A Lady's Secret Weapon

by Tracey Devlyn

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  “How’s she holding up?”

  “As well as can be expected.” Mac stared at the stone edifice of Abbingale Home. “This scheme concerns me.”

  “What is she going to do if things aren’t what they seem?”

  “Fix it, of course.”

  Mick groaned. “She can’t put all the wrongs in London to rights.”

  A short silence followed. “Don’t be so sure,” Mac said. “She’s an extraordinary and determined woman.”

  The servant’s praise of Miss Hunt created an uncomfortable pressure in Ethan’s chest. The man’s belief in the proprietress went much deeper than a mere employment arrangement. His kind of loyalty stemmed from years of witnessing one victory after another, of following her into the bowels of hell and emerging unscathed. Of never experiencing profound disappointment. The kind of disappointment that taints one’s opinion after a single act of impulsive independence. An opinion that can’t be changed no matter how hard one tries. And tries.

  Ethan blinked back the barrage of self-pity, disgusted by his lack of focus. He cast a sidelong glance at Miss Hunt’s footmen. Their conversation stirred his troublesome curiosity. He wanted to know more about this gentleman toying with the proprietress and what business she had at Abbingale that would cause her servants concern.

  Mick caught his eye and winked. The unexpected action startled Ethan, causing his skin to flush with heat like a damned schoolgirl. He cursed and hunched shoulders.

  “How’s business today?” Mick asked, strolling forward.

  Pretending to fuss over his flower cart, Ethan turned his back on the footman. He hoped the long hairpiece and kerchief he’d secured around the crown of his head would hold up to close scrutiny. “Not so good, sir,” Ethan said in his best crone’s voice. “Best ye buy yer lady a couple posies to help out an old woman.”

  The footman stopped near the cart. Ethan felt the man’s gaze, inspecting him from head to toe.

  “You’re a big girl, aren’t you—?”

  “Gabby,” Ethan said with a huff. “So I’ve been told before. Do ye want a posy or not, sir?” He braced himself.

  “My apologies, old girl,” Mick said, his voice softer. “I didn’t mean to scrape an old wound. Do you have a pretty bunch that will put a smile on my lady’s face?”

  “They all will, sir,” Ethan scratched his oversized midsection. “Though them yellow ones ought to make her swoon.”

  “You’re sure?” Mick asked, clearly not impressed with the bundle’s drooping heads.

  “A bit of water will snap ’em right out of their wee nap.” Ethan grabbed the pathetic bunch and thrust them at the footman, careful to keep his hands hidden. “Ye have Old Gabby’s word on it.”

  “Tell me, Gabby.” Mick accepted the posy and tossed a shilling onto the cart’s bed. “Hear much about the goings-on in the boys’ home?”

  Ethan snatched up the coin, a generous sum for a half-dead bundle of flowers. The footman had much to learn about wooing information from women, or from anyone for that matter. One should never give up the coin before receiving the desired details. Otherwise, the informant has no real incentive for helping. Ethan had learned that a long look, full of promise, topped with the flash of a shiny coin was the most effective combination in intelligence gathering.

  “One hears all sorts of things,” Ethan replied.

  Another shilling clattered onto the cart. “What kinds of things?”

  Scrunching up his face, Ethan said, “Boys coming and going at all hours of the day.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Some say there’s more going on than taking care of orphans in that big old building.”

  “Any guesses as to whom or what they’re talking about?”

  Ethan narrowed his eyes. “What business does your lady have in there?”

  The footman’s gaze shifted to his brother before answering. “She’s considering making a donation. But my gut tells me you’re right about that big old building.”

  “Could be nothing but a bout of indigestion.”

  Mick grinned. “Ever come across the name of Latymer in your travels?”

  Ethan’s mind froze around the name. Could Latymer be that common? Was this nothing more than an unlikely coincidence? He didn’t think so on either account. So, what possible reason could this footman have for inquiring about Lord Latymer, the same man the Nexus were hunting?

  “Latymer?” Ethan said in his crone voice. “What’s that? A quack’s potion?”

