by Heather Gray
"France has no claim?"
"None they can defend. Their position is too weak." Isabel paused and swept her arms wide to encompass the room. "If you'd ever been there, you would understand. Columbia — Oregon Country, as the Americans call it — is over 250,000 square miles of beautiful land. Hunting, fishing, farming — whatever you can imagine, you can do in the Columbia District." Her voice wistful, she continued. "It's some of the most beautiful land God ever created. Waterfalls, mountains, lush vegetation, peculiar and interesting animals." Isabel's words couldn't do the land justice, but she hoped to at least partially convey the wonder of it.
Owen's wide eyes reflected his shock. The Columbia District was almost five times bigger than England and was nothing more than a tiny fraction of the land claimed by the colonies. The vastness was difficult to comprehend by those who hadn't witnessed its grandeur firsthand.
"This upcoming treaty is what brought you back?" Owen's voice stayed neutral, but Isabel heard the unasked question.
Where do your loyalties lie?
She nodded. "Lord Rutherford stumbled onto a plot." Isabel focused on the business at hand. "I was following up on a rumor to gauge its validity. The viscount landed himself squarely in the middle of both the plot and my investigation." She paused to fluff her bothersome hair again. "Gold started showing up, and the quiet stories whispered in the dark corners of taverns said Columbia gold. I tried to discover whether or not the claim had any truth."
"Rutherford had gold."
She nodded. "He's in shipping. Rumors about his ship had reached him. Once he dug into the books, he found a problem. The ne Hurlants was being used for smuggling, but he couldn't find any indication what was being smuggled. He followed his investigation, which brought him into mine. The plot was determined to cross both continents, so I returned to England and hired on at his estate to protect him."
Isabel frowned. "He had no idea who I was when I came to work for him. We'd corresponded but not met. I was supposed to keep him safe so he could uncover the rest of the plot and tell the people in power. Maybe if I'd shared my identity with him, things would have been different. Lord Rutherford was an honest man, and he would have done the right thing. All I had to do was keep him alive long enough to deliver his findings." Isabel's voice came to a shuddering halt.
"You are not at fault for his death."
Isabel had the deaths of too many people on her hands for Owen to ever understand her sadness. "Yes, I am. I failed to do my job, and a good man died. I need to follow through on this so his death won't be in vain."
"Is the gold being smuggled in to buy off someone over here and prevent the treaty, or to establish an inflated value for the Columbia District, forcing Parliament to fight for it?"
"I don't know. I think Lord Rutherford figured it out. I believe it cost him his life."
"I heard he and Lady Rutherford fought quite a bit leading up to his death." Owen held his hands loosely n front him, a contrast to the topic of their discussion.
She nodded.
"Could she be culpable in this plot, or with his death?"
"She's a vile woman." Isabel spat the words. "Anything's possible."
"She and her cousin are close." He began fiddling with one of his thumbnails, his discomfort palpable.
Isabel rolled her eyes. "Don't be thick. Lady Rutherford has no cousin named Edward."
Understanding dawned on Owen's face, and his previously visible unease faded away.
She shrugged. "At this point, you know as much as I do. We need to get on that ship the minute it comes in and get our hands on the mysterious package."
Keen intelligence lit Owen's eyes. "How did you know the key to the coded message and how did you first learn about the package?"
"Lord Rutherford needed an American investigator to help, and I made sure he hired me. I learned about the package during my work for him. As for the coded message, I wrote it. The key is a nursery rhyme out of an American schoolbook. No Englishman would ever consider the key might be American in origin." Her cheekiness hit its mark if Owen's wince was any indication.
"Was Rutherford aware he was hiring a woman? How did your letter reach him ahead of the package?"
Isabel couldn't blame him for the many questions and gave him a saucy wink. "George Melbourne from the investigative agency of McHugh and Associates at your service. As for the other, this plot has been in motion a long time. I thought it best to let Rutherford intercept the package himself and on British soil."
Owen lifted an eyebrow. "George Melbourne?"
Isabel laughed. "How else was I supposed to make a living? My skill set is limited and specific. Besides, can you imagine me bored to distraction pursuing any of the normal ladylike pursuits?"
"What about the globe? When you tripped in the study and knocked the globe over?"
"Very few things I do are on accident."
Owen took to his feet. The still way he held himself bespoke his cautious reserve. "What do we do now?"
"Blend in and remain unnoticed until the ne Hurlants makes port."
His eyes wandering toward the door, Owen asked, "And your associates?"
Isabel crossed her arms and stared at him. "Anonymity is our best ally, and I'll cut you down myself before I'll let you compromise it."
Owen ran his hand across the lump on the back of his head. "I think I got your point."
"I didn't mean for that to happen," she grudgingly admitted. "He didn't see who was trying to take me. If he'd realized it was you, he might have used a gentler touch."
"He? You have a protector?" The judgment in Owen's voice soured Isabel's stomach. Before she cut him down for his assumption, he hurried on. "That came out wrong. I… You're obviously capable, but my memories of you as a young girl… I can't help but worry about you." Owen's words came to an awkward, stuttering stop that almost had Isabel feeling sorry for him.
