactly the kind of secrets Father tried to hide. What do you call that if not self-sacrifice? You do it to atone for both yourself and our father. You might not admit it to me, but at least admit it to yourself.”
Frederick shot him a look of cold fury. “This isn't atonement. Think, man. Not only am I well-suited to this role, I excel at it. I relish bringing men to justice.”
“And what produced your drive and passion? A betrayal. Our father's betrayal. A betrayal so fundamental it formed the man you've become.”
“What difference does it make? I am who I am, and my passions and desires drive my decisions, just as they drive yours. So what if you’re right? So what if I serve the crown to soothe my conscience? At least I’m taking action. What of you?”
“Don’t stand in judgment of me. I already told you I’m helping the people Father stole from.”
“Ah, yes. You’re paying them back. Does that soothe your conscience?”
Robert opened his mouth to retort but paused. Instead, he said, “I’m not trying to soothe my conscience. I’m trying to right a wrong. It’s the honorable thing to do. I’m not looking for your approval. I should never have mentioned it.” He smoothed out the piece of flannel on the table and used Emily’s sewing scissors to cut a length from it.
As Frederick watched him, he sighed. “I don’t want to fight. I’m exhausted and in pain. Let’s set our argument aside. We can come back to it later.”
“Don’t we always?” The corner of Robert’s mouth twitched up.
“It’s like worrying at a sore tooth. It’s always there, and it’s always irritating— for both of us.” Their gazes met and then slid away.
Robert pulled the bowl of mashed leaves closer to him.
“You’ll need to add a bit of vinegar now. Mrs. Drummer said to use enough to moisten the leaves.”
Robert glanced at the small stoppered bottle. A smooth layer of wax coated the neck, sealing it closed. He gave the cork a swift twist, breaking the wax. The sharp, vinegary smell burst forth, and he added a few drops to the mashed leaves. The scent bit his nostrils. He’d never much liked the odor of vinegar.
“It worries me that Revnik sent men to detain you,” Frederick murmured. “He’s a threat we can’t ignore.” Frederick’s gaze became unfocused as he stared off into space.
“What do you suggest we do?”
“Confront Revnik,” Frederick said after a moment. “Remaining silent would be tantamount to admitting guilt. Send him a letter first thing in the morning and insist we meet. Make sure the missive drips with all the affronted dignity you can muster. It should throw him off our scent.”
�
�Good idea. You said ‘our scent.’ Will you be joining me?”
“Most assuredly. Revnik’s already tried to kidnap you once. We can’t simply deliver you to his doorstep. We need to arrive with a great deal of noise and commotion so he can’t make you disappear and later pretend you were never there.”
“I can arrange that. A bit of pomp and splendor should do the trick. I’ll bring a dozen or so footmen along.”
Frederick grinned. “They should provide an impressive entourage.”
Robert spread the concoction onto the piece of flannel and then held out a cotton towel to Frederick. “Dry your hands. The poultice is ready.”
Frederick took the towel gratefully. He gently pressed his fingertips against it and let the soft cloth absorb the water from his skin. Even though he handled it gingerly, he still winced.
“I’ll try to be as gentle as possible, but I’m afraid this will hurt.”
Frederick gave a terse nod, but he held his hand steady as Robert laid the bit of flannel over his burned flesh. After a moment, he seemed to relax slightly. “That helps.”
Robert began wrapping the bandage around the poultice to hold it in place. The bindings needed to be wound firmly so the poultice wouldn't fall off, yet still remain loose enough so as not to add to Frederick's pain.
He paused. Perhaps he should use that same technique with Antonia. Use a guiding hand firm enough to keep her from bolting, yet light enough she wouldn’t feel threatened by him.
Or perhaps he could simply kiss the information out of her.
Robert sighed his frustration as he tucked the end of the bandage in place so it wouldn’t unwind. He hated thinking about manipulating people. That was Frederick’s area of expertise. Robert wished he could confide in him. He could use some advice.
“We need to compose that letter to the ambassador,” Frederick said.
“If you’re still alert enough to compose something, you can dictate it to me.”
At Frederick’s nod, Robert crossed to a small writing desk and sat down to ready his writing supplies. He dipped the end of his pen in India ink, drew a line on a scrap of paper, and when he was satisfied with the flow, wrote a salutation at the top of the letter.
“Say something along the lines of ‘I insist we meet immediately to discuss the outrageous actions of your men outside the theater last night.’ Keep it brief. Perhaps throw in a threat. Something like ‘If I don’t hear from you by noon today, I’ll be forced to bring your actions to the attention of the Queen.’ That should light a fire under him.”
Robert nodded as he dipped his pen in the ink. He scribbled away, the silence broken only by the crackling of the fire and the scratching of the nib. He sat up straighter, rolled his shoulders, and handed the missive to his brother. As Frederick read it, Robert scribbled a brief note on a slip of paper.
Frederick handed it back to him. “Excellent.”
Robert waved the scrap of paper. “I’m leaving Landon instructions for it to be delivered first thing in the morning.”
Frederick nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As his brother left the room, Robert stared into the dying fire and pictured Antonia’s beguiling copper eyes in the flames.
The book. It had to be his first priority.
He felt overwhelmed by a sudden need to have her without consequence. That near-kiss haunted him. He ached to press her against him. It was as if he’d been overtaken by some animal urge.
He had to stop this. She was a traitor.
He needed to think before he took the next step. Not that there would be one. Being attracted to her didn’t mean he should do anything about it. His goal needed to be to get the book and move on.
But he wanted more from her.
