by Renee Rose
The carriage lurched forward, the lanterns swinging. No one spoke, the tension in the carriage seeming to suck out all the air. Her father glowered at Darlington and his man Jenners. Jenners, in turn, leaned his forearms on his knees, looking menacing.
Her belly wound in knots. Could her father be a traitor? No. She believed him, though his poisoning Darlington did not recommend his story. She wished for a moment alone with him to ask him why he had done such a thing. And what if he had killed her beau? But Darlington seemed all right now—the drug had only slowed him. Perhaps her father had judged the quantity. Still, why would a man who owned a ship-building empire know anything about poison at all?
She squeezed her hands together in her lap. What if he were guilty? Darlington had promised to do his best for him. Did that mean sending him to Australia instead of seeing him hanged? Would they torture her father back in London?
She glanced at Darlington to find him studying her. His expression remained blank, but she remembered his words before he handed her up, and allowed his silent support to buoy her. As if in confirmation, one corner of his mouth moved upward in the ghost of a smile.
Chapter Four
Jenners delivered a bruising kick to his shins to wake him. The lull of the carriage and the remaining effects of the thorn apple made it difficult to remain alert on the long ride. Eliza had long since fallen asleep, her shoulder slumped against her father’s. His ongoing madness for her made him want to shove the older man aside to take his place. He pined for the future in which Eliza would be his wife, nestled against him so the smell of her hair and the rustle of her skirts made every carriage ride sweet.
For now, he could only hope her father spoke the truth. It neared dawn when they arrived and he directed Smith to go straight to the magistrate’s, not wanting to hurt Eliza by bringing Hunt into Billings Street like a prisoner. Smith fetched some hot buns and tea, and they made a sad sort of picnic in the carriage before they traipsed inside.
“Go inform Director Dinshaw of our situation,” he informed Smith.
Magistrate Enton came in early, thankfully, and Smith returned with their director.
“So you see, sir, I only used the thorn apple on Darlington because I knew he was from Billings Street, and I did not relish having spies involved, mucking up my purpose,” Hunt explained.
The magistrate narrowed his eyes. “When we discussed you following through with the purchase of these plans, I asked you to report back any meeting times, precisely so I could communicate with Billings Street and allow the professionals to handle the situation. I did not mean for you to embark on this endeavor on your own, much less to interfere with the spymasters by thwarting their involvement. With poison, no less!”
Hunt’s eyes bulged with anger. “This man,” he spluttered, pointing a finger at Darlington, “pretended to court my daughter to get information on me. So if you will pardon my interference with his case, it is only because his methods were highly unprofessional and personally repulsive to me!”
He straightened in his chair. For Eliza’s sake, he wanted to declare his love and intention to marry, yet with Dinshaw, his director, sitting beside him, he could hardly admit to amorous activity while on duty.
“Miss Hunt is still a suspect, as the actual plans were found in her possession,” he said stiffly, trying to signal an apology to her with his glance.
She sat rigid in her chair, her face pale, the wear of the long night showing in the circles under her eyes.
“Preposterous! Why would my own daughter attempt to sell me the plans?”
Dinshaw gave him his stony interrogation stare. “Interfering with a case is bad enough; administering poison is a far more grave action.”
Hunt looked shaken for the first time. “I did not intend to kill your spy, if that is what you are inferring. It was hardly a lethal dose.” He drew himself up and jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “I am a patriot! I offered my own money to purchase the plans and I would have apprehended the traitor if he had not bungled it all! I might have earned a knighthood, even!”
The magistrate rolled his eyes and looked apologetic.
Dinshaw gave Hunt a withering look. “The end does not justify the means, Mr. Hunt.”
“Director Dinshaw, I apologize for my part in this debacle,” Magistrate Enton said. “I should have sent Hunt to you immediately. I can see my attempt to help this situation only worsened matters. I do vouch for the man, despite the poor judgement he showed in poisoning your spymaster. I have in my possession the anonymous note he received offering the state secrets.” Enton sent a secretary scurrying for the letter, which he handed to Dinshaw. The Billings Street men all looked over his shoulder to read it.
Dear Mr. Hunt,
I have very valuable British war secrets: plans, developed by the military for warships. As you are a leading shipbuilder in this country, it occurred to me such papers could be of use to you, to enable you to prepare said designs in advance and therefore win all contracts for shipbuilding.
I am willing to sell the plans to you for twenty-five thousand pounds. If you are interested, I will arrange a suitable meeting place.
Place your reply to this letter in the lamppost outside your home.
Yours truly,
A friend
“And so you brought this letter to the magistrate, who urged you to answer it?” Dinshaw probed. Like any good spy, he showed nothing on his face.
“Yes. I replied that I would pay the suggested price and to name the meeting place and time.”
Dinshaw levelled Hunt with a glower. “I see. Well, we expect your utmost cooperation in locating your missing servant Charlotte. I need every bit of information you have about her—references, any family history, friends she might have.”
