Nothing But Deception

by Allegra Gray

  Bea took a shaky breath. “How far can this horrible business spread? Is Elizabeth all right?”

  Alex lifted one shoulder in a shrug that said he knew not what else to do. “She is distraught, of course. I left her resting, with strict instructions not to leave the house. But I cannot stop her from worrying—I can only hope it does not harm the baby.”

  Bea let her head sink to her hands. “Oh, Lord, this is all my fault. I should never have invited Charity to Vauxhall that fateful evening.” Had she had the faintest suspicion they’d be intruding on anything of this grave nature, she wouldn’t have.

  Alex shook his head. “You both blundered into more than you bargained for. But I daresay Charity had some role in this latest trouble—that girl has never learned to leave well enough alone. Think, Bea. That’s all I ask now. Think how we can find her.”

  He didn’t say the words “before it’s too late,” but Bea heard them nonetheless. She closed her eyes against the tears that welled within, and spent the remainder of the journey to London doing her best to imagine herself in Charity’s shoes. She knew Charity hadn’t left the Wilbournes’ house alone. She was intelligent enough to suspect, as Bea had, that one of the spies worked for them. And she was brazen enough to go looking for him. Bea would bet anything she had found him.

  Chapter 15

  Philippe attempted—for about an hour—to do as Bea had suggested and continue the painting without her. After all, he needed to capture this moment, the particular green of the leaves at this very phase of spring, before capricious nature changed once more and forced him to work from memory alone.

  Unfortunately, it was raining. And carrying a few snipped branches indoors was no help at all when his mind was transfixed not by the green of the leaves, but by the pale of Bea’s face as she’d departed.

  This was ridiculous. Philippe shoved his stool back and packed up his paints, muttering a few choice words in his native language. Whatever had happened to Charity Medford, it was something important. And Bea had chosen to leave him out. Why? Some misguided notion that just because he was an artist, he was too ignorant to handle weightier matters than selecting the proper mixture of pigments to replicate the colors of nature? He’d seen that reaction from his stepfather, who could not accept the idea that a person might choose to eschew politics in favor of art. The only reasonable explanation, to the elder Durand, was that Philippe must be incapable of understanding such matters, for surely if he understood them, he would pursue them.

  Bea might not be guilty of such condescension, but she definitely was keeping something from him.

  Well, he didn’t need protecting, Philippe thought angrily. She’d trusted him with her body, but not her worldly cares. In the past, with other women, he’d had no problem with that. But Bea was different. With her, he wanted more. Good and bad, he wanted to know her.

  His mother had already shut him out—he couldn’t let Bea do the same thing.

  Philippe headed for the stables. He didn’t need a fancy conveyance—just whatever would get him to London swiftly.

  He felt a slight twinge of guilt as he passed the house and thought of Lily Moffett. He’d be leaving her behind just as surely as Bea had left him. But it couldn’t be helped. And Lily would get over it. The duke’s liquor supply would provide whatever solace she needed.

  Without knowing exactly what trouble Bea faced, he was at a loss for how to help. But when he caught up with his mysterious lover, his first task was to convince her there was more to Philippe Durand than pretty pictures and passionate kisses, convince her he was worthy of standing at her side—no matter what the trouble.

  The Foreign Secretary was in a meeting with his highest officials when Alex and Bea returned to London, but he soon ushered them in.

  “Were you followed?”

  “I cannot say,” Alex admitted.

  Viscount Castlereagh shrugged. “It matters little. Your names and faces are known to them.”

  “Are we in danger?” Bea shook her head as soon as the question slipped out. “Of course we are.”

  “Only until these people are caught.” The confidence in the government official’s tone was reassuring. “I have observers all over the city. Discovering any detail that might lead to the war plan or Miss Medford is now their primary mission.”

  “And?” The muscles of Alex’s face appeared so tense they were on the verge of snapping. “What can you tell us?”