"You knew me once upon a time, and I may even think you're a good man, but if you compromise me, you'll meet your end at my hand." Bitterness simmered below the surface of Isabel's words.
Owen's eyes filled with questions. "I can't compromise what I don't know."
"Precisely." With that, Isabel opened the door and led him out. "Follow me and stay close. I'll return you back to the inn."
Chapter Six
A week went by with little change. Owen went out the door after breaking his fast, and Isabel followed him with her eyes. No doubt he'd be passing the day in yet another tavern listening to the chatter about freight, shipping companies, captains, and more. Without intending to, he'd already stumbled across two different smuggling operations and one ship's crew he suspected of involvement in piracy. He'd documented his findings and sent them off to Tobias in London like a good little agent.
"Watch what yer doin', Iola!"
Isabel glanced up in time to realize her woolgathering had almost caused her to push the drinking mugs straight off the table she was wiping down. Owen was a distraction, and if she wasn't careful, he would cost her more than she could afford.
She glanced over into the corner at a hulking man with fading red hair, intent on his mug of ale. Then she stood and carried the soiled dishes back into the kitchen.
The inn's two barmaids had both disappeared the day before Iola arrived to seek employment. Hank had hired her on the spot, and she'd been working double-duty ever since. Whenever she wasn't serving food or drink, she spent her time scrubbing dishes and cleaning floors.
Meanwhile, the missing barmaids were enjoying a free trip to America. Isabel hoped they liked what they found once they arrived. The chance to start over and be something more than they'd been in England would be waiting for them. All they'd have to do was take advantage of it.
****
"There's word."
Isabel, who had stepped out of the inn to dump some soiled water, wasn't surprised by the familiar voice. She glanced around and saw the hulking form concealed among the the long shadows cast by the afternoon su
n. Once she was certain they were alone, she stepped closer and asked, "What?"
"Another one of Rutherford's ships came in today. They had word the Braying Donkey got delayed because of repairs. It won't be arriving here till late December, maybe early January."
Isabel nodded. "I'm not sure if the delay is good news or bad for us."
He shrugged dismissively. "It's neither."
Isabel dumped the dirty water. "Why do you insist on calling it the Braying Donkey?"
The man spat into the grass. "I've got no use for the French or their language."
His sentiment was shared by many who had battled Napoleon's devastation. She didn't share in the vehemence, but she understood it.
She gave the man a brisk nod before returning to the inn.
****
That night, as Isabel placed a dinner plate in front of Owen, he whispered, "A Rutherford ship came in with news of the ne Hurlants."
Isabel forced her eyes wide in surprise. "We should meet."
"After dark. Follow the trail toward town. I'll be in the same cleft. Do me a favor, and don't let your friend knock me out again."
She gave him a saucy grin, the kind that told the other patrons he'd just propositioned her and she was having her sport with him. "Aye, m'lord, what you say is true. I do think I'd rather bed down with the hogs than the likes of you."
Owen's eyes darkened with irritation. Or was that embarrassment? She could have come up with other ways to justify the length of their conversation, but she'd grabbed on to that one. No man liked his masculine prowess publicly questioned. He would have every right to be angry with her, and she welcomed it. They'd both be better off if he hated her.
Owen was too honorable a man. Her instincts confirmed what she remembered of him from childhood. He was a man she could trust — if she ever trusted anyone completely. Which she rarely did. Even if it meant making him angry, she needed to keep her distance from Owen. She had a history. Letting her guard down led to devastating results.
****
Darkness fell early, and the inn emptied out before the clock said it was time. Hank let her go, and Isabel began her walk down the trail toward town. As she approached the point where Owen had last surprised her, she heard the caw of a crow, and she slipped off the trail. With one hand on the coarse stone, she followed the rock outcropping around until she came to the cleft where Owen hid.
He handed her something, a coarse material. "It's a cloak. Put it on. You stand out with that white cap on your head. We'll be concealed this way. We need to talk, but we should get out of the cold first."
Isabel wasn't sure they had much to talk about, but arguing would serve no purpose other than show Owen she had information she hadn't shared with him. Instead, she did as he asked and put the cloak on. Once she lifted the hood and snugged the cloak around her body, she took Owen's hand and tugged it. He followed her without complaint.
When they reached the small cottage she called home in Bristol, she pushed open the door and reached for a candle. Then she took the small tinderbox and started a fire in the hearth. Small as it was, the room warmed quickly. The glow cast by the fire pushed most of the shadows away.
At Isabel's insistence, Owen took a seat in the room's one chair, at the table. Isabel sat on the sleeping pallet and tucked her feet close. "Tell me what you've learned."
"One of Rutherford's other ships came into port today." Owen's eyes wandered the room, no doubt seeking clues about her. "They had word on the ne Hurlants. It'll make port sometime in December."
Isabel nodded. "That's good to know. We need to bide our time until then. Unless you've a different idea?"
Owen jumped up and began to pace in the confines of the small room. "We've exchanged little more than occasional words in the past week, and I'm not sure I know you any better now than I did upon first learning your identity."
