“He had come to meet Lord Slough. Their conversation made that plain. Lord Slough said the other man was late, and the man replied that...” She shuddered.
“That what?” Now Fen’s voice was sharp, almost impatient.
“That he’d had to kill a footman.”
Fen closed his eyes. “Damn.”
“He said the footman had been hovering on the terrace, so he’d had to—to dispatch him. Those are his exact words, and at first I couldn’t believe my ears. I can’t imagine killing someone—just like that! But then Lord Slough said, ‘You killed a footman? What an idiotic risk!’ and I knew it was true.”
“Christ.” Fen sucked in a breath and blew it out again. “Poor fellow.”
“Yes, and then, by their conversation, I realized that the killer was a French spy, and that Lord Slough was giving him information.”
Fen said nothing.
“Did you hear what I said? Do you understand? Lord Slough is a traitor.”
“Yes, I know,” Lord Fenimore said.
CHAPTER FIVE
FEN COULDN’T QUITE believe it. What absurd luck, both good and bad. Good because they now had proof that Lord Slough was a traitor—not that they’d had any doubt. Rotten luck for Stinson―a good man, but unfortunately not sufficiently vigilant to deal with a spy. Not only that, his sacrifice was for nothing. They’d missed their chance of identifying Slough’s French contact.
Andromeda scrambled up, her face a picture of horror in the flickering firelight. “What do you mean, you know?”
“I learned a few days ago that Lord Slough has been using my wagons to deliver French officers—prisoners of war on parole―to the coast,” he said wearily.
“What? How?”
“By ordering furniture to be delivered from here to his house in Kent, and insisting that one of his men accompany my driver—for security, he says. On the way, by dint of giving my driver a small bribe to allow passengers, they pick up one or two French officers and bring them along, too. My partner, Harry Wellcome, took over for the usual driver once. He’s a friendly soul, so didn’t object to a passenger and only realized afterward what was going on.”
She still hovered as if poised to flee. “If you know Lord Slough is a traitor, why is he still at large?”
Fen pondered what to say. “I informed my father, but since Lord Slough is on the best of terms with many government officials, including my father, whilst I am not, and since Harry is known to associate with men of republican ideals, they are far more likely to believe Slough’s story―which, if they question him, will be that Harry took advantage of deliveries to Kent to transport the Frenchmen.”
The sense of his words seemed to sink in, for her pose slackened a little.
“But they won’t question him, because it would be grossly insulting to do so, and in any event, the word of a gentleman is always accepted over that of a tradesman.” He paused, adding sardonically, “Because of his lower class.” He thought he detected a wince on her fine features. It served her right. “And Harry is from a rough background, so he doesn’t stand a chance. He has left the country until I can exonerate him.”
She put up her chin. “I thought much the same thing. Not about being of a lower class, of course, but about being a woman. Any of the men I might have spoken to about Lord Slough would have thought me hysterical.”
“Quite likely.” Fen heard a rustle in the corner. Their talk must have woken Cuff, the hobgoblin who’d come with him to London. Cuff and Andromeda would be pleased to see one another. Cuff had lived in the Gibbons household until he’d left them to accompany Fen. In a hob, leaving home was unusual behavior, but Fen had accepted Cuff’s kindly presence with gratitude.
Best to get this conversation back on course. “So you see, my only alternative is to find proof of Slough’s treason. I hope to identify his French connection and convince my father to set a trap to catch them both.” He sighed. “We missed our chance last night, but your testimony will bolster mine.”
She still gaped at him. Once again, he wondered why Andromeda had chosen to come here, of all places. She despised him, and the feeling was mutual.
He sighed. “You’d better tell me the rest. Did he catch you behind the curtain? Is that why you ran?”
Once again she sat on the hearthrug. “Yes and no. He didn’t catch me, precisely. After they both had gone, I left by the terrace doors. I wanted to go find Papa, but when I thought again, I realized what would have happened. He might have doubted that I’d really heard any such thing, but he would have felt obliged to confront Lord Slough in private. And—and Lord Slough would have denied it, of course, but that wouldn’t be enough to ensure his safety. I feared he would kill my father.”
