Kiss of a Traitor

by Cat Lindler

  Chapter 8

  On Marion’s orders, Ford was duty bound to attend the Willowbend musicale. The swelling in his knee had subsided to a persistent ache, though he continued to walk with a limp. The welts from the hornet stings were but a painful memory. Despite his recovery, he attempted to cry off from the social engagement, having no inclination to come within a mile of his fiancée. Marion, however, remained adamant that Ford make an appearance.

  “I fail to comprehend your reluctance,” Marion said as he paced along the bank of the Sampit River. “This invitation is a godsend. You will have complete access to Bellingham’s residence.”

  “And I’m looking for what, in particular?” Ford asked, aware of the uselessness of his resistance when compared with Marion’s resolve. “The Tories have been quiet for some time now. The redcoats have also held their peace since Tarleton rode west. I’ve unearthed no rumors for a major action. With our victory at King’s Mountain, the British occupy themselves in licking their wounds.”

  “That is precisely my concern. They’ve been a bit too quiet,” Marion said. “I received a letter from General Gates requesting our assistance in harassing the British retreat. I have no doubt Cornwallis is cognizant of this appeal. Should we begin to expect our enemy to sit back and allow us to raid their supply trains unopposed, they will draw us into a trap like a bear to bees’ honey.”

  When Ford flinched, Marion offered him a commiserating smile. “My pardon, Major. I quite forgot your unfortunate mishap with the lovely Miss Bellingham.”

  “Less lovely than deadly,” he muttered.

  “My militia grows indolent with the lull in action,” Marion continued as though he’d not heard Ford’s comment. “Many men retired to their plantations. I shall have to call a muster, which may take some time. The prospect this social event at Willowbend presents is too opportune to overlook. The upper command, both British and Tory, will be in attendance. With Bellingham engaged in playing host, you’ll be able to vanish in the crush and search for intelligence on how the British plan to recoup from their humiliating defeat. Bellingham’s private papers should yield something of value.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ford replied with a lack of enthusiasm. He saluted and mounted his horse. Since the day of their picnic, he’d avoided the vexing Miss Bellingham, citing his injured knee as an excuse. Instead, he concentrated his spying on the British in Georgetown while Tarleton operated in the western part of the state. Now Marion was forcing him back into his fiancée’s clutches. A bothersome feeling beset him since the day he last had the pleasure of her company, a gut reaction that his disastrous mishaps had more in common with malice than coincidence. He had no proof and berated himself for clinging to such a foolish idea, but his intuition continued to warn him that Wilhelmina had orchestrated his humiliating injuries. He resolved to keep his distance from the minx at the musicale and be on his guard for any more “accidents.”

  “He is coming to the musicale,” Willa moaned. “I expected, for certain, he would refuse the invitation after our picnic. He cannot have recovered that quickly.” She sent a miserable glance toward Quinn and Jwana. “When Plato cut that hornet’s nest and dropped it, Montford flew into the pond like his breeches were on fire. Then, when Emma took our horses, I fancied he would simply lie down on the ground and expire. What shall we do now?”

  Jwana smoothed her hand over Willa’s hair. Quinn patted her on the shoulder. Emma had a thoughtful look on her face.

  Willa smiled.

  “Lord’a mercy,” Jwana said. “Wot you thinkin', chil'?”

  “I have another idea.”

  Quinn took a step backward. “Dare I inquire what?”

  Willa’s smile expanded into a grin when she faced her coconspirators. “Killer and Sweetie.”

  At her chilling words, Jwana shuddered.

  Quinn backed up another step and raised his hands as if Willa had aimed a pistol at his chest. “Pray, not them. Surely you would not inflict them upon him, not at this point in the plot.”

  Willa nodded. “Indeed, I would.” “May I suggest an alternative, one a trifle less drastic?” Emma broke in with a plea. “Let us reserve Killer and Sweetie as a last resort.”

  “Very well,” Willa sighed. “I pray, for Montford’s sake, your plan works, and he comes to his senses soon.”