Isabel gave an impatient and entirely unladylike snort. "What has that to do with anything?"
"I want to trust you, but I don't even know you."
She winked. "You knew me when I was in nappies. That must count for something."
Owen ignored her attempt at humor and ran a hand through his flaxen curls. "More than ten years have passed since you disappeared, and I still have no idea where you went. Or your parents. Are they still living? How are they doing?"
Isabel considered her options. She needed Owen to trust her. He would be more open with her if he did. She needed to give him a morsel, something to keep him satisfied. If he thought he had the whole story, all the better.
"My parents were executed."
Chapter Seven
Owen rocked back on his feet. Isabel's words crashed over him like an ocean wave roaring in his ears. He had to force the air from his lungs to ask the question burning in his gut. "Why?"
Isabel offered a small, sad smile. "Treason against the Crown. Evidence says they were complicit with the French."
"But that can't be. They were loyal. Our fathers ran a business together. How… How were they found out?"
Another wretched smile, this one apologetic in nature. "Someone delivered them up, of course. How else does one get caught for treason? Well, aside from being discovered by the agency."
Owen did something a gentleman would never do. He turned the chair around and straddled it. In an attempt to keep himself from going to her, he folded his arms and rested them on the chair's back. He wanted to go to her. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to hold her and take away her pain, but he hadn't yet earned the privilege. Not to mention she was so blasted strong and independent, she'd not welcome even a hint of support from him. The strength of his own reaction to her took him by surprise.
"Issy, I'm so sorry." The childhood nickname rolled off his tongue and Isabel — brave, defiant, capable Isabel — transformed before his eyes into the young girl he'd last seen before she and her family had disappeared. All the sharp edges and angles of her face softened until she was almost… inviting.
Then, as if she realized her behavior went against protocol, Isabel sat taller. The softness fell away, and her blue eyes narrowed until Queen sat before him once again.
"If they were truly traitors, they got what they had coming to them."
Owen had a hard time accepting such a callous sentiment. No matter what Isabel said, he didn't believe for a minute she was as cold-hearted as she seemed to want him to believe.
"What happened to you after…?"
Isabel shrugged. "The minister, God rest his soul, took an interest in me. He told me I had a chance to prove I wasn't my parents' daughter, a traitor."
"You were only twelve!" Owen jumped up again and went back to pacing. "He recruited you to the War Department while you weren't even out of the schoolroom yet!"
An indulgent smile this time. It even reached her eyes, lightening the blue until it seemed to glow from within. "Stop your bellowing. I was older than Edward VI was when he became king. Besides, no family would take me. I had a choice between the War Department or selling myself dockside for the occasional crust of bread. He did me a favor."
Owen forced himself back to the chair. "Why not an orphanage?"
Isabel's mouth dipped down at the corners. "You forget what a sheltered miss I'd been up to that point. I didn't even know such places existed. If I had, I might have run away to go there, but… I believe the minister had his reasons for forcing me into service as he did. I'm not sure I could have escaped, even if it had occurred to me to try."
Choking back his abhorrence at the entire situation, Owen fought to keep his voice steady. " What sort of assignment did the War Department give a child?"
"A threat had been made against Queen Charlotte. Suspicion fell to the court. Tobias got me a place as one of her ladies-in-waiting. With her permission, of course. I joined Queen Charlotte's court and remained for over a year before we apprehended the culprit. A more experienced agent would have completed the assignment sooner."
Assassination attempt against t
he Queen of England… Owen had to admire the audacity of placing a child to protect a queen, even as the thought horrified him. "Is that how you got your codename?"
Isabel gave a slight nod, a tipping of her chin more than anything else. Almost queenly, in fact. Owen chuckled. "Which did you find more dangerous? Thwarting an assassin or surviving among the ladies at court?"
"There was one assassin. There were dozens of ladies-in-waiting. You figure it out."
He didn't want to have to ask, but Owen needed more answers than what she offered. "What sort of treason?"
Isabel crossed her arms and reclined against the wall behind the pallet. "There were two main plots, I suppose. I see them connected as part of the same plot, but the authorities saw it differently." He nodded his understanding, and she continued. "The first was a plan to blow up the newly opened London Docks. I'm sure there were many such plans for many different reasons. All would be treasonous, I'm sure."
"And the other plot?"
"Are you familiar with the Battle of Trafalgar?"
Owen nodded. "Admiral Nelson died, but the British fleet again proved we have the superior navy."
Isabel pursed her lips, her disapproval evident. Owen was reminded that she'd spent the last four years in America. What he viewed as accepted fact, she might well see as English arrogance.
Instead of arguing the point, however, she explained the connection. "Had the docks been destroyed, and had England lost the Battle of Trafalgar, the world's view of the Royal Navy would be entirely different. I think that's what everything was about. Undermining the Royal Navy. The plot was broken down into different pieces, and then those pieces were parceled out to the people who would carry them out, but the people assigned to carry out the orders had no idea what the other pieces were or what the overall plot was."