  “We questioned the Wilbournes’ butler as to the duties of the missing servant Peters. The butler could not confirm the existence or location of the lesser servant’s ill mother. What he could tell us is that Peters took on the additional duty a few months ago of helping to clear out a warehouse owned by Lord Wilbourne, which the lord was planning to sell.”

  “A vacant warehouse,” Bea repeated. “Where?”

  He gave them the directions.

  “You’ve searched it?” Alex asked.

  “Only the exterior.” The Foreign Secretary folded his hands. “I know this may be difficult to understand, but the team at the warehouse was redirected—an urgent development I could not ignore, as it will likely lead to the capture of one or more of these spies—which, in turn, could lead to Miss Medford.

  “We received word that the captain of a ship we’ve had under surveillance, which makes frequent crossings to France, has recently come into some extra money. Though it is possible he is smuggling goods, our sources indicate he ferries those who do not wish their travels documented on a ship’s roster. The team at the warehouse had closest access to the water, and the timing is urgent, for the ship is scheduled to depart today.”

  “I still wish to search this warehouse,” Alex told him.

  “Absolutely,” the Secretary said. “If you will but wait, I have another team of two men coming on shift. They can escort you.”

  The duke folded his arms. “When?”

  “Two hours. Three, at the most.”

  “Not fast enough.”

  “Every other team currently on shift is on assignment. Even if I sent an aide to find and redirect them, it would take that long,” Castlereagh argued.

  Alex pressed his lips together then nodded. “Send them directly to my house. We will be ready the moment they arrive. Meanwhile, I must see to my wife. She is most distraught.”

  “Of course, of course.” Viscount Castlereagh considered the duke, his eyes narrowing. “If,” he said slowly, “you should, for any reason, locate the Frenchmen before my men do, please consider that they are more valuable alive than dead.”

  The duke frowned. He was more inclined to rip the men limb from limb, Bea surmised, than exercise restraint.

  “Understandably, that is not always possible,” Castlereagh admitted. He waved a hand. “Also, do not trouble yourselves over the war plans. It is essential we put a halt to the espionage, but recovery of the actual plan means little. I’ve already notified Clancarty—my delegate at the Congress of Vienna—and Wellington that the plan is compromised. Fortunately, our strategists never limit themselves to a single plan.

  “Britain is, in my assessment, in far less danger than your young sister-in-law, Your Grace.” He gave Bea a nod. “And your friend. I pray you find her unharmed. Good luck, and Godspeed.”

  As they exited, Bea turned to Alex. “That was odd advice…why would he think you might encounter the spies first?”

  “Because,” the duke responded grimly, “he knows full well I have no intention of waiting for his men to join us before searching that warehouse.”

  Upon returning to London, Philippe went first to the town house of Lord and Lady Bainbridge. But the only person he found there was the sniffling duchess, whose red nose and eyes did not complement the red of her hair.

  The moment he entered the formal salon, she rushed to him, clutching at his arms. “Do you bring word?”

  Philippe sensed the need to tread very carefully in the absence of knowledge. “I have just come from Montgrave, madame. Your husband
was there this morning; he and Lady Pullington left for London as soon as his carriage horses could be changed. I departed shortly thereafter.”

  “But no word of Charity?” Elizabeth Bainbridge wilted, fresh tears springing to her eyes as he escorted her toward a sofa. He proffered a fresh handkerchief to replace the soggy one she used to wipe her eyes, and she accepted it automatically.

  “I am sorry, Your Grace,” Philippe told her. “I have no news of your sister. To be honest, I know little at all, other than that she is in trouble.”

  “She’s missing,” Elizabeth wailed. “And I don’t have the full story either. Alex promised to find her—that’s why he went to fetch Bea from Montgrave. He thinks she might know something about Charity’s disappearance. But why would Bea know, and not I? She’s my sister. We’ve always shared everything.” She collapsed in tears once more.

  Philippe was not unaccustomed to dealing with women in hysterics. In France, the ladies seemed to have regular bouts of them. But hysterics weren’t going to help either of them—let alone Charity Medford—right now.

