“Yes.” Whatever it was, it was vital she press the advantage. “And not as if I invited him either. So now … now, you see the situation I am in? One where I do not know how to say to him I am innoce—”
“Leave this with me.”
***
Devorlane eased into the frayed maroon armchair, the most comfortable by far of all the chairs in the library, even if it did sag in the middle.
“A straight answer, my boy, would be appreciated.” Lord Koorecroft had assumed the chair opposite. Now he set his cane to the side. “After all, I know Colonel Caruthers regards you as suitable spying material. He told me.”
Maybe he did. Why the blazes should he do any more for the damned country with his leg in this state though, just because he spoke a little French and slept with anything? When Chessington should have been a pleasure palace by now? And this damned old fool was here to plague him? Christ he was in a bad enough way already.
“I said I would think it over. But this damnable wound … detained me.” He edged his leg into a more comfortable position. “Then Ardent passed away.”
“It’s just … if you say you are not, then clearly you are not.”
Not what? He let his gaze stray to the brandy decanter resplendent on the mahogany table. Ardent passing away, or not, had nothing to do with the thirst that filled him to quaff the contents, with opium. What he had swallowed after dinner was insufficient to dull what throbbed not just in his leg but in the very bone. But Christ, suitable spying material? Imagine being let loose on the French—their women anyway—when already he was so damned addicted to sex, he wanted some specimen who had ruined him? He must be needing help. How else to explain it? He grimaced.
“I’m not.”
Lord Koorecroft frowned. “Very well. It still requires me to ask a very unpleasant question.”
As the old duffer had that Christmas Eve.
“Go on.” Devorlane reached across the gleaming table top.
“What was you doing at Lady Armstrong’s window?”
Devorlane almost dropped the decanter. It was obvious what he was doing. Watching her when she didn’t have on any clothes. But he wasn’t going to admit she didn’t have any on and he was watching, because that would make him seem even more damned unwholesome than he obviously was already. “She told you this, I suppose?”
He bet she didn’t tell old Koorecroft she was Sapphire though. Oh no. That would be putting her pretty head in the noose.
“She told me she found you in her damned bedroom and that she felt forced to kiss you.”
The amber liquid gleamed in the glass. Devorlane stared at it for an instant, trying to swallow the sneakiness of that behavior, then he lifted his gaze. He owed her nothing. It was time this was in the open. After all, Lord Koorecroft knew such a woman existed. Think of the hornet’s nest it would kick if she was found right here on his patch. How good that would look for the old duffer in the eyes of the country. Something to take everyone’s minds off the war. “And did she tell you why?”
How incredible to say this after all these years. Of course he had no concrete proof. That the damned vixen had gone to Lord Koorecroft with her fanciful tale of woe, after kissing him like that, was good enough though. To think he had imagined her attractive. Especially when she had no clothes on and stood in that copper tub, an exotic blur. But now? Now? The sneaky damned snit brought this on herself. So now she could damn well take what was coming to her.
He raised the glass to his lips. A private, fortifying toast. “Well?”
“Indeed. She did. She said it was in defense of the realm.”
Devorlane thanked God he hadn’t actually taken a sip. Then amber droplets might spatter his embroidered waistcoat. The cheek of this damned snit. The conniving brilliance too. “From what? A decorated military wolf at her door?”
“Be serious, man. Do you think that’s funny?”
So far as Devorlane knew, he didn’t. Lord Koorecroft had this questing, disgusted way of looking though, doubtless honed by long years in court, as if he had just planked his sacred foot down in horseshit. And, as if that was not bad enough, clearly it was all Devorlane’s fault. He looked like that now. It made it hard for Devorlane to suppress what curled his lips or the half chuckle that issued from between them. “I think it’s preposterous.”
“Lady Armstrong came to me, and now I see she was fully justified in doing so if this is your response.”
It was, wasn’t it? Preposterous and his response. Did the old goat but know the truth of who he had on his patch, he wouldn’t fulminate like this. Certainly he wouldn’t fulminate at him. That same goat would have the four members of this little ring up before the bench faster than he could say “good.”