  The musicale was well underway by the time Ford made his appearance. A contralto’s piercing, off-key voice blasted from the open parlor doors, grating on his ears like a rusty hinge and causing him to wince. Quinn, stationed at the front door, took Ford’s overcoat, riding gloves, and hat. Tonight Ford had attired himself in his uniform instead of wearing an outlandish outfit. The green dragoon coat and buff breeches would allow him to blend in with the other military officers. But he dared not forego all Lord Montford’s trappings. He had painted and powdered his face and wore a powdered bagwig for his betrothed’s benefit. When he completed his mission, he reckoned he could pursue employment as a clown in Astley’s London Circus.

  Quinn gestured toward the parlor doorway, and Ford shook his head. “I do believe I shall wait here until she is quite finished,” he said, referring to the singer. “I should hate to disrupt her concentration.”

  Quinn returned to his station with a smile concordant with Ford’s sentiments.

  When the song peaked into a less-than-spectacular crescendo and quavered away on a long-held note, Ford moved to the doorway and examined the company. Satins and silks abounded in rainbow colors, intermixed with the green and red coats of Tory and British officers. He spied Wilhelmina’s head of short, dark ringlets next to her stepmother’s silver-blond waves and sausage curls. Applause sounded as the contralto, a thin woman with a sallow face, took a bow, blowing hard from her vocal performance. He prayed she’d not the intention of sucking in more air for an encore.

  Willa twisted around in her chair to see whether Montford had arrived. He lounged in the parlor doorway, his shoulder leaning against the door frame, his arms folded over his chest. The sight of him in his uniform froze her to the chair. She had no conception of what she expected to see tonight, some horrid mixture of pink and puce, she supposed, and her breath suspended in her throat at the impact produced by his short, tight green jacket with wide black lapels, snug buff breeches, and high black riding boots. A frown puckered her forehead. Why had she not noticed before now how wide his chest, how narrow his waist and hips, how flat his stomach, how muscular his legs?

  Hmm, perhaps Jwana was correct and there was more to Montford than one perceived on the surface. How had she managed to miss it? She peered up at his painted face and powdered wig and asked herself no more questions. His effeminate outer garb and ornamented features had distracted from the underlying man. Just when she began to lean toward believing he warranted a second look, she shook her head. Not bloody likely. Regardless of how masculine a figure he cut this evening, she still had no interest in a husband.

  Willa left her chair, squeezed past Marlene, and plotted a course through the silken, perfumed bodies to Lord Montford’s side. He bowed when she came up to him and pressed a kiss to her extended hand.

  “You are quite breathtaking this evening, Wilhelmina,” he said, his words directed to the top of her head.

  What he was about? He seemed to be searching the crowd behind her rather than focusing his attention on her. She glanced over her shoulder to see what held his notice but saw nothing of note. “I am ever so grateful for your noticing, my lord. And you look less like a Gypsy’s monkey. King Louis requested the return of his wardrobe, I presume?”

  “You are far too kind, my dear,” he replied, obviously distracted and catching not a word of what she said. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and pulled her forward. “Shall we take a turn about the room and meet your guests?” Without awaiting her answer, he hauled her along beside him.

  Willa craned her head over the assembly to capture Jwana’s gaze. The maid displayed her comprehension with a short nod and took off toward
the kitchen. Another tug on Willa’s arm caused her to stumble.

  “My apologies,” her fiancé said. He looked down, seeming truly to see her for the first time. “Is my pace too rapid for your short limbs? I tend to forget you are such a wee bit of a mouse.”

  A mouse? Her temper sprouted legs. “Indeed,” she returned in her sweetest voice. “I, too, tend to forget you are such a bloody great, hulking ape of a sorry excuse for a man.”

  His painted mouth twitched. Seeming to swallow his smile, he bestowed upon her instead a look of censure. “I say, Wilhelmina, I do admire spirit, to a certain degree, but I must tell you I cannot abide poor manners and coarse language in my betrothed.” Then he lifted his head like a wolf scenting game, and once again she was forgotten, a mere supernumerary appendage hanging onto his arm.