  “Where,” he asked gently, “do you think your husband and Lady Pullington would have gone upon arriving in London?”

  She sniffed and took a shaky breath. “He said he had business with Viscount Castlereagh.”

  It was a name even Philippe recognized. “The British Foreign Secretary?” This was getting stranger by the moment.

  Luckily, the clatter of carriage wheels, followed by the rush of feet on the steps outside, saved Philippe from having to pump the young duchess for additional details.

  She leapt from the couch and ran to the door of the salon, Philippe close behind her, in time to see her husband and Bea enter the front door of the home.

  “Alex!” Lady Bainbridge called.

  The duke shook his head at the pleading look on her face, and Philippe felt a pang of sympathy.

  Bea faltered in her step upon seeing his face behind that of Elizabeth. “Philippe. What are you doing here?”

  “I am not yet certain. I know only that I could not bear to sit behind, knowing my dear friends face difficulty while I dabble in paints—especially if that friend is a lady. It would be most unchivalrous.”

  “You never ‘dabble,’” Bea said.

  He gave a half laugh at her oddly loyal reply. She believed in him as an artist, but that didn’t erase the memory of how easily she’d dismissed him when more critical matters were at hand.

  “Nonetheless, I am here to stand by your side,” he declared. “You will find I have talents beyond the canvas, I hope, should you need to call on them. Though, if either yourself or the good duke would enlighten Lady Bainbridge and I,” he gestured to the weepy duchess, “it might help.”

  Elizabeth was not so restrained in her request for information. She swiped at her tears with the back of her hand, then thrust out her chin, her focus trained on the duke. “We had an understanding, oh husband of mine, that you would not keep important information from me, correct? Even when you are only trying to protect me?” Her voice, no longer tear-choked, had found strength in anger.

  Alex and Elizabeth shared a long look, neither of them paying any attention to the remaining two people in the room.

  When her husband did not speak, Elizabeth clasped her hands together. “The last time you tried to keep things from me, it nearly cost us our marriage. Please, don’t let it cost me my sister. I do not know if I can help, but by keeping me—and Philippe—in the dark, you assure we cannot.”

  Regret filled the duke’s features and he strode to his wife’s side, pulling her close to him and tucking her head beneath his chin. “You are correct—I am sorry.”

  There were few men, let alone dukes, who would apologize to their wives—much less in front of an audience. If anything, Philippe’s respect for the man increased. Yet the moment was clearly a private one.

  Philippe stood in awkward silence. He glanced at Bea, questioning, and she lifted one shoulder in a shrug, as though to say she wasn’t privy to whatever withholding of information had once come between Elizabeth and the duke.

  “Please, Your Grace,” Philippe broke the awkward pause after several moments had passed. “It pains me to see all of you—especially Lady Bainbridge and Lady Pullington—in such distress. I am compelled to offer what help I may. Miss Medford is missing, I understand. If it is trouble with some man—”

  “No. I wish it were,” Alex said. “I am afraid there is much greater evil at work.” He looked at Bea. “Your assessment has not changed?”

  “It has not,” Bea vouched. “I trust Philippe with my hea…yes, he can be trusted.”

  Trusted with what? Philippe frowned. Why would they ask such a question? But the answer became clear with the duke’s next words.

  “We have just returned from Viscount Castlereagh’s offices. There is almost no question as to what we had suspected before—Charity has fallen into the hands of French spies.”

  “What?” the question exploded from Elizabeth and Philippe simultaneously.

  “Bea, tell them. Quickly,” the duke instructed. He strode to the door and spoke quietly with a servant who materialized as though from thin air.

  Bea spoke up. “There is no time for a lengthy explanation. I am sorry. Perhaps when all is resolved…” She cleared her throat, and Philippe sensed the tension was getting to her. “A couple of weeks ago, Charity and I stumbled upon a pair of men who appear to be working for Napoleon Bonaparte’s cause, by attempting to provide him with confidential British documents. Knowing of their plans, we could not in good conscience ignore them.”