Lord Koorecroft sat forward. Obviously the books had ears and it was vital neither they, nor the shelves they sat on, heard what he had to say. “May I remind you that the circumstances of your removal from Chessington all those years ago warrant—”
“Here’s the thing about those years and dear Mrs. Armstrong, Your Grace.” He sank the remains of the glass. Then he filled another. He would need to fortify himself for what he was about to say at long damned last.
“She is dear Mrs. to you here only,” Lord Koorecroft snapped. “Her husband is a former spy, sir, and dying, and entitled to more than you tomcatting through her shrubbery, putting her in such fear for their lives, she felt obliged to act as she did.”
Fear for their lives? Act as she did? Now Devorlane did splatter, not just down the front of his waistcoat, but Lord Koorecroft’s too. Lord Koorecroft didn’t look pleased. In fact, in addition to looking as if he had been splattered upon, he looked fit to burst with indignation. Although it was empty of sound for a second or so he glanced at his waistcoat then back at Devorlane, his mouth worked furiously. Another outrage to add to the long growing list of those Devorlane was already guilty of?
“You kissed that damned girl, did you not, all these years ago? That blasted one you claimed was that damnable thief, Sapphire?”
“Hardly a contagion. But yes, you’re perfectly correct there.” He passed the back of his hand across his mouth. “And actually, you have no idea how right I—”
“And you have kissed women since.”
“I think the worry would be if I kissed men.”
“You can kiss a horse’s backside for all I care, sir, so long as you leave the damned woman alone. Are we agreed on that? Must I take the matter further?”
There was nowhere the old coot could take it, it hadn’t been taken already. But astonishment flared along his veins. A spy? Dear Elgie was a spy?
Envy for her breathtaking, her stunning, ability to undermine him, encased his heartbeat. So even now he sat here, the rug pulled from beneath him, if only for the second the thought pulsed across his raddled senses.
It wouldn’t be the first or the last time such a thing happened. Elgie being a spy that was. Her too. Despite what they were, it wouldn’t be anything unusual at all. The military would welcome their talent for stealing and disguise. Their ability to housebreak, especially at a time like this when a war needed to be won by fair means or foul. At any cost. Even if that cost was agreeing to a pardon, or a reduced sentence, whatever deal may have been struck. After all, nothing had been heard of Sapphire for months.
As for him? What he did about this if she was a spy?
He sighed. He sighed deeply in advance of not slamming his foot down on the floor, the sheer exasperation that swamped. Damn fine he’d look now saying she was Sapphire. Perhaps he was a peer of the realm, but he was a thief. A drink-befuddled thief with a taste for opiates.
Maybe he didn’t want to think so, but he was a thief because men like Koorecroft said so. And he’d been bundled into the army to hush the scandal. He’d only to cut his glance sideways to see this room was but a dog-eared picture of what it had been before he went away.
It was as if the damned woman knew and had played this to her satisfaction. Knew o
rders were what he’d learned the hard way to adhere to. Knew he was only a peer of the realm because Ardent had died. The only imperfect thing the perfect paragon had ever done in his whole damned life. Take the matter further? Devorlane set the glass down on the table.
“No. You needn’t.”
What could he do about it after all, right here right now, while there was a war on? Look like a traitor next? If he spoke up he would. But he wasn’t done with this. Lord Koorecroft was making a huge mistake to think he was. Not when Devorlane was just as well acquainted with Colonel Caruthers. Not when he was the one who had made Devorlane the offer to act as a spy.
Never mind Lord Koorecroft. Sapphire would be a damn fool to think it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cass squinted at the gray light edging the drapes. Maybe this floor was comfortable where she’d positioned cushions, but if she had to take much more of this she would scream. Sleeping on floors, creeping about her own house. Not only that … what was the rattling and tapping at her door? She dug her fingers beneath the cushions and clutched the handle of the claw hammer. She may have avoided the soiree with Gil, but if she suffered any more of this, or him threatening to go out nabbing when her back was turned, or rattling the handle of her door at night, it didn’t matter what she owed him. She swore the hammer would swing. If she heard those damnable words once more, ‘pickin’s are rich here,’ she swore she would.