“It seems likely.”
She gazed at him with wide eyes, as if she couldn’t quite believe that he’d agreed.
“That’s the sort of man he is,” Fen said. She nodded sadly; poor girl, she must regret her choice of fiancé.
“Then Lord Slough commented on my slippers, which were soiled, and said I shouldn’t have gone out on the terrace, and something in his voice made me wonder if he knew I’d been behind the curtain. I’d said I had a headache, you see, to cover my distress, and he tried to convince Aunt Mattie to stay at the ball while he escorted me home. I feared he would murder me in the carriage.”
“You were right to be afraid. So... you poured wine down your gown as an excuse to get away.” He couldn’t help but admire that piece of resourcefulness. “That was clever of you.”
Her lips trembled into a smile, and shame pricked him. No, she wasn’t the innocent virgin she should be, but she had risked her life for her country, while he’d suspected her of dallying with a rake.
“And mighty courageous of you to brave the London streets at night.” She was lucky to have arrived alive and unscathed, but he didn’t say that. “Whose blood is on that knife?”
“A man who grabbed me.” She gave a convulsive shiver. “He wouldn’t let go, so I stabbed his thigh and ran away.”
“Good girl.” He stood to fetch a basin, soap, and a towel, and set them down before the hearth. He pulled up a chair for her. “Come, sit down.”
She did. First things first, he decided. “I owe you an apology,” he said. He didn’t want to apologize—for some reason, all the anger he’d hidden away for years had come to the fore—but what she’d done in the past shouldn’t affect his behavior now. “All I can say is...” It was a poor excuse, but it would have to do. “When one is outside the beau monde, one sees it with different eyes, and vanity and dishonor seem to prevail. That doesn’t give me the right to mistreat you.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed.
Andromeda didn’t quite want to forgive him because she didn’t quite believe him. Fen’s tone was stiff and flat, as if he was forcing the words out. Besides, not everyone in the ton was horrid. His unpleasantness had been directed all too obviously at her.
He poured warm water into the basin and reached for her slippers. “I’ll wash your feet.”
She slid them under her skirts. “Lord Fenimore! You mustn’t. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“My dear girl, nothing about this situation is proper.”
How true. They were alone together at night in his bedchamber. Even being alone in the same house as him wouldn’t do. Her widowed friend, Annabelle, had lived in a bachelor household—but since Jack Warwick was her late husband’s kinsman, she’d escaped the worst of gossip. Andromeda was unrelated to Fen’s family, so she had no excuse—or rather, none that people would accept, even if the truth came out. They would say she should have gone to a female relative or friend, and certainly never to an unmarried man.
I’m completely ruined, she thought. Aunt Mattie had almost certainly made a fuss, and by now word of Andromeda’s disappearance must be all over London.
“Besides, you’re bleeding, and not only must I clean and bind your cuts so they’ll heal, but you’ll ruin my carpets if I let
you go on this way.”
She gave a sputter of a laugh, and he reached under her skirts and took her left foot before she could stop him. Their eyes met briefly—and both looked away. Did he remember their love of long ago, the summer when she was seventeen years old and he was twenty-one? Stolen kisses, whispered vows. They had sneaked off to a meadow and lain in the long grass in each other’s arms, and when he’d kissed her bare feet, the thrill of desire had coursed all the way to her private parts.
He’d refused to go farther than that, insisting that it wouldn’t be right. She’d well-nigh thrown herself at him, but still he’d refused. She’d gone off in a huff and flirted with his rakish friends, but neither tantrums nor jealousy had moved him. In despair, clinging to the remnants of her belief in magic, she’d called on Mama’s locket to come to her aid.
A few days later, he had given her the cut direct. She’d tried to talk to him more than once, but each time he had gone still and cold, then turned away as if she didn’t exist.
