A Lady's Secret Weapon

by Tracey Devlyn

  Clearing her throat, she said, “This morning, I met with Lizzie Ledford.”

  He welcomed the change of topic, though their discussion was far from over. Grasping the back of a chair he’d brought in for their frequent conferences, he placed it near the side of her desk but found he hadn’t the stomach for sitting. So he paced. “The seamstress?”

  “That’s correct.” She followed his progress about the room. “Our conversation took longer than expected, which is why I’m late this morning.”

  She was out collecting information, while he sat at his desk fuming over her absence. The realization produced a sour taste in his mouth.

  “Did Lizzie have anything to add to our investigation?”

  “Possibly.” She disengaged the small reticule from around her slender wrist. Pulling it open, she withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “Lizzie’s sister is good friends with a maid at Markham’s Boardinghouse. Do you know it?”

  “The name is familiar, but I can’t place it at the moment.”

  “Perhaps it’s familiar because of its location. The boardinghouse sits across from Abbingale Home.”

  Mac searched his mind of the area surrounding Abbingale. Much to his shame, he could not recall seeing a sign or any indication of a boardinghouse, though he knew many populated the city. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  “Annie, the maid, mentioned to Lizzie’s sister that she was preparing one of the empty rooms on the second floor last night, when a great clatter began on the floor above.”

  “Clatter?”

  “Fisticuffs. Annie heard a door crash open, raised voices, furniture skittering across the floor, heavy thumps against the ceiling above her, a door closing, and then a deathly silence.”

  “Did she hear any of their conversation?”

  “Only bits and pieces, I’m afraid. She said their conversation quieted after the initial shock.” She referred to her notes. “Annie thought she heard three distinct voices. One was their lodger, a Mr. William Townsend, the second was a brutish-sounding man called Jones, and the third was someone by the name of Roosh.”

  “Jones we can forget. The name is too common and is likely not his true surname anyway.”

  “Agreed.”

  “What did Annie have to say about Townsend?”

  “Very little. He’s been there only a couple days. Tall, dark-haired, handsome, keeps to himself.”

  “Roosh is an odd name, isn’t it? Do you think it’s short for something?”

  “I do.”

  The quiet confidence in her voice drew his attention. “You have a theory.”

  She nodded. “Annie also mentioned one of the men spoke funny.”

  “As in with a lisp or an accent?”

  “Based on her attempt to mimic this Roosh, I would say a cultured, foreign accent.”

  Mac’s thoughts shot around at lightning speed. Roosh. Roosh. Then it hit him. “French?”

  “I believe so.”

  “LaRouche. The schoolmaster.”

  “That would be my guess as well.”

  “From what little Annie heard, she got the impression that Roosh—or LaRouche—wanted something from Townsend.”

  “Of course he did,” Mac said absently. “Most beatings are nothing more than a physical show of power. A way of giving one’s enemy a sample of what’s to come if they don’t deliver—whatever it is they have failed to deliver.”

  “You sound as if you know this from experience.”

  Mac’s jaw clenched. “I know a great many things from experience, Mrs. Cartwright.”

  “Amelia,” she said in a defiant voice. “If I’m forced to use your Christian name, then you must use mine.”

  An unexpected warmth settled in Mac’s bones. Her commanding comment was perhaps his purest glimpse of the true woman beneath all the layers of reserve. Layers he never cared to peel away until recently. Now, he was plagued with an almost maniacal need to strip them off, so he could see if the very center of her reflected her outer perfection.

  She continued, “We must now discover what would induce a schoolmaster to use brute force against a neighbor of Abbingale.”

  Mac pried his mind away from the feminine mystery before him and refocused on their more dangerous problem. “Either Mick or I will pay the lodger a visit.”

  Nodding, she made a few notations, then stopped mid-stroke. Her eyes rolled up to meet his. “Has Mick mentioned his bones?”

  Fury slammed into him. What did she know of his brother’s ability to sense danger? After their mother’s abandonment, his brother had hid his ability from everyone but Mac. Or so Mac had believed.

  Something of his inner turmoil must have registered on his face, for she said, “Please don’t be upset. He did not reveal his ability.” When Mac’s expression did not change, she blew out a breath. “I should not have said anything.”

  “If my dear brother did not tell you, how do you know?”

  “I’m not supposed to say.”

  Of their own free will, his eyes panned down to her mouth. When her lips rolled between her teeth, his gaze locked with hers. “Do not force me to do something ungentlemanly.”

  “You would have to have an ounce of gentleman in you first.”

  He stepped forward, and she held up a hand. “Stop.”

  “Tell me.”

  Her expression became murderous. “I found him.”

  Unease stirred deep in his center. “What do you mean, you ‘found him’?”

  “On the floor. Writhing in pain.”

  What had awakened the violent side of his brother’s special ability? The ability passed down to Mick from their father’s mother? Some within their family had breathed a sigh of relief when neither of the twins had shown signs of having what many termed bad bones.

  But when the first vicious episode struck Mick at age ten, the superstitious side of their family wanted nothing more to do with him and, by extension, Mac. So, unbeknownst to their father, their mother and her two sisters made secret arrangements to send the ten-year-old twins to London, a world away.