  She tried to steer him toward the buffet laid out in the formal dining room. But directing Montford was akin to maneuvering a coach-and-four through a flock of turkeys. Every few feet, an officer, planter, or floral-scented, bosom-baring woman stopped them and begged an introduction. After some time, they broke free of the throng. They almost reached the dining room doorway when Montford halted and pried her hand from his arm.

  “Madam,” he said, still absorbed by his own thoughts, “if you will excuse me, I must speak with your father. Would you mind finding your own way to the buffet?” In a burst of movement, he collared the nearest unaccompanied male, a scarlet-coated lieutenant with a pockmarked face, and dragged him over. “Better still, perhaps Lieutenant …” He arched his eyebrows.

  “Johnstone,” the man supplied, his cheeks going rosy.

  “… Lieutenant Johnstone would consent to be your escort.”

  “Cer-certainly, Major.” Johnstone held out his bony elbow. “It would be my honor to escort you to the buffet, Miss Bellingham.”

  She ignored the young man and his extended arm as she peered at Montford through half-lowered lids. He was acting extraordinarily bizarre this evening, rather more bizarre than usual. “The thing is, I believe my father is unavailable. I seem to recall he promised to show Major Dundee his newest acquisition to the stables.”

  “Excellent.” The baron picked up her hand and draped it over Lieutenant Johnstone’s arm, which still wavered in the air between them. Then he took off, bucking the oncoming traffic as he disappeared among the bodies heading toward the dining room for refreshments.

  “Mi-Miss Bellingham?” Johnstone inquired, the words tangling on his tongue. She barely heard the man as she remained still and stared at the spot where Montford had vanished. Her betrothed’s actions so stunned her she’d not even the opportunity to berate him for his rudeness in handing her off to the lieutenant like a horse to a groom without so much as a by-your-leave.

  The lieutenant’s voice at last penetrated her displeasure. She turned to smile at him. “Shall we, Lieutenant Johnstone? I vow I shall catch up with Major Sinclair later. He cannot think to slip away from me that easily.”

  Confusion covered the young officer’s face as they joined the line to the buffet table.

  Ford exited the parlor and evaded Quinn’s notice while the butler busied himself with late arrivals. Once away from the main entry, Ford slipped down the hallway past the staircase and made his way toward the back of the house. At the door to Bellingham’s study, he detected a noise that made him pause. He stepped into an alcove in front of a window looking out over the back gardens, edged behind the curtain, and held his breath.

  A woman’s voice murmured and was followed by a man’s laugh. The voices were muted, as if deliberately lowered to remain between the pair. Despite that, Ford heard them clearly as they carried on their conversation directly beyond his curtain. A swish of satin hissed on the pinewood floor, and the curtain stirred as the couple passed by. The woman’s gown raised a breeze infused with magnolia scent.

  Ford released his held breath and moved to sweep the curtain aside but stopped when he caught the drone of voices again as the duo halted beside the study door. He wished them to the devil. Were he compelled to dally much longer, someone would surely note his absence.

  “Five minutes,” the man said. “I vow. ‘Twould take no longer than that.”

  “Perhaps for you,” she replied with a low, silky laugh.

  Damn it to hell! Ford looked up at the ceiling. If they would simply take their tryst out into the gardens or find an empty room … any room other than the study. He heard the study door open and cursed again under his breath.

  “In here,” the man said. “I know you want it.”

  “Are you mad?” The woman’s voice no longer held any hint of seductive teasing. “Have you lost all sense of where we are? My husband is in attendance. When we are this close to gaining all we desire, we cannot afford to make a mistake. I want you, too, but for now, keep your breeches buttoned until we have no fear of discovery.”

  The door slammed. “Damnation,” the man snapped. “I assume, then, you will meet me later tonight, as we planned?”

  “Should I find the opportunity.”

  Footsteps faded down the hall.

  Ford left the alcove and threw a glance at the retreating couple. He caught a glimpse of them as they turned the corner. Were he not mistaken, the lovebirds were Thomas Digby and Marlene Bellingham. He shook his head. Every officer but he seemed to be involved in a liaison. Then he placed his ear against the study door. When he was confident the room was empty, he turned the handle and slipped inside. He eased the portal closed and leaned back against the wood.

