De Valmont almost smiled at the typical English understatement. He might have been amused if he weren’t wary of the violent mood swings of his associate. He had wondered at first what Fouché held over the mighty English lord, more than his astronomical gambling debts. But it didn’t take long to recognize the English lord’s opium addiction.
“Worst of all, your assault on the old man has alerted Rathbourne. He was already sniffing around Lady Henrietta’s skirts. Now he’ll be at Kendal house searching.”
No one could say that Lucien De Valmont was a coward, not after he had survived the Reign of Terror. He turned to face his accuser. “I should kill you, right here.”
The light from the ballroom reflected on the opium addict’s oblivion. Lucien recognized the detachment of someone with nothing to lose. He had seen the same detachment in the French aristocrats who had lost their families to the guillotine. “And what do you think would happen to your sweet, virginal sister?” An unnerving chuckle echoed in the silence.
De Valmont could hardly contain his burning need to grab the bastard by the throat and squeeze hard, hard enough for the son of a bitch to turn purple, his eyes bulging. He would enjoy watching the haughty bastard gasp his last breath. He gripped his hands into fists. He had to know that his sister was safe and out of France before he avenged her and father’s honor.
“I’ll return and make it look like a break-in,” he said.
“No, don’t go near Kendal House. You won’t fool Rathbourne. You’ll do as I say this time. I need that book.”
De Valmont made no reply. His French ancestors would be proud of his dignified self-restraint.
In the shadows, the corpulent, over-indulged Englishman created a menacing aura. “I’m sure the idiot Kendal sent the book to his uncle or his sister.”
Having Talleyrand’s agents acquire the lost codebook was the type of sadistic twist that Fouché thrived upon. Fouché also took pleasure knowing what would happen to them once Talleyrand discovered that his agents had given the missing book to Fouché.
A woman’s laughter broke the silence between the men.
“Use your charms on Isabelle; get her to do your dirty work. Obviously your Gallic charms aren’t working on Lady Henrietta.” He commanded Lucien as if he were a French dog then walked back toward the ball. His voice grew quieter when he moved away. “I’m sure the luscious Isabelle can succeed where you fail. I’ve heard she is quite the resourceful woman.”
Lucien wished he had brought his pistol. He would finish it now. Fouché be damned, he would’ve killed the English bastard. No one spoke to Lucien De Valmont in a disrespectful manner and lived. He would make both the English bastard and Fouché pay. Fouché would regret taking his sister. Survival always came down to the superior bloodline.
Chapter Nineteen
Henrietta dashed from the carriage and bounded up the front stairs of Kendal house. Brompton stood ready at the door. “How is he?”
“The doctor is with him in the library. We were afraid to move him…” The unflappable Brompton cleared his throat to hide the break in his voice. “Until he could be examined.”
Her stomach pitched and rolled as if she would be sick. She ran to the library and burst in before the footman could open the door. Uncle Charles lay next to his desk on the floor. She dropped to her knees. “Uncle Charles.” She could barely get out the words.
His face was ashen, his breathing shallow, his hands ice cold. “Uncle Charles, it’s me, Henrietta. Oh, please wake up, Uncle Charles.”
He seemed to have shrunk in size, his face was colorless. An ache started in her chest. She pressed her hand against the pain, to stop her heart from shattering.
“Uncle Charles, please open your eyes. It’s Henrietta. Please Uncle Charles, wake up.” Her voice trembled with each plea.
“Henrietta?” Her uncle’s voice was so quiet she needed to bend close to his face. “Tired…” He didn’t open his eyes.
A throbbing started behind her eyes. She swallowed hard to hold back the tears. “Of course, you’re tired. You need to rest.”
A brisk, efficient voice interrupted her. “Lady Henrietta, your uncle needs to be moved to his bed chamber. He has a large gash on the back of his head that needs attending.”
Henrietta looked up from her kneeling position to see Doctor Hadley. She hadn’t noticed their family physician when she rushed to be next to her uncle. The white-haired doctor stood at the desk, gathering his instruments. Doctor Hadley was of the same age as her uncle and had been the Harcourt family’s physician for years.
