“Yes.”
“I see. And what is yer question, my lady?”
“I hoped you might tell me if… Is there anything I might do to end the curse?”
“Ye fear for yer lover,” the old woman surmised.
“Yes,” Brynn replied. “My husband.”
Picking up a coin, Esmerelda bit down on it with her few remaining teeth, testing. “‘Twill not be easy. The curse on Flaming Nell was wondrously powerful.”
“But can it be broken?”
For a long moment, the Gypsy scrutinized her. Finally she nodded. “Do ye love ‘im, yer ’usband?”
“I… I am not certain,” Brynn replied quietly, not wanting to face that question. “If I allowed that to happen, I would be endangering his life. I cannot bear the thought of causing his death.”
“But are ye ready to die for ‘im? That is what ye must ask yerself.”
“Die for him?”
“Aye, m’lady. Ye must love ‘im enough to sacrifice yerself. ”Tis the secret of true love. Are ye ready to give yer life for ’is? Only ye can know yer own ‘art.“
Brynn stared at the wizened Gypsy, her thoughts spinning. Could she love Lucian that much?
Finally she shook herself. “You are saying I must die for him?”
Esmerelda gave her a sympathetic look that held a touch of sadness. “Perhaps ‘twill not come to that.”
“But you cannot tell me what I must do to save him?”
“No, I cannot tell ye that, my lady. Only what I ken for certain. A love that is true can battle the most evil spell.”
It seemed a contradiction, Brynn thought with growing frustration. If she loved Lucian, he would die-yet she must love him deeply enough or he would die.
“Take ‘art, my lady,” Esmerelda said, reaching across the table to grip Brynn’s hand. “All is not lost.”
“Thank you, Mother,” she murmured, offering a distracted smile.
Rising slowly, Brynn left the tent, feeling somewhat numb. She had been given an answer of sorts: she must be willing to sacrifice her own life to save Lucian’s. And yet…
Could she actually credit Esmerelda’s enigmatic counsel? And if so, how could she initiate such a sacrifice, even if it was the key to breaking the curse?
Surprisingly, Lucian was at home when Brynn arrived. She found him descending the grand staircase as she entered with her maid.
As Meg scurried past him toward the rear of the house, Lucian bent to kiss Brynn’s cheek. “There you are. I wondered where you had gone. I trust you had a pleasant morning?”
Brynn hesitated. She didn’t want Lucian to know she had visited the Gypsy fortune-teller; she couldn’t have him asking disturbing questions about her reasons. If he probed too deeply, she would have to acknowledge her growing feelings for him, which alone might be disastrous.
“Yes,” she said finally. “I went with Raven to the lending library.”
She saw his eyes narrow a fraction. “Odd. I encountered Raven just now on my way home from Whitehall. She was bemoaning the fact that her aunt had required her attendance all morning.”
Brynn found it hard to contain her flush. “How scatterbrained of me. I meant, my friend Meredith. I visited the library with Meredith.”
Lucian glanced down at her empty hands. “You must not have found any books to your liking.”
“No, nothing,” Brynn replied, trying to appear undismayed as he searched her face. She gave him her most brilliant smile. “If you will excuse me, I must change for luncheon.”
Lucian watched her go, remembering the guilt he’d seen flash in her green eyes. Brynn had lied to him just now, he had no doubt.
His fists clenched involuntarily as he followed her retreating back. She had never shared her secrets with him in the beginning of their marriage, but lately, with the evolving of their relationship, he’d come to expect a measure of honesty between them. Perhaps he was a fool.
Lucian felt his features harden. He’d once suspected Brynn of complicity in her brother’s unlawful activities, but he’d determinedly quelled his suspicions, resolving to make a new start between them. Had he been too hasty? Why would Brynn lie to him? More critically, was this the first time? Or was it merely the first time he had caught her?
* * *
If Lucian was troubled to discover her lie, he was more disturbed the following morning when he encountered Meg hurriedly leaving his wife’s room with a chamber pot.