So much for magic. After that, pride had taken over. She’d turned a cold shoulder, too, but it had been a relief when he’d left home and gone into trade.
Gently, he began to peel the slipper away from her foot, and when she whimpered with pain, he dipped the corner of the towel in the basin and dabbed at the slipper until it came off.
“Into the basin.” He set her foot in the warm water and went for the second slipper. Her right foot had fared a little better. He lathered the soap. His big, warm hands slipped and slid over her feet. Fairy feet, he’d called them back then, tickling her toes with his tongue.
Now he only said, “They’re shallow cuts. They’ll heal quickly.”
“Fen, what am I going to do? You must surely see that I can’t go home.”
“No, you can’t,” he agreed. With brisk, unromantic dabs of the towel, he dried her feet. He picked up the goblet of brandy and poised it over the sole of one foot. “This will sting.”
Andromeda closed her eyes, clenching her teeth so she wouldn’t squeak. He poured some over the other foot as well. Once the sting subsided, she said, “Then where shall I go?”
“I’ll think of something.” He reached for a stool and set her feet upon it. Then he fetched the poultry knife, washed off the blood, and dried it.
He put the knife back on the dressing table, tossed the dirty water out the window, and returned. “What did Lord Slough and the other fellow discuss? Tell me everything you heard. One never knows what may be significant.”
She shut old, best-forgotten romance out of her mind and concentrated. “Lord Slough said there would be a shipment the day after tomorrow, and that it would be the last one.”
“Is that so,” murmured Fen.
“Lord Slough explained that if he continued buying furniture, he would begin to arouse suspicion.”
Fen grunted. “I was surprised when he bought from me in the first place. He’s the worst sort of snob.”
Andromeda opened her mouth to agree and then shut it again. He wouldn’t believe her. She hung her head, ashamed that she’d been such a fool as to agree to marry Lord Slough.
“Anything else?” asked Fen.
Relieved, she returned to her story. “The spy objected—in fact, he was quite unpleasant about it. Then Lord Slough offered to sell the names of two of our spies in France.”
Fen sucked in a breath. “That’s a thousand times worse than helping prisoners to escape.” He paused. “Damn.” Another pause. “I beg your pardon.”
She suppressed a hysterical urge to laugh. He’d been unbelievably rude to her years ago and not much less so today, and now he was apologizing for bad language!
“The spy called them dead men and said they would be made to talk first.” She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. “I think he meant torture.”
Fen nodded. “Did he hand over the names?”
“Not yet,” Andromeda said. “They argued over price, and the spy said he had to consult with his master.”
“Hell and damnation,” Fen said. “One French spy was bad enough. I suppose I should have realized there were more, but I’m a furniture merchant. I know less than nothing about espionage and would rather it stayed that way.” He blew out a long breath. “Did Slough make an arrangement to meet the spy?”
She closed her eyes and tried to remember. “Lord Slough told the spy... no, it was the other way round. The spy told Lord Slough to meet with his master tomorrow, because he didn’t have the authority to agree to Slough’s terms.”
For a long moment, Fen was silent. “It will certainly be better to catch the master than the servant. Thank you, Andromeda.” He sounded as if he meant it, and her heart swelled. If this meant he would hate her even a little bit less...
“It’s time for bed now,” he said.
Her eyes widened, but mercifully she was too exhausted and uncomfortable to try any of her wiles on him. Not that she seemed so inclined at the moment, but when their eyes had met for a few seconds, he’d wondered. Oh, how he remembered kissing and licking those lovely feet—and stopping right there, for if he hadn’t, his tongue would have wandered all the way to the apex of her thighs and feasted indeed.
He knew for certain that she remembered it, too.
But he also doubted that she could undress by herself. “There are no women here, so I suppose I’ll have to unlace your stays.” He knew he sounded surly but couldn’t help it. Time was when he’d wanted nothing more than to love this woman forever.