“Is it safe to move him?” She placed her hand beside her uncle’s head and felt the moisture of his blood. She gasped. “He’s bleeding.”
Mrs. Brompton came to her side. “There, there…Uncle Charles is going to be fine. A knock to the head won’t stop him.”
Henrietta might have been comforted by Mrs. Brompton’s words if she didn’t hear the quiver in the steady woman’s voice.
Doctor Hadley’s tone was precise and professional. “Head wounds always bleed copiously. The bleeding has slowed down, but I need to attend to the wound.”
Henrietta struggled to keep her composure. She put her shaking hands over her mouth to stop the emotions from spilling out. Her dear uncle lay injured in the library where they had spent long hours together. She couldn’t stop the shaking which moved from her hands to her arms and legs.
“Charles will have a massive headache, but after a few days of rest he’ll be back to discussing hieroglyphics.” Doctor Hadley’s confidence and total understanding of her uncle lessened the alarm that engulfed her.
Mrs. Brompton leaned over and gently grasped her arm. “Let Brompton and Robert move Uncle Charles to his room. Polly will assist Dr. Hadley. You’ve had a shock and need to sit down.”
Brompton directed Robert and two of the footmen to carry Uncle Charles to his room. Henrietta wanted to hover, but Mrs. Brompton was adamant that she was to remain seated and warm herself. Once Doctor Hadley finished his treatment, she would go to her uncle.
Henrietta couldn’t stop the shaking, though she was seated close to the fire. Mrs. Brompton had cleaned Henrietta’s hand and given her a glass of brandy to sip.
She raised the glass. Her motions were deliberate and slowed as if someone else inhabited her body. She took a large gulp and choked on the strong spirits.
Gus, lying underneath a side table next to the settee, whined when Henrietta coughed on the brandy.
“Come, Gus,” she called to him, but he wouldn’t budge.
His mournful eyes stared at her from under the table.
Henrietta walked to the table and bent over to speak to the distressed animal. “It’s okay, Gus. Uncle Charles is going to be fine.”
The dog whined louder.
Gus’ painful cry raked along her jangled nerves, causing the shakes to start again. She knelt next to Gus. On the top of the dog’s head was a swollen lump. She crawled farther under the table to assess the soft mass. “They hit you too.”
His dark russet eyes were filled with sympathy when he licked her face.
A battered Gus trying to console her snapped her fragile control. It was too much finding her unconscious uncle and an injured Gus. The tears couldn’t be held back. “Who could be so evil?”
* * *
Once Cord had been reassured that Charles Harcourt wasn’t seriously injured, he interrogated the staff with little success. No one had seen or heard anything unusual. Charles Harcourt was alone, working in the library during the break-in. Cord had found two sets of footprints next to the library window.
With everyone attending to Harcourt, Cord went to the library to search for clues to the thieves’ purpose in breaking into Kendal house. Papers and books were scattered in disarray on two large oak tables that faced each other in the center of the room. The assailants had definitely been searching for something in Harcourt’s work.
Someone spoke in a low, crooning voice from behind the settee.
Proceeding tentatively, Cord peered over the couch. Henrietta was sprawled underneath a side table with tears streaming down her cheeks, petting the family dog. She was unaware of his presence.
He bent on one knee next to her. “Henrietta?”
She tried to jump to her feet but her skirts got tangled. Cord caught her and gathered her close to him. He breathed in the lilac scent of her hair and pressed a fallen curl behind her ear.
“They hurt Gus, too.” Her eyes were bright with tears. Blood was streaked down her evening gown. “He must have tried to protect my uncle.”
“I’ll take a look at him, but Labradors are a sturdy breed.”
“After they carried Uncle Charles…” Her voice shook, she swallowed and tried again to speak. “I found him here with a large bump on his head.”
Cord didn’t want to let go of Henrietta, but he needed to reassure her about her dog. He stooped over the dog. “I’ll try not to hurt you old boy, but let’s make sure you don’t have any other sore spots.” He ran his hands along the dog’s back, stomach, and legs. The Lab didn’t react to the exam.
“Gus has no other injuries—only the bump on his head. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
Henrietta nodded.