  Chuckling, Mick said, “Not quite, Gabby, my girl.” He pulled out a card. “If the name comes up, let me know. I’ll buy a whole cart full of your posies.”

  “That important, is he?”

  “Oh, yes. Hear anything else interesting?”

  “How many more coins you got?”

  “That was my last one.”

  “Then I ain’t got nothing else.”

  Instead of being irritated by Ethan’s surly response, Mick’s eyes twinkled. “Gabby, old girl, I’ll be right over there,” he pointed to a spot near his brother, “if you think of anything else.”

  “Ye come up with some more silver, ye Irish rogue, and I’ll think about taxing my poor memory.”

  Using the wilted posies, Mick saluted Ethan-the-flower-girl and sauntered away.

  Not wanting to press his luck, Ethan grabbed the cart’s handles and set off in the opposite direction, grumbling under his breath about cheap scapegraces who were too handsome for their own good. His comments were met with a bark of laughter.

  Beneath his grousing, Ethan’s mind was aflame with possibilities. The one that surfaced again and again was the idea that Miss Hunt was one of them. One of the Nexus. Why else would she be using an assumed name and looking for Latymer? Only one person would know for certain, and Ethan refused to ask Somerton for anything at the moment. Even if he weren’t seething with rage over his loss, Ethan doubted the former chief would confirm the identity of one of his operatives. He protected them all like a lion protected his pride. And like a lion, he found it was sometimes necessary to safeguard the pride from one of their own.

  Abbingale’s front door bolted open, drawing Ethan from his extraordinary train of thought. Glancing back, he saw Miss Hunt storm through the opening and fairly run down the front steps. Her face was pale and frozen, as if a sudden movement would shatter her countenance into a thousand tiny shards.

  Dropping the cart, he took several long, swift strides in her direction. Realization slammed into him, and he jerked to a halt. The violent action jarred his bones and rattled his brain. Like a greenling agent, he’d broken cover to comfort a woman in distress. The oldest, most deadliest tool one enemy could use against another. Ethan’s straight back melted into an uncomfortable curve and he bent low, as if plucking a coin from the street.

  Straightening, his gaze sought out Miss Hunt, and he felt a measure of relief to see the proud lines of her proprietress’s mask shoving their way to the fore. What had she come across inside Abbingale to illicit such a response? He contemplated the reasons why while he ambled back to his cart, thankful the footmen had been focused on huddling their mistress into the carriage and not on the deranged flower girl barreling toward them.

  Six

  François LaRouche leaned closer to the window, absently tracing his forefinger over his lower lip while he watched Mrs. Henshaw’s footmen bundle her into a well-equipped carriage. Their actions appeared rushed, protective, as if they were guarding her from an unseen threat. Movement to his left caught his eye, drawing his attention away from the benefactress. A flower girl, one who had peddled her wares long past her prime, waddled toward her cart, glancing back at Mrs. Henshaw’s disappearing carriage several times. Interesting.

  Shuffling sounds behind reminded him of the unfinished business he left. Tu
rning back to the classroom, LaRouche studied the group of boys, touching on each of their faces and allowing the silence to lengthen. He said nothing until the air vibrated with the panicked beats of their hearts. “All but the five gifted boys may leave.” He nodded to Mrs. Drummond, and she opened the door.

  Without a word, two dozen boys stood. Backs erect, chins high, eyes forward. One by one, they filed out of the room, closing the door softly behind the last child. Their obedience pleased him.

  LaRouche glanced down at the trembling child, whose hair carried the same mahogany tint as his mother’s. He lowered his hand onto the boy’s shoulder. “You should not have done that, mon petit.”

  The boy flinched and tried to evade his touch. LaRouche shook his head with regret. The boy knew better than to defy him, they all did. He had warned the boys against such independent thought, for it led to rash action and disagreeable outcomes.

  With brutal slowness, LaRouche curled his fingers into the boy’s narrow shoulder. The child’s whimper disturbed him not at all. He continued exerting pressure until he was assured a dark reminder of his power was left behind.