“Is something amiss?” he asked of the maid.
“No, milord. Nothing to fret about. Her ladyship is feeling poorly because of the babe, ”tis all.“
Lucian felt shock run through him. “Babe?”
Seeing him stare, Meg clapped a hand over her mouth in dismay. “Oh my, I wasn’t to tell. Her ladyship didn’t want you to know.”
He willed himself to smile. “Well then, it will be our secret that you told.”
After the maid was gone, Lucian stood in the corridor a long moment, feeling stunned. Was he truly to be a father? Was he one step closer to achieving the goal he had desperately longed for?
His emotions ran the gamut from pride to possessiveness, to wonder, to anger that Brynn would purposefully keep such a revelation from him. Why hadn’t she told him? Why had she permitted him to learn secondhand that she was pregnant with his child, especially when she knew how much it would mean to him?
And yet… perhaps there was a reasonable explanation. Perhaps Brynn simply wanted to tell him herself.
Forcing his suspicions aside, he rapped softly on her bedchamber door. When there was no response, Lucian entered quietly. Brynn was sitting before the fire, staring into the flames, a faraway look on her beautiful face.
Tenderness filled him as he watched her. A child bound them together in a way their marriage vows never could. Perhaps now Brynn would come to accept their union…
Lucian drew a slow breath. Only now was he realizing how desperately he wanted her acceptance. She had become increasingly precious to him, more precious even than the child she was carrying.
“Brynn?” he murmured.
She gave a start and looked up.
“Meg said you were feeling ill.”
Flushing, Brynn shook her head. “It’s nothing really.”
Feeling a sudden chill sweep over him, Lucian gave her a measuring look. She intended to keep silent on a matter of such import? Even when he gave her an obvious opening? “You’re certain you are all right?”
She tried to smile. “I’m fine now. Perhaps something I ate at dinner last night disagreed with me.”
Disappointment, sharp and bitter, stung Lucian, before another, more dreaded explanation occurred to him. Was it possible she planned to escape before he could learn about her pregnancy, so that he wouldn’t claim her baby? He’d warned Brynn he meant to keep his son with him, even if she wanted to live apart. Was that why she was determined to remain silent? She was planning to leave him?
Grimly Lucian forced his thoughts away from such a possibility. He couldn’t believe Brynn would serve him such a devastating blow, not when she knew how much siring a child meant to him.
Yet he found his trust greatly strained. Perhaps he was merely searching for excuses to exonerate her. What did he really know about his bewitching wife after all?
“Very well, then.” Willfully Lucian schooled his expression into passivity, but inside his thoughts were roiling.
Brynn was deceiving him, there was no question. And if she could conceal something as momentous as her pregnancy, what other secrets-perhaps even sinister ones-was she keeping from him?
Chapter Seventeen
Lucian stared blindly down at a dossier compiled about a dangerous French agent, not comprehending a word. Much of his intelligence work involved poring over boring reports, routinely searching for anomalies, coincidences, odd recurrences, clues- but he had never resented the tedium as much as now. He had weightier issues on his mind than enemies of the state: namely, his wife.
For the past week
he’d spent a good deal of time at his offices, trying without success to distance himself in some measure from Brynn. He had yet to determine what to do about her lies. She still hadn’t told him of her pregnancy, which only served to underscore the shaky foundation of their marriage and rekindle his misgivings.
Adding to his disquiet was his recurring death dream. The nightmare had become more vivid and powerful than ever-of Brynn watching him die, perhaps even causing his death. What the significance of that grim image held, Lucian wasn’t certain, but it did nothing to allay his growing fear that he couldn’t trust her.
Realizing suddenly that he wasn’t alone, Lucian looked up from his desk to see Philip Barton standing in the doorway. Lucian forced a smile and invited his subordinate to enter.
To his surprise, rather than taking a seat as usual, Philip remained standing, his expression tight-lipped, his fingers agitatedly working the brim of his beaver hat.
