A View to a Kiss

by Caroline Linden

  “But he was—”

  “Yes.”

  “And you said—”

  “I know.”

  Joan’s frown deepened. “If you are wrong,” she said slowly, “there would be terrible consequences…”

  “I believe in him,” Mariah whispered. “I will understand if you can’t help me.”

  Joan stared at her for a long moment, but then she reached out and squeezed her hand. “All right. If you trust him, I shall, too. Go on.”

  Surprisingly, her cousin came up with the answer immediately. “Douglas,” she said when Mariah explained about needing a messenger. “Douglas can take it. No one will care if he goes out by himself.”

  “Do you think he would?” Mariah asked anxiously.

  Joan waved one hand. “Of course he will. We can always tell Mother and Papa about the barmaids.”

  Mariah gave an uneasy smile. It was easy for Joan to tease her brother, but this was too important to risk Douglas getting irked at them and refusing to do it, or even worse, telling his parents that they were up to something. “Joan, you must ask him nicely,” she said.

  Joan rolled her eyes. “Then he’ll know for certain we’re up to no good—I meant, that’s what he’ll think,” she amended hastily. “Douglas would think I’ve taken a fever if I ask too nicely.” She opened the door. “Trust me, if handled properly, Douglas will do it.”

  They found him in the hall, dressed for riding and on the verge of stepping out the door. “Douglas, wait!” Joan cried, running down the stairs.

  He turned and looked up at them. “Why? What did you do now?”

  “Nothing.” Joan scowled at him. “We need to ask you something.”

  “A favor,” said Mariah, hiding her note in the folds of her skirt. If he wouldn’t do it, she didn’t want him to know what it was.

  Douglas shrugged. “What sort of favor?”

  “Come in here.” Joan dragged him into the nearby drawing room, and Mariah closed the doors behind them. “We need something delivered.”

  “To whom?”

  “To someone in London, not far from here.”

  “Where?”

  Mariah hesitated, but Joan blurted out, “Fenton Lane. Do you know where that is?”

  Slowly, her brother nodded, a faint line between his brows. He wasn’t going to do it, Mariah realized; he was too suspicious. But everything hinged on this letter being delivered without anyone knowing, and she didn’t have an alternative to Douglas. “It’s just a note,” she said, drawing out her message. “Only…” She glanced at Joan and felt a blush rising in her cheeks. “Only…”

  Douglas’s face cleared and he put out his hand for the letter. “Oh, that sort of note. Who’s it for?” He weighed it in his hand as he eyed it.

  “Oh, what does it matter?” said Joan. “We’re sending a report to the young lady who’s hired us to spy on you.”

  “Hmm.” A terrible gleam came into his eyes. “What does she look like?”

  “She’s bald, wears spectacles, and weighs twelve stone,” said Joan impatiently. “It’s not about you, you dunce!”

  “It would be a very great favor to—to both of us,” Mariah interjected with a sharp glance at Joan. They had agreed it would be best if Douglas didn’t know it was solely on her behalf, just in case.

  His gaze slid to her face. Cocking his head to one side, Douglas considered a moment longer, then lifted one shoulder. “All right. It can’t hurt to have both of you in my debt.”

  “Thank you, Douglas,” Mariah said before Joan could say anything smart and make him change his mind.

  He looked at her a little too curiously, but didn’t say anything. He promised to deliver it while out on his ride, and left.

  Mariah’s knees felt suddenly shaky, and she sank onto a nearby chair. It was done. The die was cast. Now she only had to wait—and for who knew how long? She would have no way of knowing when or even if Harry had gotten the message. She would have to be prepared for the next step immediately, and just as prepared to wait awhile.

  “Well, what next?” Joan sat down beside her.

  She clasped her hands together and avoided her cousin’s gaze. It probably was not a good idea to tell Joan just what she had in mind, for several reasons. “Wait, and see if he answers.”

  Joan was duly disappointed. Having promised to follow Mariah’s lead and trust him, her earlier enthusiasm for Mariah’s secret suitor had returned. “Wait? How long?”