He wanted to kiss away the tears on her flushed cheeks, to hold her in his arms until the shattered look on her pale face disappeared. Instead he handed her his handkerchief.
“Hen, where are you?”
Her body stiffened against his side when her younger brother entered the library.
“Edward, I’m here with Gus.” Her tone changed with a false cheerfulness.
“Everyone’s in an uproar. They won’t tell me anything,” the young boy said.
Henrietta handed Cord the handkerchief. She smiled at her brother. “Someone broke into the house and surprised Uncle Charles in the library.”
“Mrs. Brompton sent me to say Doctor Hadley has finished with his examination of Uncle Charles. Why does Uncle Charles need a doctor?”
“Uncle Charles was injured by the thieves.” Her voice quivered and her chest moved in painful breaths, as if each word was an effort.
Cord couldn’t watch her excruciating struggle to appear calm for her brother. “Dr. Hadley has reassured us your uncle will be fine, except for a headache.”
Henrietta gave him a grateful glance over Edward’s head. The young boy nodded but said nothing until Gus whimpered.
“What’s wrong with Gus?” Edward dropped to all fours to talk with his dog. “Gus, why are you under the table?”
Henrietta bent over her brother. “The thieves must have tried to stop Gus.”
“They hurt Gus?” Edward’s voice trembled, his green eyes widened with horrified shock.
Henrietta’s face contorted in pain for her brother’s anguished plea. She gave a deep exhalation. “I’m sure Gus attacked the men. You know what an amazing watchdog he is. He’s very protective of you and Uncle Charles.”
Witnessing Henrietta and Edward’s suffering caused Cord’s rage to surge. No one would get near them or hurt them again. He would do a better job of protecting them. “Edward, can you help me get Gus to the kitchen.”
Gus sat up at the mention of the word kitchen.
Edward laughed. “Look, Gus is ready to go to the kitchen. He knows he’ll get a bone.”
Gus thumped his tail with the promise of a treat.
Henrietta put her arm around her brother’s shoulder. Her face was soft with nurturing tenderness. “Gus is going to recover nicely.”
An area around Cord’s heart, an area he didn’t know he had, filled with longing.
“It falls to us men to take care of Gus since your sister needs to attend to your uncle.” His voice was husky with emotion.
“Thank you.” Her smile was wan, her hair had come loose and strands hung around her face. He thought she never looked more beautiful—a warrior woman who battled to protect her family.
“I can’t let Gus be alone when he’s injured. May I stay with him?” Edward asked.
“It will be a great help to me to know you’re taking care of Gus,” Henrietta said.
She brushed at her blood-smeared gown then her eyes darted around with panic. “I’ve misplaced my reticule in the chaos.”
She started to search, behind the chair, under the cushions, on the desks, under the cushion again. Speaking to herself in rapid French, “Ah, Zut alors, où est mon sac?” Unaware of him or her brother, she continued to hunt frantically for her bag. “Oh que c’est penible.”
“Is it possible you left your reticule in the carriage or at the ball?” Cord asked.
She startled at the sound of his voice, as if she had forgotten he was in the room.
“Shall I send a footman for it?” He asked.
She searched his face. “I’m sure it was on my wrist when I came into the library. In all the excitement, I seem to have misplaced it.”
“I’m sure the maid will locate it tomorrow.”
Her eyes narrowed and two bright red spots appeared on her checks. “I don’t want the maid to find it. I need it now—not tomorrow.”
Her anger over a missing reticule packed with a handkerchiefs and hairpins was out of proportion but she had endured a traumatic evening. If finding the missing reticule would relieve her distress, he would find the bag. In less than a minute, he spotted the green reticule under an armchair by the fireplace.
He picked up the flimsy silk bag. “Here it is.” Surprised by the reticule’s weight and oblong shape, he ran his hand over the bag. There was a book inside the reticule. Why would she bring a book to a ball?
Henrietta rushed toward him and grabbed the bag out of his hand. “Thank you, Lord Rathbourne, for all you’ve done tonight.” She didn’t meet his eyes as she touched the reticule. “I must go to Uncle Charles.”