He shook his head. He needed to end this strange attraction. He needed to eradicate it from himself.
Tomorrow. He’d see her tomorrow. He’d be able to put an end to this in the light of day. Night was the time for seduction. Day was for reality and responsibility.
Tomorrow morning he’d get the book and be done with her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It is my feeling that Time ripens all things; with Time all things are revealed; Time is the father of truth.
- Francois Rabelais
Robert’s carriage arrived in front of Antonia’s boardinghouse shortly past noon, and he glanced at the gray winter sky. So much for daylight bringing clarity. If the sky also had a silvery sheen to it, the color would have been nearly identical to the gown Antonia wore to last night’s Koliada ball.
He calculated how much time he’d be able to spend here before he needed to leave to meet Revnik. The man had replied to his letter, begging his pardon, assuring him there must have been a misunderstanding, and inviting him to the embassy later in the afternoon.
Robert didn’t like the delay. It smacked of deceit and provided ample time for Revnik to pursue his own agenda. But unless Robert wanted to involve the Queen, he’d have to agree to the timing of the meeting. So instead, he practiced caution. He’d entered his carriage while it was still at the stables rather than having it brought round to the front entrance. It seemed to have worked since no one had followed him, but if the Russians still intended to abduct him, that deception would only work once.
Robert stepped down from his carriage. He examined his surroundings and noted the well-maintained street. The residents obviously cared for their homes. Clusters of young mothers with children moved through the streets. For the most part, the women either pushed prams along the sidewalk or held the hands of youngsters. Their day dresses were well-made without being extravagant, and the children’s clothing was clean and fit their growing bodies as though newly made for them.
Everyone seemed to be headed toward the nearby park. How pleasant to stumble upon such a charming scene in the heart of London.
Robert strode toward the front door of Antonia’s boardinghouse, but a boy darted down the street, forcing him to take a quick step to one side to avoid being bowled over. The child barreled past Robert and an annoyed-looking woman scurried after him.
“Sorry, sir,” the youth called over his shoulder.
“Nathan. Stop this instant, young man,” his mother demanded.
Either young Nathan had faulty hearing or he knew he wouldn’t be punished, because he didn't slow his pace. A moment later, another boy, apparently spurred on by Nathan’s success, escaped from his mother and clattered down the street as well.
The two mothers murmured words of apology as they hurried past Robert.
He grinned, remembering when he and Frederick had made similar dashes to freedom as children. Of course, they’d been with their nanny rather than their mother. He glanced around, noticing that there were no uniformed nannies in evidence.
Robert knocked on the front door of Antonia’s boardinghouse and waited for someone to greet him.
He glanced at the carefully selected bouquet he carried. Every young woman of quality understood the secret language of flowers. Each blossom had its own meaning, and woe to the man who chose his bouquet carelessly, lest he offend. Choosing flowers in January made his task challenging but not impossible, thanks to the conservatory at Woolsy House. His gardeners kept the house supplied with greenery year-round. He’d finally settled on a few white carnations to signify endearment and some saffron-colored crocuses to signify mirth, but the most important flowers in the bouquet were the gardenias. Their hidden message would tell Antonia he found her lovely, but they’d also hint that he might hold a secret love for her.
An older, gray-haired woman opened the door. She clutched a newspaper in one hand and smiled brightly at first, but once her gaze focused on Robert and his bouquet, her smile transformed into a scowl.
The forbidding look reminded him of a former nanny for whom he and Frederick had developed a particularly intense dislike. One of her favorite punishments had been to send Robert to bed with no supper. Finally, when the odious woman paddled Frederick for sneaking Rob
ert a thick slice of bread with butter, both boys had decided she’d gone too far and devised a plan to drive her away. Once they’d united their efforts, she hadn’t lasted long. Nannies don’t like live mice by the dozen— especially when they find them nesting in their beds.
“Good day, madam,” Robert said as he tucked his cane under his arm and plucked a white carnation from the bouquet. “Is Miss Winter receiving callers?” He presented her the flower along with most engaging smile. This was a technique guaranteed to melt even the frostiest of hearts.
But not hers. She was immune to him— or perhaps she simply had no heart.
“I doubt she’s awake,” the harridan said. “And she’s not permitted to have callers in her room.”
“Of course not,” he said as he slid the rejected flower back in the bouquet. “But couldn’t she greet me in your drawing room?” He drew a calling card from his pocket.
“I think not.”
The woman baffled him. “Then how can she receive me?”
“She can’t.”
“Are you saying that you refuse to tell Miss Winter I’m here?” He raised his eyebrows.
The woman’s lips thinned to the point of disappearing altogether. She glanced down at the folded newspaper she held and let out a deep sigh of annoyance. “Fine, then.” She eyed the bouquet. “Those are for her?”
Robert nodded.
“Wait outside and I’ll deliver your card.” She held her hand out and Robert passed her his plain white calling card. She took it from his hand, grabbed the bouquet, and closed the front door in his face.
Robert Woolsy, Earl of Wentworth, stared at the door in amazement. He’d never before experienced having one shut in his face.
He didn’t much like it.
Not only that, but that wretched woman had foiled his plan to watch Antonia’s reaction when she first saw his bouquet.
He snatched his cane from under his arm, clutching it tightly in his fist. He paced in front of the boardinghouse for a while, earning a number of odd looks from the neighborhood matrons. The street didn’t look pleasant and inviting anymore. Instead it looked rigid and unwelcoming. How would he seduce Antonia into helping him recover the book if her landlady refused to allow him to speak to her?
Once Upon a Spy: A Secrets and Seduction Book Page 12