  Exhausted and scared, he and Mick found themselves on the filthy pavement outside Lindlewood Home for Disadvantaged Children. They stayed in the hovel for exactly eleven months and fourteen days before fleeing from the constant beatings. When they fled, they changed their names and then spent the next five years surviving the streets of London. Barely.

  How long had it been since he had witnessed one of his brother’s violent attacks? So long ago that he had thought Mick had learned how to control the pain. But if Amelia saw one, then he’d had a fit within the last year. Shame burned in his chest like the hottest ember.

  Again, she sensed his mood. “You didn’t know about his attacks?”

  “He used to have them when we were younger. I didn’t know—” The ache in his throat became too much; he sat down. “I had no idea he still suffered them.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No need. My brother hid the truth well.” But why? Why would Mick shield his condition from him? Mac traced back through time, to conversations they’d had, especially when they were young lads huddled together, terrified, confused, wretchedly sad. Then he remembered, and the guilt that wedged between his lungs would have buckled his knees had he been standing.

  Not long after they had been dumped at Lindlewood Home, his brother had doubled over in pain in front of the biggest, meanest boy there. Believing Mick to be an invalid, the mean boy had tried to thrash his brother. Although smaller than the other boy, Mick was stronger and faster. His brother had taken control of the fight—and that’s when four of the boy’s mates entered. He and Mick had made a good show of it, but in the end, they both lay senseless and bleeding on the dormitory floor.

  Mac had not reacted well. Within a short period of time, they had lost their family,
friends, and any chance of living safely in their new home. He recalled yelling at his brother, commanding him to get his bloody curse under control or he would leave him behind when he escaped Lindlewood. Mac swallowed back the bile of remembrance.

  From that day to this one, Mac had never seen his brother succumb to the pain again. Not once. Knowing now he did so in silence, and all alone, was almost more than Mac could bear.

  “If LaRouche is capable of such brutality,” Amelia said, cutting into his bout of self-recrimination, “I can’t imagine the damage he has inflicted on those boys.”

  “I can.” Restless, Mac shot to his feet again and began pacing. “The sooner we end this, the better.”

  Even though his back was to her, Mac could feel Amelia’s assessing—and, God forbid, sympathetic—gaze traveling over him.

  Before long, she said, “Let us finish assembling all the information we’ve gathered from our informants. The key to our next step lies within all these bits of intelligence.”

  As if to second her motion, a chirp sounded from beneath the red coverlet.

  Sixteen

  When Ethan returned home from his tour of Abbingale, he was greeted by a gaggle of spies.

  Tanner took his hat and gloves. “Lord Somerton, Lord Helsford, and Miss deBeau are waiting for you in the drawing room, sir.”

  Dread gripped his gut. How could he face Somerton again so soon, knowing his mentor thought so little of his abilities? Could he keep the hurt and anger at bay? What of Helsford? Could Ethan set aside his pride and congratulate his friend? He didn’t know, and the realization twisted his insides more.

  He eyed the drawing room door. Why would three Nexus members be visiting him at the same time? The answer could not be good. Had something happened? Had they finally tracked down Latymer? Or was this a formal announcement of Helsford’s appointment to the chief’s position?

  He finger-combed his hair. “How long have they been waiting?”

  “About an hour, my lord.”

  His unease multiplied as he made his way to his guests. Of the three agents, Helsford was perhaps the only one with enough patience to wait so long. Somerton, of course, would appear calm, but one could always feel the coiled energy vibrating just below the surface. Cora, on the other hand, was likely tunneling her way through the nearest wall just to stay occupied.

  Once the drawing room was in sight, Ethan slowed his steps and cocked his head, straining to hear the conversation within. But there was none. A solemn silence draped the chamber, and Ethan suddenly wanted nothing to do with the inhabitants inside. His pace slowed to a stop and his hands balled into fists. Indecision kept him immobile for several long seconds.

  His sister’s head poked through the open doorway; a frown cut deep grooves into her forehead, and the scar on her cheek glowed white. “Ethan, why are you dawdling in the corridor?”

  Grief did not weigh down her words, nor were her eyes marred with sadness, concern, or fear. No, quite the contrary. His sister merely looked annoyed. “Waiting to see how long it would take you to investigate the disturbance below. You’re getting slow, runt.”

  Her eyes narrowed into evil, retribution-filled slits. “If that is true, perhaps you will now be able to keep apace with me, brother.”

  As much as his pride would like to be a braggart otherwise, Ethan didn’t believe he—or any man—could keep up with his sister. Though Helsford, her betrothed, would do his damnedest to try to stick to her side. “Keeping up with you is no longer my problem.” He waved a hand behind her. “I pray for the day when you’ll become heavy with babe.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you will either be too tired or too sick to torment me.”

  “What a horrible thing to say.”

  He sent her his most winning smile. “True, nonetheless.”

  “I am going to enjoy the next hour,” she said in a deadly voice. “Immensely.” With that promise, she swept back into the drawing room, leaving him standing in an empty corridor, his smile fading.