  Mariah lifted one hand helplessly. “As long as it takes him to answer, if he even answers at all.”

  “If! Of course he’ll answer—how could he not?”

  Mariah laughed with her, even though inside she wasn’t so sure. When she had written the note, when she had badgered the direction out of poor Jameson, when she had rushed over to Joan’s house, she hadn’t doubted that Harry would respond at once, exactly the way she envisioned. Now that she had committed herself to a course of action, though, it suddenly seemed possible something would go wrong. He might not be there and someone else might get the note. He might be unable to come for weeks, and she would go mad in the meantime. He might not wish to come to her any longer…

  She pushed the thought out of her mind. She was not going to torment herself like that. She was going ahead with her plan, and would worry about those problems only if they actually occurred.

  Harry lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling while Lisette changed the dressing on his arm. When he’d tackled Mariah to the ground, he had skidded along the street with all his weight and hers on his forearm. His coat sleeve had been shredded away, along with a good portion of his skin. The ugly burn stung, but not as badly as his pride. For almost two months he had sat beside the man plotting to overthrow the government and never once suspected. Was it no surprise he felt like a prize idiot? Angelique told him to forget his blindness. He had seen it in time, and the result was what mattered, she told him firmly. She had done this far more than he had, but he couldn’t help thinking he should have noticed things earlier.

  Stafford sent word that Brandon was injured but expected to recover. He didn’t come to Fenton Lane himself until the next day. Angelique thought he was dealing with more immediate concerns, like informing the Cabinet and questioning Crane. But Stafford finally arrived as Lisette finished cleaning the wound, and Harry stayed on the sofa and waited.

  Stafford stopped inside the door. He and Harry eyed each other in silence as Lisette bundled up her medicinal supplies and left without a word. Then the older man turned and moved toward a chair.

  “What happened?”

  Stafford inspected the chair, then took out his handkerchief and dusted it off before sitting. He made no reaction to Harry’s terse query. “Congratulations are in order, Sinclair, and, I suppose, thanks.” He flashed his rare, dry smile.

  Harry just glared at him. Stafford sighed.

  “Much of it you must have already guessed. Lord Crane had grown to sympathize with some of the radicals plaguing England. He had taken to writing to one of them, Arthur Thistlewood, before Thistlewood was hanged earlier this year for his role in the attempted assassination of the Cabinet.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Stafford repeated in disdain. “The man’s gone mad, Sinclair, quite obviously.”

  “He hid it rather well from everyone. I attended some of the finest parties in the city, trailing after him.”

  Stafford’s lips pinched. “Indeed.” He cast a sour glance at Harry. “He hid it even from you.”

  Harry shrugged. “How was I to know? The letters to Rusk were as dull as ditch water, plant this and prune that and rake everything into oblivion. Perhaps if I had been told sooner it was a traitor we hunted, instead of some rubbish about being a guardian shadow—”

  “You have made your point,” Stafford snapped, but an instant later regained control of his temper. “Yes, the horticultural instructions were the code, with the lily representing Lord Doncaster, as you suggested. Cabinet ministers were
referred to as various other plants, according to what we have deduced so far. I gather Lord Crane came to see England as a vast personal garden, where he might plant and uproot men as he pleased.” Stafford’s tone indicated what he thought of that presumption.

  “Is anyone else in danger?”

  “We are examining the letters for that very question.”

  “What will happen to Lord Crane?”

  Stafford’s mouth flattened. He crossed his legs. “He shall be suitably dealt with. We do not prosecute men of Lord Crane’s stature publicly.”

  Harry nodded. There would be no trial, no public acknowledgment that an esteemed member of the nobility, whose advice had been sought by the Lord Chancellor just last week, had turned traitor. Crane would live out his days in lonely but secure house arrest somewhere, and the men he had incited would hang. Tobias, of course, might find his social standing somewhat reduced. Harry’s arm ached, and he felt a headache coming on. He slumped on the sofa, pushing out his legs and letting his head rest on the cushion behind him.