Hunt nodded, looked appropriately chastened. “I will collect the information and send it round to Billings Street.”
Dinshaw stood and inclined his head in a ghost of a bow. He and Jenners also stood, bowing and taking their leave without comment. He sent a silent message to Eliza with his last glance back, praying she understood he still cared.
He lost the rest of the day and the following one catching up at Billings Street and setting up search teams for Charlotte, the missing maid.
On the third day, he put on his best suit and took a carriage to the Hunt residence in the fashionable Belgravia area. He gave the calling card with the name he had used for the past twenty years, John Andrews, and asked to see Mr. Hunt, as it would be unseemly to call on Miss Hunt without first visiting her father.
“Please follow me, Mr. Andrews,” the butler said, leading him past the parlour, where he caught sight of Eliza sitting with her mother. Her eyes widened and he gave a quick wink before following the butler into Hunt’s study.
He knew Hunt would not recognize the name on the card, which worked in his favor, as he doubted the man would be amenable to his visit.
“You,” Hunt spat, confirming his instincts.
“Yes, sir. I have come to apologize for any offense I gave.”
Hunt narrowed his eyes.
“May I sit?”
Hunt gave him a grudging half-nod.
He sank into a chair opposite the desk. “I know you believe I misled your daughter’s affections, but I assure you, my intentions were pure. We built a genuine friendship at the Westerfields’ and I have come to ask your permission to formally court her.”
Hunt’s lip curled. “Court her?” he demanded. “Why on earth would I allow my daughter to marry a spymaster?”
“I have a decent annual income and I am in line for the directorship. Once married, spymasters take on less risky missions and if anything did happen to me while on duty, your daughter would receive a pension.”
“What exactly is your income?”
“Double an officer’s pay. And I own my apartment here in London.”
“What is your interest in my daughter?”
He blinked, thinking he had already made it quite clear
. “I wish to marry her, sir.”
“I know, but why?”
He grit his teeth, not liking the implication. “Because I love her,” he said, locking eyes with the older man and daring him to challenge the statement.
Hunt stared at him a long time in silence. “I am sorry,” he said at last. “My daughter has far better prospects than you. Titled lords who would keep her in the style she is accustomed. Good day to you, Andrews.” Hunt stood, indicating the end of their discussion.
He rose as well, but planted his feet. “Reconsider. I love your daughter and would dedicate my life to making her hap—”
“No,” Hunt interrupted. “My decision is made. Do not call here again.”
He swallowed, a sick feeling weighing down his stomach. Giving a mechanical bow, he left, hardly seeing the house as he found his way out and onto the street. He did not despair for himself. Eliza would be his—he would not accept defeat so easily. His main concern lay in any anguish Eliza may feel and not knowing what her father would tell her.
He opted to walk home, sending the carriage on without him, going over his options. Hunt did not believe him worthy of his daughter. He could understand his hesitation.
Titled lords who would keep her in the style she is accustomed.
His belly knotted as he turned this statement over in his mind. All afternoon he prowled the streets of London, debating his course of action. Finally, coming upon no better solution, he walked to his solicitor’s office. The time had come to face his past.
“I need your help in claiming my father’s title,” he told him.
* * *
“What happened with Lord Darlington?” she asked, not quite succeeding at keeping her voice casual.
“John Andrews, you mean?” her father asked derisively, flicking his calling card to her.
“Oh. Is that his name? Yes, Mr. Andrews, then.”
“It is of no concern to you.”
She and her mother stared after him. She stood up, fingering the necklace at her throat. “Well, why did he call?” she demanded.
Her father looked over his shoulder and gave up on his pretense of it not pertaining to her. “I do not approve, Eliza. I told him not to come back.”
“I beg your pardon?” she croaked, swaying on her feet. Her mother came and stood at her elbow.
“I am sorry, my dear. I do not trust him and I do not think he has your best interest at heart. Nor do I think he is your best prospect.”
“You cannot be serious? Surely you cannot be thinking of Lord Auburn? I will not marry him, father! I absolutely refuse. Darlington—I mean, Andrews—”
Her father waved his hand. “You see? You did not even know his real name! If you fancy yourself in love, it is with a man who does not exist—a fictitious lord.”
“That is not true!” she said, tears pricking her eyes. “I knew all along he was not who he pretended to be. He admitted as much to me before he ever began to court my favor. Father, what objection could you have with him?”
“He is dishonest!”
“He is a spymaster, who you met while on duty! Of course he was dishonest! You cannot judge him by that.”
“Yes, but we know he is a practiced liar, so how can I judge him at all?”
“Would you have me go with Auburn, who does not care a fig for me and only wants your money? You would choose him over a man who really loves me?”
“I think Andrews wants your money, too, Eliza,” her father said, his voice regretful as if breaking some terrible news to her.
Her heart thundered in her chest. “That is not true!”
“I just think you have far better prospects,” her father cut in before she could gather steam to rage at him.
“Far better prospects?” she echoed blankly. “Look at my face, father. Four seasons and I have hardly had a dance. No one has ever come to call for me.”