  “Kindly remember what I told you when you first arrived at Abbingale,” LaRouche said, addressing the schoolroom. “As long as you do everything you are told, no harm will come to your families. That includes your silence, both within and without Abbingale.”

  He tucked his finger beneath the boy’s chin, lifting until their gazes met. “Silence includes no speaking with any part of your body, including your eyes. Understood?”

  Swallowing, the boy nodded.

  “Do you have anything to say?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  LaRouche released him, and the boy lowered his head. The small act of obeisance mollified his anger somewhat, thereby lessening the boy’s punishment… by a degree. He turned his attention one row over, to an older boy, whose countenance could only be described as tragic. Severe pockmarks scored the entire lower half of his face, whereas the upper half remained blemish free. One could detect a promise of beauty in his wide-set eyes and strong forehead, but the pockmarks and the cap of straw-straight, dull brown hair ruined his potential for handsomeness.

  “Come here,” LaRouche said.

  The older boy stood. “Yes, monsieur.”

  “Am I wrong in thinking you were the one who disciplined young Giles for trying to communicate with our guest?”

  As if the scars were not hideous enough, the boy’s face flushed a ghastly red, making the pockmarks stand out even more. “M-my apologies, monsieur. I hit him on the shoulder harder than I’d intended. I only meant to give him a good sting on the arm, not to make him cry out.”

  LaRouche curled his mouth into a conciliatory smile. “Of course, you didn’t. Join me over here, would you?” The older boy weaved his way around the desks and came to stand beside LaRouche. “What do you think we should do about young Giles defying my order?”

  The pockmarked boy fidgeted. “He could go without supper tonight, sir, and then sort and mend all the stockings tomorrow.”

  Giles did not lift his head, though LaRouche could see his terror in the tight clasp of his hands. “Yes, those punishments will do nicely, don’t you agree, Giles?” He reached toward his coat pocket and slid his fingers inside.

  Nodding, Giles said, “Yes, monsieur.”

  “Giles, look at me.”

  When the boy lifted his fearful green eyes, LaRouche said, “I have one more punishment for you, but you must be brave or you will only prolong the pain. Understood?”

  Tears welled in the boy’s eyes. “Yes.”

  LaRouche pulled the leather gloves from his pocket and slashed them across the older boy’s pocked left cheek and then his right. He repeated the action twice more before tucking the gloves away again. Their harsh breaths sliced into the shocked silence. LaRouche applauded the older boy’s control, for if he had cried out or raised his hands in defense, he would have been forced to beat the boy senseless. No one defied him. No one.

  Giles scrubbed at his wet cheeks while staring at his schoolmate with remorseful eyes.

  “Do you see what happens when you disobey me?” LaRouche asked.

  Anger replaced the boy’s remorse. “Yes, monsieur.”

  “Your tone displeases me.” LaRouche slipped his hand back into his pocket. “Do I need to bring another boy up here to discipline for your sins?”

  Panic flared in the boy’s green eyes. He shook his head and dropped his gaze. “No, Monsieur LaRouche. Please don’t punish anyone else. I’ll do as you say.”

  To the older boy, LaRouche said, “Go to Mrs. Drummond. She will tend to you.” He glanced at the other boys. Their pale faces displayed varying degrees of trepidation. The boys who had been at Abbingale for a while were familiar with LaRouche’s swift discipline. Because of this, they had learned how to school their features into impassivity. Good little soldiers.

  “Gentlemen,” LaRouche said. “Do not forget what you saw here today. It is best that no one repeat the same infraction as your schoolmate, Giles. You may return to your dormitory to clean your hands and faces before going down for your midday meal.”

  “Thank you, monsieur,” they chimed as one.

  While the boys filed out, LaRouche strode back to the window, his thoughts returning to Mrs. Henshaw and the odd circumstances surrounding her visit. During his brief conversation with the benefactress, he had detected moments of keen intelligence flowing beneath the surface of her empty-headed mien. Many young women of wealth and privilege were taught at an early age to suppress their leanings toward academia so as not to bore potential suitors. Many gentlemen welcomed such shallow creatures into their marital beds and then they found more engaging bedmates in their mistresses.