  Pulling in a bracing breath, Ethan followed, shifting his features into his normal devil-may-care mien. “Somerton. Helsford.” He made his way to the crystal decanters stationed on a small sideboard. “Care for a drink?”

  Both murmured a negative response. Theirs was not a social call, then. Not that he thought otherwise, but it’s always good to know where one stood.

  He pivoted toward his uninvited guests. Cora sat at the end of the sofa, glaring at him, while her betrothed, also his best friend, the Earl of Helsford, stood sentinel near one of the windows. Somerton, on the other hand, was turning away from his study of the cold fire grate. “Did I forget an appointment?”

  “No,” Somerton said. “I was on my way to see you when I came across Helsford and Cora.”

  So this was not to be a formal announcement regarding Helsford’s appointment. “And the reason behind your visit?”

  “I have two,” Somerton said. “First, I’m interested in learning why it’s taking you so long to retrieve Giles Clarke.”

  Heat flooded Ethan’s ears at his mentor’s soft rebuke. He hated disappointing anyone, but most especially Somerton. Despite his current grievance against the former chief, Ethan admired the man a great deal. However, in this instance, Somerton’s chastisement was unfounded. Ethan had been given this mission less than a sennight ago, though he was now only hours away from completion. If not for Sydney’s assistance, identifying Giles amongst all the other boys would likely have taken him far longer.

  As was his wont, he sprawled out in the nearest chair. “So, this is to be a group inquisition.”

  Somerton’s gaze slid across the room before returning to Ethan. “Not at all. I invited Helsford and Cora along to hear the other important news I have to share.”

  “Ahh.” He bolted back a swallow of his brandy. “My heart is all aflutter with anticipation.”

  Cora’s glare transformed into a frown. “Ethan, what is wrong with you? You are more bothersome than normal.”

  He didn’t feel like himself either. No matter how hard he tried, he could not force his muscles to release their death grip around his bones. His mind searched, with a near frantic pace, for some great misdeed he had done to bring these three to his doorstep. But what tormented him the most was their betrayal.

  Yes, he knew his mind was splintering between a world of fact-based logic and emotion-clogged illogic. He couldn’t stop the swift strikes of cold fury.

  Cora, who was Somerton’s first choice for chief and, evidently, the best of the Nexus, wouldn’t get her chance at the position because her last mission left her scarred, physically and mentally. Ethan doubted she would have accepted the position, anyway. She had tracked down and destroyed the man who killed their parents. That was all she had ever really wanted from the Nexus, though he knew she believed in their cause.

  Helsford, Somerton’s second choice, might be too distracted to lead the group, but Somerton was willing to give him a chance, because he had no other alternatives. Like Cora, Helsford had joined the Nexus for personal reasons—not for love of country or any other altruistic purpose.

  Somerton. A father figure, a mentor, and, at times, a friend. Ethan had killed for him, had lied for him. Had risked his life over and over to cross enemy lines to save a diplomat or a gentleman’s innocent daughter for him. Somerton. One of the few people who could slash his heart in half with nothing more than a disappointed look.

  No longer able to hold his indolent pose, Ethan shot out of his chair. “You’re right, Cora. I’m not myself. The past few weeks haven’t been what I’d call enjoyable.”

  “Not for any of us,” she said. “What exactly is making you so peevish?”

  He stared at her hard, trying to remember that she had not been privy to the complications of his mission, nor the heartbreak of Somerton’s decision. Out of the corner of
his eye, he saw Helsford moving closer to Cora. As if the bastard needed to protect his sister from him. The fury that had been skimming the surface of his control boiled over.

  Tapping one index finger against the other, Ethan began ticking off the catalysts of his misery. “I was banished to London to rescue an orphaned boy—a mission more suitable for a greenhorn agent than one of my experience. Then a busybody proprietress begins nosing around my surveillance area and I’m forced to expand the focus of my mission, only to find out today that she’s investigating Abbingale Home, too. And if that wasn’t enough, dear sister, I learned that I’m not good enough to be—”

  His brain finally caught up to his damned mouth before he said something unforgivable and utterly mortifying. No matter how much their actions felt like a betrayal, he would still throw himself in front of a bullet for every one of them.

  “Not good enough for what?” Somerton asked, his voice low, intense.

  Ethan’s gaze shot from one pair of interested eyes to the next. He rubbed his forehead. “Never mind. None of it matters.”

  “It appears to matter a great deal,” Somerton said.

  Slashing his hand through the air, he said, “It doesn’t.” He released a deep sigh and plopped back down in his seat. “Thanks to the nosy proprietress, I can now identify Giles Clarke and will fetch him tonight.”

  Cora shared a look with Helsford. “She’s nosy and a busybody. Whom, may I ask, are you speaking of?”

  “You might wish to detour your mind from its current path.” Ethan did not want his sister practicing her new matchmaking skills on him like she did on Somerton and Catherine. “Although I would not mind spending some time in her bed, I have no intention of doing so. She reeks of innocence.”

  “Well,” Cora said. “That’s rather plain speaking, even for you.”

  “Whatever it takes to throw you off the scent, runt.”