  “You were right, Sinclair,” Stafford said then. “To act when and as you did. We managed to apprehend a pair of the men involved in the plot. They did receive Lord Crane’s letter from Jasper and were waiting near Doncaster House for his lordship to emerge. They followed his carriage into Westminster and stirred up the crowd deliberately, to mask their true purpose in setting a bomb beneath the carriage. If you had delayed, I am quite afraid they might well have injured or killed his lordship.”

  “And his daughter,” Harry said, staring at the ceiling.

  “Yes. And his daughter.”

  “Or any number in the crowd,” he added, irked by Stafford’s single-minded focus on Doncaster. There had been women on the way to market, children out running errands to earn a penny, ordinary, decent, hardworking Englishmen who never dreamed of revolution or murder in that street. Harry felt the weight of their souls, if Stafford did not.

  “Er—yes.”

  “How is Brandon?”

  “He is injured, but not mortally,” Stafford said, resuming his normal distant tone. “Lord Doncaster credits him with saving his life. Brandon shall be well-rewarded, and he is better off receiving care at Doncaster House.”

  “And what of us?”

  “You have done all I asked of you, and more. I wish you well in recovering from your injuries.”

  “And then?”

  Stafford gave one of his humorless smiles. “We shall speak later. I have not forgotten your ambitions, Sinclair.” He got to his feet and bowed very briefly. “Good day.”

  And that was that.

  Harry spent a long time wondering what exactly had made Crane do it. In the course of his employment as Crane’s secretary, he had come to respect the old man, even if he hadn’t admired him overmuch. He racked his brain for any signs of madness he might have overlooked while in Crane’s employ, but even in hindsight could come up with nothing. It took two chance remarks from Mariah and Angelique to give him any sort of clue to the true meaning in Crane’s communications, and he thought only a trained botanist could have known if Crane’s letters were sensible otherwise. In fact, now that he thought back on it, it had been quite a leap of logic on his part, and if not for the weight of Crane’s directive—it must be done today—he might well have had time to talk himself out of it. It was unnerving to think that even a few minutes’ hesitation could have meant Mariah’s death.

  And Brandon’s, who’d been in his post at the back of the coach before he yelled. He could not forget that glimpse he’d caught of Brandon, lying limp on the ground, unmoving and covered with blood. And the horrible thought gnawed at him that it was his fault. Brandon had shielded the earl because he had gone for Mariah instead. The instant he saw her standing next to the carriage, he’d not thought of anything but protecting her. He knew, deep down, that he wouldn’t be able to do it differently even if he had the chance, but it didn’t keep him from feeling that Brandon had suffered because Brandon had done exactly what his job required while he had not, and yet he was the one who escaped serious injury.

  He didn’t know what he should do next. He couldn’t bear to sit around and wait for Stafford to offer him another assignment, not when this one was still unsettled. But there was nothing he could do to help Brandon, and there was just as little he could do regarding Mariah.

  Did he have any chance of winning her father’s consent? He had taken Stafford’s offer with the hope of gaining some useful friends, even patrons. His political ambitions were just dreams without connections. While he didn’t expect to get public credit for his part in stopping Crane’s schemes, he had hoped Stafford would recommend him quietly to a few important people who might give him a leg up. But he didn’t think any letter from John Stafford of Bow Street, or even from Lord Sidmouth himself, would persuade the Earl of Doncaster to grant Harry his daughter’s hand in marriage.

  And what was left to him then? To watch her make a brilliant marriage to someone else. Even if all his plans worked out as he had hoped, he would still be nothing but a backbench member of the House of Commons. It didn’t sound nearly as appealing as it once had, especially when he considered the probability that being in London for Parliament would bring him face-to-face with her, married to someone else and forever lost to him.

  But perhaps…His heart lifted despite the long odds of this possibility. Perhaps she loved him as madly as he loved her. Even after she knew he was posing as Wroth, she had told him to come to her. Could she give up her life of ease and elegance for him? His own mother had done that, following her heart to marry the man she loved even though it meant being disowned. She left a comfortable life to become the wife of a traveling actor. Could Mariah do the same?