Finally Philip spoke. “I greatly regret disappointing you, my lord. If you wish me to resign, you have only to say so.”
Lucian heard the misery in the younger man’s tone, but had no idea what might have caused it. He raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. “What the devil are you talking about? You haven’t disappointed me, as far as I know.”
“You didn’t trust me enough to divulge your changing the date of the latest gold shipment.”
Lucian felt a cold chill squeeze his chest. Events had been quiet of late, perhaps too quiet. Two shipments of gold bullion had been safely delivered to the allies on the Continent, and nothing had been heard from the treasonous Lord Caliban.
“I never changed the date,” Lucian said slowly. “Suppose you explain yourself.”
For the first time his subordinate looked confused. “But the letter…”
“What letter, man?” Lucian demanded impatiently.
“The letter you wrote authorizing the change in schedule.”
“I wrote no such letter.”
“My God…” An expression of horror seized Philip’s features. “The gold is gone, then… It was retrieved yesterday, on your order.”
Lucian rose to his feet, feeling dread boil up inside him. “I think I should see this letter.”
Delivering gold to fund the war effort was not a complex process: the London mint issued gold coinage, which was conveyed to the Bank of England and then shipped out under heavy guard to the Continent to meet troop payrolls and make payments to the countries of the Triple Alliance so they would continue to fight on Britain’s side. The transfer process had rarely failed until now.
The bank manager was unnerved to see Lord Wycliff and alarmed to think the gold had been consigned into the wrong hands. “But… but the l-letter of authorization seemed absolutely g-genuine,” he stammered.
“Allow me to see it, please,” Lucian demanded tersely.
With a murmur of distress, the manager signaled for an underling to fetch the letter. When it was presented in short order, Lucian grimly scanned the contents.
For purposes of national security, I am authorizing a change in date of the next scheduled shipment of gold. My agents will call the morning of October 5th at ten A.M. to receive the strongboxes.
Lucian Tremayne, Earl of Wycliff
His stomach roiling, Lucian passed the letter on to his subordinate. There was no question in his mind, though. The shipment was gone. Three strongboxes of new sovereigns-over a hundred thousand pounds’ worth-stolen effortlessly, without a drop of bloodshed or strife. No bloodshed yet, Lucian amended, his mouth tightening with fury. Such a sum would permit Napoleon’s armies to continue their slaughter of the allied forces for weeks.
“This does appear to have been written by you, my lord,” Philip said, his tone flat with dread.
“Yes,” Lucian replied through gritted teeth. “An excellent forgery.”
The manager wrung his hands in misery, looking as if he might cry. “I confess I thought the change odd, my lord, but the letter seemed to be in order- and it bore your seal.”
Taking the letter back, Lucian inspected the now-broken wax wafer, which had indeed been imprinted with the Wycliff seal. An imprecise warning thought teased the back of his mind, but before he could make sense of it, the manager launched into a spate of profuse apologies.
Brusquely Lucian thanked him and dismissed the man with a curt wave.
“Do you suppose it is the work of Caliban?” Philip asked when they were alone.
“Who else?” Lucian retorted grimly. “But he obviously had assistance from someone within our offices. Only two people besides you and myself knew when the next shipment was to take place, and I would trust both of them with my life.”
“Then who could have gained access to the schedule? And pulled off such a precise forgery?”
Lucian frowned. “One of our clerks might have accomplished it,” he said slowly. “Who wrote out the copy of the schedule?”
“None of the clerks, my lord. On your orders, I myself copied the original, but I had not yet delivered it to the bank. Both schedules are locked in my desk.”
“Locks can be picked, Philip. Which clerk usually performs such tasks?”
“Normally Jenkins,” Philip murmured, clearly dismayed.
“So he would have known the plans for the gold shipments that were stolen earlier this year? Before we took the responsibility from him?”
“It would seem so.”
Lucian turned abruptly on his heel.
“Where are you going, my lord?” Philip called after him.
“To hunt down our traitor.”