“Saff? Yer there?”
Although it was Ruby, Cass still felt obliged to muster her enthusiasm. Complaints on the subject of their guest were considered in the same category as him: unwelcome. Heaving a sigh, she sat up. Her neck had cricked and she took a second to straighten it.
“What?”
“Saff, open the soddin’ door will yer? We need ter talk.”
She could imagine what about. In some ways last week had been a huge mistake. Especially when Lord Koorecroft then invited her and Gil to dinner. Oh God, please don’t tell her Gil had taken some valuable piece of silver and now Lord Koorecroft was at the damned door wanting it back.
Gil had spent a lot of time admiring his knife and fork, after all. Or rather Lord Koorecroft’s, although by now it had probably been flogged off at Newbury market. Or worse. So it probably belonged to neither but some damned housewife who’d no doubt bought it for three bob.
Once a thief …
“Coming.”
Rising to her feet, she set her jaw. She must explain to him again why the room was not furnished. Because they’d each of them, Pearl and Ruby and herself, stopped nicking. Who hadn’t? Gil Gressingham. Who was driving them back to it, by taking bottle after bottle of brandy and claret to placate himself? Gil Gressingham. Who would she give her eye teeth to see the back of but couldn’t now she’d concocted this elaborate deception? Gil Gressingham.
Drawing a breath, she clasped the key. “Just a minute. Sorry, Ruby. I’m just—”
“Sleepin’ on the bleedin’ floor.” No sooner had the key ground in the lock than Ruby swept into the room. “Well, yer don’t need ter no more. Gil’s gone.”
“Gone?”
How much of a blessing, a miracle was this? Cass shut her mouth, which had dropped open. Gone? She could move her things back to the monk’s cell. Of course she could have before this. She just hadn’t been certain about Devorlane Hawley hanging about and seeing she didn’t live with Gil.
So long as Gil had gone, gone far from here and he never came back, how wonderful was this?
“Yip. Popped his soddin’ clogs. He’s copped it.”
“What?” Cass’s vision of somewhere far had not encompassed this, although certainly he was unlikely to come back.
“No bloomin’ need ter look so surprised. He soddin’ said himself he weren’t long for this world.” Ruby advanced on the curtains. “And he weren’t.”
Cass’s heart thudded. Dare she think it? In some ways the answer to her prayers? Maybe it wasn’t nice to think that. But then she never invited him here.
Of course, she and Gil went back. For a second it took her breath away to think how far and that she was shot of him at last. “Where is he?”
“In his bed. Lot better’n where some of us have ended up. I mean Diamond’s goin’ ter swing, i’n’ she?”
Brushing past Ruby, Cass hastened along the corridor, so narrow she could have pressed her hands to either wall. Maybe she did press them? Then she pushed the door open. She didn’t want to think of that evening, the one she could not forgive Gil for. To feel the burden of it bearing down on her shoulders, like a weight of bricks. “You’re sure it’s not an act?”
“If it is it’s a good one. And we never killed the ugly, bleedin’ beggar either, though I know there were times yer wished we could, after the way he let yer down that night.”
True. Gil looked peaceful, spread out on the bed there, his head against the brass rail, his hand lying prone on the soft damask cover. But blood? Why was there blood?
Ruby squeezed past her. “He haemorrhaged is all, Saff. Way he were coughin’ last night, is it any soddin’ wonder? Yer can tell what his last thoughts were for and that he died happy.”
True. The soaking mess there, to the right of where he lay, was orange wine, judging by the pinkish tinge. It was not by any stretch of the imagination a large stain, although the bottle had been drained.
“Maybe not as happy as if it had been brandy. But me and Pearl had ter hide that. Gil always was a fiend on that.”
Cass turned her face to the side, trying to think. While it would be nice to think she finally had something, something tangible to pin on Lord Devorlane Hawley, it would lead to an enquiry. Then where would she be?
It wasn’t as if he’d troubled her in any way since she’d taken herself to Lord Koorecroft.