“If you don’t mind,” she said stiffly, standing up, hissing as her injured feet touched the rug. She pulled a small reticule from the top of her stays and set it on the dresser. “If I can put up with it, surely you can, too.”
He swore under his breath―at the moment he couldn’t seem to avoid swearing―and went behind her to undo the hooks at the back of the gown. The décolletage was too low, but now that he was thinking rationally, he knew the maid at Lady Corington’s must have given her whatever she could find. Quickly, he unlaced her stays and stood back. “I’ll give you something of mine to wear. It’ll be too big, but you need more than a shift.” He went over to his chest of drawers, pulled out a nightshirt, and tossed it onto the bed.
Damn. This would not be comfortable or easy, but they both had to sleep. “There’s a chamber pot under the bed. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He went to the door. “Call me when you’re ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To go to bed.” She frowned, and he added, “When you’ve changed into the nightshirt and used the chamber pot and done whatever else you have to do. There’s a hairbrush on the dressing table if you need it.”
“Very well, but why would I call you?”
“So I can come to bed, too,” he said.
She was already pale with fatigue, but now she went stark white. “You can’t come to bed... in here... with me!”
Considering the way she’d thrown herself at him five years ago, this should be hilarious. It wasn’t. It made him want to swear and throw things. “I have nowhere else to sleep.”
“No other bedchambers?”
“One, but it belongs to my valet.” This wasn’t really a lie. It was Harry’s room, and he had disguised himself as a manservant—a snobbish one of the sort that Fen had dispensed with years ago. There wasn’t room for live-in servants above the shop, so he had his clothing cleaned and cared for elsewhere.
“No settee? No sofa?” She clenched her small fists.
“Only chairs. And before you ask, we’re out of sofas in the shop, too.” A damned good thing, because he certainly didn’t feel like sleeping in the showroom for all his workers to find in the morning. “I need what little sleep I can get. The next few days are going to be hell in too many ways.”
If she took that as an insult, so be it. She put her hands on her hips and tried to look fierce, but her lip trembled.
He relented a little. “Don’t be a fool, Andromeda. We’re not going to do anything we shouldn�
�t.”
She narrowed her eyes. “No, we certainly are not.”
Lord, what a fiasco. “Then what’s bothering you?”
“I won’t be able to sleep at all if you’re naked!”
He burst out laughing. Was that all that bothered her?
“It’s not proper,” she shouted, crimson with rage. The fire crackled, sounding as angry as she. “It’s not right!”
“Hush,” he retorted. “Someone might hear you.”
“Just because I’m now completely ruined doesn’t mean I should be treated like a trollop.”
Where had she got that idea? He’d thought he was treating her rather well. “I won’t be naked, you idiotic girl,” he said. “I’ll wear what I have on now.”
“It’s still not right,” she said. “I’m unmarried. I can’t share my bed with a man.”
“In case you have forgotten,” he said between his teeth, “it’s my bed, and I don’t want you there, either.” He lit a candle from the branch on the dresser and went to the door. “But unless you wish to sleep on the floor, that’s the way it will be.” He left the room, shutting the door behind him.
CHAPTER SIX
FOR A FEW horrid moments, Andromeda was tempted to lie on the hearthrug, but judging by Lord Fenimore’s mood, he would leave her there. Besides, she had abandoned childish behavior, like tantrums and believing in magic, when she had decided to mold herself into the perfect wife.
Perhaps something of her reputation could be retrieved from this disaster. She had a tolerable dowry, so she could reasonably hope to be sold to some man who needed money more than a virgin wife.
No, faced with that, she would rather not marry at all.
Hastily, avoiding such dismal thoughts, she discarded the rest of her clothing and donned the huge garment Fen had given her. She brushed her hair, more uneasy by the second. She didn’t want him to try to bed her—of course she didn’t—but how horrid that Fen—Lord Fenimore―felt so little desire for her that he could sleep next to her without qualms. She got into bed and curled up under the coverlet.
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