She turned toward Edward. “I’ll come to the kitchen to check on Gus once I’m sure Uncle Charles is settled.” Her voice got shaky and she swallowed hard. “Uncle Charles and Gus are tough. Both will soon be fine and ready for military strategies and scones.” She departed the library without looking at him.
* * *
Cord spoke with the staff, after settling Edward with his dog in the kitchen. He wasn’t taking any further chances concerning Henrietta and her family. He posted men to guard the house.
Assaulting an old man and a dog was the work of thugs. But the thugs were definitely looking for something in Harcourt’s work. His years in the business had taught him to listen to his gut and his gut was twitching with suspicion. He wished Harcourt was well enough for him to question. Sir Ramston, a family friend of the Harcourts, could answer some of his questions about the family’s potential enemies.
He departed without getting to say good-night to Henrietta.
Traffic across Mayfair was clogged with society, retiring in the early hours of the morning. He sat in the carriage, impatient to speak with Sir Ramston. In all his years of spy work, he could think of no evening quite as tumultuous as tonight. Hard as it was for the seasoned campaigner to accept, he teetered close to the edge of losing control over a green-eyed enchantress.
At the ball, seeing Wycliffe and De Valmont touch Henrietta, Cord had wanted to beat the men into a heap and claim her for himself. He had come close to ravishing her on a balcony when she’d responded passionately to his kisses. Then seeing her vulnerable, crying over her dog, he wanted to be her protector. Within minutes of possessing strong chivalrous feelings toward her, he wanted to wring her neck for keeping secrets from him. He had never experienced such a see-saw of emotions. And his little code breaker was hiding a book in her reticule. What was so important about the book that she had taken it to the ball and was there any connection to the break-in?
He should have set aside his feelings for Henrietta and acted like an intelligence officer. He should’ve questioned her when she was most vulnerable. Instead, he had been agitated to see her upset and all he could think about was how to comfort and protect her. In the mo
rning, he would insist on answers, answers about the mysterious book.
Chapter Twenty
Cord stood outside Sir Ramston’s house, waiting for Kemble to answer the door. He was eager to review the evening’s events with Sir Ramston but expected a long wait to talk with his mentor. The lateness of the hour shouldn’t be an imposition since Sir Ramston barely slept. Agents, diplomats, and ambassadors called upon Sir Ramston at all hours of the day and night.
The energetic and solidly-built butler and Sir Ramston’s body guard greeted Cord as if it were mid-afternoon. Kemble’s exacting manners and pressed black suit couldn’t disguise his bowed legs or his past in the cavalry.
Kemble led Cord into a small drawing room away from the main hallway. The location allowed for ultimate discretion as neither arrivals nor departures could be viewed. As Cord had expected, Sir Ramston was meeting with someone. He’d have to wait.
The delay was fortuitous as it gave him time to rethink the evening’s events. When he presented his report, he wanted to be precise and logical about Charles Harcourt’s assault. His thoughts were muddled all due to a combustible red haired, green-eyed lady.
Cord was surprised when Kemble returned immediately to lead him to Sir Ramston’s library. Cord’s Hessian boots tapped crisply down the brightly lit corridor hung with epic paintings of battle scenes. Familiar with Sir Ramston’s taste, he gazed at the mix of bloody Roman battles and English triumphs.
Kemble announced him in a cultured, aristocratic voice, barely betraying his Yorkshire roots. Sir Ramston stood at the fireplace, the fire to his back.
Cord moved toward Sir Ramston. “I apologize for the late hour, sir.”
He was so focused on making his way to Sir Ramston that he almost overlooked the figure seated on the couch. Noting the back of a woman’s head, he felt self-conscious that he had interrupted what appeared to be a romantic interlude. Fumbling for words, he was shocked to hear a familiar voice.
“Cordelier, my boy, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Aunt Euphemia?” His aunt was seated on the couch, one leg crossed over her knee, in a very unladylike posture. His face heated with the implications of his aunt’s presence alone with Sir Ramston at this late hour. Red-faced and embarrassed, he felt like a young boy caught snitching tarts out of the kitchen.
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