  If she ran off with him, her father’s wrath would surely ruin any chance he had at Parliament—he had already decided that spying was no longer for him, never knowing if Stafford were telling him the whole story or even any truth at all. To marry him, Mariah would have to give up the most glittering society in England—and what could he offer her in return? A small cottage, perhaps only rented rooms, while he took what employment he could find to support them. Harry wasn’t sure he could wreak such havoc in the life of the woman he loved.

  So he lay on the sofa, veering between guilt and despair and reproach. Lisette returned to finish bandaging his arm and then left him alone in his gloom. He heaved himself upright with a sigh and rolled his sleeve down over the bandage. Perhaps he should go for a walk and try to clear his thoughts. It had been a while since he’d been able to come and go as he pleased, without looking for murderers and revolutionaries behind every shrub and lamppost.

  There was a tap at the door, and Angelique came in. “How do you feel?” she asked, remaining by the door with her hands behind her back.

  Harry shrugged, pulling on his waistcoat. “Well enough.”

  “Hmm.” She strolled into the room. “Not guilty?” Harry said nothing. “It was not your fault,” she said gently. “It could have been you, just as easily as Alec. Had you protected the earl, Alec would surely have thrown himself in front of the young lady. Stafford would not have either of you allow her to be harmed.” Harry ignored her and reached for his coat. “The fact that you are in love with her would not have made any difference.”

  He flinched.

  “Are you still?” Angelique prodded. “I have waited and waited for you to speak of her, and what you intend to do, but you say nothing.”

  “What can I say?” He flung out his hands. “Do you think her father will give me permission to see her, let alone court her and marry her? Would any man want a spy for his son-in-law, even if the spy hadn’t been spying on him? It’s a different world she lives in, Angelique. I don’t know what to do.”

  Angelique exhaled slowly, a faint smile creeping over her lips. “But you love her.”

  He gave a short, sad laugh, propping his elbows on his knees and dropping his face into his hands. “Beyond reason. I’m consideri
ng impersonating Lord Wroth’s young nephew, just to be able to call on her once or twice.” To say good-bye, he thought in despair.

  “So you would do anything for her, yes?”

  He looked up, something about her tone catching his attention. “Why?”

  She held out a note. “Even if you have no idea what to do, she has.”

  Harry snatched it. “Did you read it? How do you know it’s from her?” His eyes raced over the writing on the outside, only his initials and the direction. Mariah didn’t know any of that…did she?

  Angelique made an indignant noise. “Did I read it? As if one cannot tell without reading. It is a woman’s hand. It smells very faintly of perfume, although I imagine she did not want it to. It is addressed to this house, even though few people would know to reach you here, one of whom resides in her home. And it was delivered by a well-to-do young man.”

  “Young man?” He looked up as he broke the seal.

  Angelique’s smile widened in triumph. “Oui. The sort of young man who would know an earl’s daughter.” She turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Harry had read the brief message almost before the latch clicked. The usual place and time? Did he interpret that correctly? Something of greatest importance…What could it possibly be?

  He yanked his watch from his pocket; barely half past four. He had never climbed into her room before midnight, which meant he had over eight hours until he found out. He put the note into his pocket and strode out of the house to take a long walk after all.

  Chapter 25

  If one could suffer a collapse from nervous anticipation, Mariah thought she might be on the brink of it. It was impossible to sit still. She paced the suddenly small confines of her room, wringing her hands. Would he come? Had he gotten her message? Had someone else intercepted it and dragged Harry away for an interrogation? How would she know? Would she wait forever, wondering? She certainly couldn’t sleep.

  With a thump, she sat on her dressing table chair, her fingers digging into the cushion. She’d be half mad by morning at this rate. Anxiously, she checked the clock again; it was most definitely past midnight, by a good two minutes or so. What if he didn’t want to come? What if all his attentions had been part of his masquerade? What if he didn’t realize she had sent the note? What if—