Evening had fallen by the time they researched an address and located the flat of Mr. Charles Jenkins, a senior clerk employed in the intelligence section of the Foreign Office. Lucian planned to withhold judgment until he could conduct an interrogation, but any doubts about the clerk’s complicity were dispelled the instant the door was opened; Jenkins took one look at his callers and bolted.
He reached a window and managed to raise the sash partway before Lucian caught him. Spinning the man around, Lucian threw him up against the wall and took hard hold of his cravat.
“Did no one ever tell you it is bad form to turn your back on visitors?” Lucian queried, his silken tone edged with steel.
Jenkins’s face contorted with fear as he panted out a question. “What… do you want, my lord?”
“I believe you have something to confess.”
“Confess? I don’t… know what… you mean-”
His grip tightening, Lucian twisted the cravat. Jenkins clawed at his throat but was no more forthcoming.
“Who paid you to forge the letter?” Lucian demanded, losing patience.
“What… letter?”
Enraged by the clerk’s brazen equivocation, Lucian hauled the man back to the window and shoved his head through the opening, giving him a good look at the dark cobblestone alley three floors below. “You’ll find it a long way down.”
Jenkins made a mewling sound.
“Tell me who hired you.”
“I can’t! He will kill me…”
“What do you think I intend to do to you?”
When the clerk only whimpered and shook his head, Lucian lifted him by the belt and shoved; his torso went through, then his hips. Lucian stopped shoving at midthigh, holding his victim solely by one ankle.
Jenkins screamed in terror as he found himself dangling over the precipice. “All right! I will tell you what I know!”
Lucian waited another moment before pulling the terrified clerk back inside. Jenkins sank to a trembling heap on the floor, holding his throat and eyeing his assaulter with dread.
“I advise you to keep to the truth,” Lucian said after a moment, when his rage was better under control. “You’ll be hanged for treason unless I can be persuaded to show leniency.”
The clerk visibly swallowed and nodded his head.
“Was it you who divulged the schedules of gold shipments months ago?”
“Y-yes, my l
ord.”
“I suppose you have an excuse for betraying your country and sending countless good men to their deaths?”
The clerk’s expression twisted into agony. “I never meant… I needed money badly to pay my debts… and my mother… They threatened her life, said they would kill her if I didn’t obey. I swear I didn’t realize the gold would end up in French hands.”
“You didn’t realize?” Lucian repeated contemptuously.
“No, I did not! I was only told to supply the schedule.”
“But you understood your crime quite well after the first theft, considering the uproar at the Foreign Office.”
Jenkins hung his head in shame. “Yes,” he whispered. “But by then it was too late. I was in too deep.”
“Very well, tell me who is masterminding the gold thefts.”
The clerk’s expression turned earnest. “I don’t know, my lord. I was merely an underling. I heard his name mentioned once-Lord Caliban-but I never saw him.”
“Someone must be giving you orders.”
“Someone did, yes. I received my instructions from a gentleman… Sir Giles Frayne…”
Lucian felt his heart lurch at the name, but he was spared from answering when Philip spoke for the first time. “Sir Giles has been dead for months.”
Involuntarily Lucian met his subordinate’s gaze. Philip was one of the few people who knew how Sir Giles had met his ignominious end.
Lucian glanced down at his hands that were suddenly unsteady. The memory of that bleak moment would always be etched in his mind. Killing his friend had unleashed something dark and primal within him, an ugliness he longed to forget. Yet he was prepared to kill again if it meant stopping the treacherous Caliban and his cohorts in treason.
“A convenient claim,” Lucian said finally, “now that Sir Giles is no longer alive to defend his name. How can you honestly expect me to believe you?”
“I have proof, my lord… if you wish to see it?”
“Yes.”
Keeping a wary eye on Lucian, the clerk struggled to his feet and went to one corner of the room. Lucian spared a glance around the spartan chamber, which held a cot, a desk, a chair and reading lamp, and a cabinet with a brazier for cooking. If Jenkins was being paid for treason, there was little luxury here to show for it.
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