  A masculine room with a few feminine touches. Heavy drapes spread open to the night, revealing scattered diamond-brilliant stars and a near-full moon, which splashed its silver light through the tall, multipaned windows. In its illumination, he examined the room, calculating where to begin. Shelves crammed with leather-bound books soared against the wall adjacent to the windows. The wall to his left held a collection of mostly antique weaponry, paintings depicting hunting scenes, and an armoire with locked doors emitting an odor of gun oil and black powder. A gun cabinet. The fourth wall, behind a walnut desk, was upholstered in rust-red leather and studded with brass buttons. In an area near the bookcases and windows sat two high-back, leather wing chairs and a piecrust-top occasional table holding a chessboard. Two smaller Queen Anne chairs with petitpoint embroidered seats, a tea table wedged between them, reclined in front of the desk.

  Conscious of the minutes ticking by, Ford crossed to the desk. A search of its top and drawers yielded nothing of value. He turned to a walnut chest sitting in a corner against the leather wall. Its doors were locked. Withdrawing a slim metal wire from his coat pocket, he picked at the lock. Sweat beaded his forehead. Voices and footsteps shuffled in the hall outside and stretched his nerves as tightly as piano wire. True to his luck of late, the hallway leading to the study appeared to be a main thoroughfare. Notwithstanding the constant passing of bodies and his frayed temper, the study door remained closed.

  After several taut minutes, he sprung the lock. The chest doors opened. The moon shed little illumination on the dark interior, and he waited for his eyes to adjust. What emerged from the gloom were piles of papers arranged in files and a metal strongbox—locked, he would wager.

  Ford swept out the files and dumped them on the desktop where he could inspect them in the light from the windows. As he flipped through the pages, his gut informed him he was wasting time. The information he sought would likely be in the strongbox. Returning the files, he retrieved the box. He had laid it on the desk when the study door suddenly opened. Yellow light flowed in from oil lanterns in the hallway. He had but a second to place the box on the floor by his feet, close the chest doors, and sink into the leather chair.

  “Montford?” A head with short, curly brown hair popped in through the door opening. God’s nightshirt, the intruder was Wilhelmina. He nudged the box to hide it well beneath the desk and rose to his feet. His movement drew her eyes.

  She came fully into the room and walked tow
ard him. “Montford, what are you about? I thought you were with my father. But when he came in from the stables, he asked me whether I had seen you.”

  Think. Ford drew a forearm across his damp brow and came out from behind the desk. “I apologize for disappearing, but I get megrims occasionally.” He pressed his fingertips against his temples. “Dreadful things, megrims, y’know. When I felt the symptoms coming on, I sought a quiet place to close my eyes for a while.” He cocked his head to one side. “You do not suffer from them, too, do you?” He watched her expression through hooded eyes. How could he remove her from the study so he would be free to go about his business? Even should he find it impossible to trip the lock on the box, he could not leave it on the floor under the desk and send up a flag betraying the fact that a spy penetrated the house. Colonel Bellingham’s daughter would mention seeing her betrothed alone in the study during the musicale. He must induce her to leave and remain silent about what she had seen.

  Her eyes crinkled with concern. “Wait here,” she said, “and I shall ask Jwana to soak a cloth for your eyes. My sister, Leticia, experienced the most horrific megrims. A cool, wet cloth and a dark room seemed to aid her recovery.” She moved to the drapes and drew them closed, which darkened the study even more.

  He needed more time than her task would grant him. When she turned to leave, he caught her upper arm and pulled her around to face him. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll not require your assistance. In all honesty, I have nearly recovered.” He struck a flint, lit a candle on the table beside him, and looked into her eyes. They were really quite lovely, like treacle buns coated in honey.

  She flicked her eyes from his face to the hand on her arm and back again. A wary alertness settled on her features and tensed her muscles beneath his grip. “My lord,” she said in a low voice. “Pray release my arm.”

  “I think not,” he murmured, bringing up his free hand to clutch her other arm. “Do you know, Wilhelmina, I’ve been considering our engagement.”