  But LaRouche had not reached his level of importance in Emperor Bonaparte’s government by ignoring small, incongruent elements. No, his attention to detail had saved the Emperor embarrassment more than once—and LaRouche had been lavishly rewarded for his efforts. Soon, he would hand the Emperor the key to controlling the British Navy, the last barrier to Absolute Rule.

  One leader, under God. Napoleon Bonaparte.

  LaRouche would be the man who handed the world to the Corsican. Power, like nothing he’d ever imagined, would be his.

  Not bothering to turn around, he spoke to the nurse, who stood quietly near the door, awaiting his instructions. “I want to know everything the benefactress said today and during her previous visit. Leave nothing out.”

  Seven

  Mac yanked the carriage door open and climbed inside. “What happened?” he asked once they were in motion again.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.” Sydney shook her head. “Everything about Abbingale feels wrong, yet I have little to report that would affirm such feelings.”

  “Trust your instincts, Sydney. They have yet to let you down. Tell me what you saw.”

  Sydney curled her arm around her middle and propped her elbow against it. Using the pads of her fingers, she rubbed her forehead in a circular motion, as if that small action would make sense of all she had witnessed inside Abbingale. “Boys sitting in the schoolroom, with their written assignments in front of them.”

  “I’m not following. What makes the scene unusual?”

  “It was nothing more than a well-choreographed display for my benefit, I daresay.” She lifted her head and tapped the side of her forefinger against her lips. “The only thing missing from their writing lessons was writing instruments.”

  Mac frowned. “You came upon a lesson in progress?”

  “So they would have me believe.” She recalled the sick feeling in her stomach when she realized the staff’s perfidy. “Their lessons were proudly displayed on the desks, yet not one quill pen, inkwell, or pencil was in sight.”

  “What would be the point of such an elaborate scheme?”

 
“That’s what we need to find out, my friend.”

  “Are you sure you want to get involved in this?”

  “The choice is no longer mine to make. I must dig until I know if the children are safe or not.” She blew out a tired sigh. “This could not be any worse than tracking down Lord Latymer. The baron attracts evil men like a dog attracts pesky fleas.”

  “I’m not so sure,” he said. “Mick’s bones were aching. That’s never a good sign.”

  No, it wasn’t. Sydney dug her fingers into her waist. Mick’s bones forecasted impending danger. He never really knew when or where, only that it was imminent.

  “Do me a favor and work with Amelia on learning as much as you can about the nurse, Mrs. Drummond, and the schoolmaster, LaRouche,” Sydney said. “Those two forced me to keep my guard up the entire time I was in their presence. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to include the matron, Mrs. Kingston, though I could detect no ill intent from her.”

  Mac’s jaw tightened. “I’ll have Mick sort through their backgrounds with your assistant.”

  Sydney shook her head. “I’d prefer you to take care of it. Mick can continue with the interviews and keep an eye on Lord Danforth for me.”

  “I’ll do that—”

  She held up a staying hand. “I know you do not approve of Amelia, and I have tried to keep the two of you separated. But, in this, I need your level head combined with Amelia’s eye for detail.”

  The hand resting on his leg curled into a fist, and he glared at the coach door for several long seconds.

  “Can you do this for me, Mac?”

  He gave her a short nod, and they lapsed into silence the rest of the way home. Not for the first time, Sydney wondered what had happened between her two most trusted friends. When she had selected Amelia for the assistant’s position, Mac had supported her choice. But something had shown up in the young woman’s background that had transformed Mac’s approval into barely masked disgust.

  Contrarily, he would not share with her his findings. When she questioned why, he would only say that the issue would not affect Amelia’s ability to perform the assistant’s duties. Despite Mac’s obvious about-face, Sydney decided to give the young woman a chance, and Amelia had never given her a moment’s regret over her decision.