If he was to know her insurance was gone though? And not just that. How could she very well arrange with the local vicar to bury Gil here? After the things she’d said, Lord Koorecroft would probably insist on something.
Imagine if word were passed to the military that one of their retired spies—and of course they would not know who this spy was—had popped his clogs. Then it would come out she’d been lying. The fine hairs on the back of Cass’s neck pricked up.
Where Gil came from, others might follow. What if they did and appeared now, at his funeral?
She eased her gaze over his prone form once more.
“We need to bury him.”
***
Even though Devorlane Hawley had given Lord Koorecroft his word he’d stay away and give the “widow” Armstrong no more trouble, his fine, chestnut mount hadn’t. Mephisto had ambled up the shallow incline close to Barwych of his own accord after a short canter across the downs. Of course he’d done nothing to stop the gelding. Mephisto had a mind of his own.
Of course he glanced down onto the wooded plain below. Why not see what her thief-ship was up to?
Giving his word was paying lip service. He’d other plans. Little irons in hotly burning flames. He’d written to Colonel Caruthers. It wasn’t exactly an acceptance of the spying invitation. No. More an outlining of one concerning a certain person.
Reining Mephisto, he stopped among the trees where he remembered picnicking as a boy, on the rustling carpet of leaves. Surprisingly no smoke rose from any of the chimney pots at Barwych, despite the sharp tang of frost in the air.
Desertion was something he hadn’t considered. Why should she run now that Lord Koorecroft ate out of her nabbing hand?
He skirted his gaze to the left. Although he couldn’t see properly for the trees, she was there. At least someone was.
“I’m tellin’ yer, soddin’ hell, I’m tellin’ yer, yer can’t. Yer … ”
“Just take his feet. Do it will you?”
His feet? Devorlane clicked his tongue in the hope of nudging Mephisto closer. The beast was finicky. The last thing he wanted was being caught where Lord Koorecroft had told him not to be. Although, when he considered it, Lord Koorecroft’s spec
ifics had been shrubberies. Shrubbery? He wasn’t even on her damned property, was he?
Whose feet and why, was what he had the burning urge to discover.
Of course, he could be mistaken about that. Maybe it wasn’t feet at all? Maybe it wasn’t anything?
“Pearl. The spade … ”
The instruction was faint but, no, he didn’t mistake it. A spade. A spade and feet. A spade and feet meant one thing. He’d seen enough death to know.
He dismounted and crept one or two steps down the incline through the faint mist coiling around his boots. The dew soaked them with each mushy step. If this baggage was down there with a spade, he must be careful.
For that matter it might be his feet she was instructing Pearl and Ruby to get. Look at the things she’d managed to turn around on him so far. From sticking the Wentworth emeralds in the pocket of his best breeches, to bleating to Lord Koorecroft about the big bad Chessington wolf being in her shrubbery.
He turned and clapped Mephisto’s neck. It was better if he sent the animal back to Chessington.
Keeping low, Devorlane tiptoed to the tree at the foot of the incline. The vantage point was not so good from there. Thank Christ for being able to bring the burning throb in his thigh under control though.
“Oh!” that other serving girl, Pearl, wailed. “What’s that noise? What’s that noise, Rube? Listen. Do you hear it?”
He froze to the tree bark. The possibility existed they could just be gardening. It was the time of year for that, wasn’t it? Hell on earth, he’d been so long away from a garden of any sort he couldn’t remember.
“Only sound I don’t hear is the soddin’ sound of yer bleedin’ diggin’. Put yer back inter it, yer lazy trout. Bleedin’ hole won’t dig itself.”
A hole? There was only one kind. He’d thought of it when he’d edged down the hill. But now he’d done so his mouth dried. Shock, that he must squash if he was still to have the element of surprise and turn this to his advantage, clutched his gut. Not who. Why? That was the thing he needed the answer to. Then he could go to Lord Koorecroft. It would be the end of her. There would be no passing off a corpse in her garden as a servant of the realm.
Loving Lady Lazuli (London Jewel Thieves Book 1) Page 10