“And that is why you should not jump at the first man who pretends to like you!”
“Pretends?” The tears began to flow now.
“That is enough, Thomas!” her mother exclaimed, sounding on the verge of tears herself.
“Listen, all I mean to say is you should not sell yourself short because of your birthmark. It is not a barrier to marriage, as proven by both Auburn’s and Andrews’ attentions. Other men will come along—more suitable men.”
“No,” she wept. “They will not. Or if they do, I will not want them.”
“So you say now. Give it some time,” her father soothed.
“No. I will never forgive you for this!” she said, rushing out of the parlour and up to her bedroom where she flung herself on the bed and sobbed. Her mother followed her, sitting beside her and patting her shoulder.
“Please, just leave me, Mother,” she moaned. “If you wish to help, you will convince him to change his mind. Or do you agree?”
“I do not know, Eliza. It is true we know very little about the man. But no, I do not think we must cross him off the list altogether, especially if you are so attached.”
“Talk to Father?”
Her mother bent and kissed her temple. “I will do my best,” she murmured and left the room.
She spent the next few days in a low mood. When an invitation to visit Lady Westerfield at her London house arrived, her mother insisted they go. To her pleasant surprise, Kitty had not invited anyone else, so she could release her social anxiety and enjoy the easy conversation their hostess led.
When they stood to leave, Kitty discreetly pressed an envelope into her hand. She stifled the urge to gape or exclaim, slipping the missive underneath her wrap. Darlington—no, Andrews—would be proud of her skill in stealth. Her heart picked up speed. Could it be from him?
She could hardly breathe on the carriage ride home, answering her mother’s chatter distractedly. The moment they arrived at home, she rushed up to her room, her fingers trembling as she fumbled to open the letter, scanning the signature first.
—John Andrews (Darlington!)
Her heart skipped. She read from the beginning.
Dearest Eliza,
I assume you heard by now your father refused me the opportunity to call on you. I want you to know I have a plan to prove my worth to him (and to you). I beg your patience, and hope you will wait for me, as I am ever yours.
With all my affection,
John Andrews (Darlington!)
She held the letter to her heart, happy tears pricking her eyes. She had not given up hope, and her relief to discover John had not, either, caused her to weep. She lay down on her bed, tucking the letter under her pillow and imagining what it would be like to be John Andrews’ wife.
He would spank her.
She flushed all over at the memory of the spankings he had already given her, the last one with the pleasure that followed most memorable. Had Kitty Westerfield implied her husband did such things to her after he punished?
Her body turned to jelly, heat burning in her core. Pulling up her skirts, she slid her hand between the slit in her drawers, finding her sex.
As if it had been waiting for her, it transformed upon her touch, plumping and growing moist as she stroked her fingers over her opening. Her heart thumped, remembering the feel of his fingers inside her. Did she dare do the same thing to herself? She slid one finger in, withdrawing it before she delved too deeply and brushing the sensitive rounded tip above her canal.
Excited by the sensation her touch produced, she teased the little bud, sliding over and around it imagining herself over John’s lap with his finger inserted deep within her. She stifled a moan, writhing under her own hand until she closed all her fingers over her mons, cupping it and pulling up as her legs scissored together with her climax.
Panting, she rolled over and fell asleep.
She somehow managed to survive dinner with her family. Now, with John’s—it still felt odd to call him that—confirmation of interest, she could hardly stand one more night with her family. His letter had begged her patience, but re
ading it made her desperate to see him again, to leave her own house and be in his, where she belonged.
The next morning, she told her mother she wished to return to Lady Westerfield’s on her own.
Her mother eyed her with concern. “All right, dear,” she said. “If you need some private time to speak with a friend, I will grant it to you.”
“Thank you, Mother,” she said, curtsying. “I may be gone all day. Do not worry for me.” Giving her a kiss on the cheek, she departed, leaving all her belongings behind to elope with the man she loved.
* * *
“Mr. Andrews,” his housekeeper greeted him in an urgent undertone at the door. “There is a young lady here for you—Miss Hunt. She has been here all day, waiting for hours!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, striding past the fretful woman into his small parlour, his own concern mounting.
“Eliza! What are you about?”
She surged to her feet, looking nervous. She wore a simple lavender gown but the wide neckline so accented her lifted breasts he had to drag his eyes to her face.
“I—I received your letter. I cannot wait for my father to change his mind.”
He groaned inwardly, crossing the room in several swift steps. “Eliza, you must,” he said, grasping her upper arms and peering down at her. “Do you wish to cause a scandal? To be disowned by your parents? Surely not.”
Color rose high on her cheeks. “I care not,” she said defiantly. “Do you?”
“Yes, Eliza,” he said, exasperated. “I want to win your hand honorably, not to steal you from your home and elope like a scoundrel.”
“I think maybe you are a scoundrel,” she spat, her lips trembling. “My father was right about you. You do not care for me—only his money!”