  Philippe touched a hand to his jaw, to ensure he’d not left it hanging open. Who was this woman who looked like his English rose but spoke as though she’d spent years entrenched in political intrigues? Was her “respectable widow” persona all an act?

  Moments later, the duke rejoined them, carrying a small case. Philippe sized it up. Weapons.

  “The ladies did the right thing,” the duke vouched. “They never approached the men, but brought the information to me instead. I helped them take it to Viscount Castlereagh. Unfortunately, it seems these actions came to the attention of our adversaries, for they identified Charity, Bea, and, most likely, myself. Charity knows the least of any of us, but the spies would not know that. My best guess is that they deemed her a threat, and when she presented them with an opportunity, they seized her.”

  Elizabeth’s face had gone pale, and she pressed a hand to her heart.

  “I’m afraid that explanation must suffice for now,” Bea said, “unless you have pressing questions.”

  “Where do you think they’ve taken her?” Elizabeth asked.

  “We have a lead,” Alex said. “An empty warehouse near the Thames. They may have used it as a base for their operations, or a meeting place.”

  Bea nodded, her manner brisk. She and the duke were all business now. She turned to Philippe. “Monsieur Durand?”

  “I have a great many questions, in fact,” Philippe retorted, his accent growing thick. He looked directly at Bea, and saw her shudder at the force of his gaze. Well, she should. Anger, betrayal, confusion—they were all justified. But not right now. He forced those seething emotions beneath a veneer of calm. “However,” he continued, “my questions can wait. Miss Medford’s plight is of far greater import. As I stated before, I am at your service.”

  “What assistance have you to offer?” the duke asked.

  “I do not profess to know these evil men, nor where they might have taken Miss Medford. I can offer an able body and a quick mind. You say these men are French, no? I can offer translation, perhaps some insight into their thoughts and motivations—though my father, not I, is the politician.

  “Most of all,” Philippe added, “I would not have Lady Pullington walk into danger without offering myself in her place.” His muse was a lady with infinite facets, uncharted depths. She frustrated the hell out of him. But she was still a lady.

  “Very ch
ivalrous,” the duke said.

  Philippe thought he saw the barest hint of a smile touch Bea’s face.

  “I will accept your offer—but not in place of Beatrice,” the Englishman continued. “I need you both. We leave immediately.”

  “Shouldn’t you take more men?” Elizabeth Bainbridge worried.

  Her husband opened the case he held, made a cursory check of the contents—pistols, as Philippe had suspected—and stood. “No. I fear that would only place Charity in greater danger. In this case, stealth, as opposed to posing an obvious threat, is our best bet.” He looked at Philippe and Bea. “Ready?”

  “Yes,” they both answered. Philippe made the conscious effort to avoid his native language. Though most educated Englishmen, and women, spoke French passably, he did not care to remind his friends that he shared the nationality of the men who’d done their relative and friend harm.

  “Dearest,” the duke told his wife, “you’ll be safest here. Just try to think positively. Pray for the best possible outcome.”

  The duchess looked miserable at being left behind once again. Philippe knew exactly how she felt. He also knew that, in the duke’s place, he’d have done the same thing. One missing family member was awful enough—there was no way any man would choose to also put his pregnant wife in danger.

  “Could Bea not stay as well?” Elizabeth asked. “Bea, aren’t you afraid?”

  “Bea knows more of this situation, of these men and their intentions, than either Monsieur Durand or I,” Alex answered. “I need her with us. But do not worry—should we encounter danger, she shall be kept from harm’s way.”

  Philippe nodded vigorously, confirming the duke’s instinct to protect.

  But as they left, Bea looked back and answered Elizabeth’s last question. “Yes, E., I am afraid.”

  Bea, Philippe, and Alex sat in strained silence as the carriage approached their destination. Before they’d departed, Bea had noticed that the driver and footman carried weapons, in addition to those in the duke’s case.