A Season to Be Sinful

by Jo Goodman

  “Then pray he does not fall on you, Gibb.”

  The man known as Gibb shrugged and remained where he was. He was taller even than Sherry, more hollowed out in his features. A light layer of dust clung to his clothes, but he was still nattily turned out in fawn riding breeches, a crisply folded stock, and Hessians.

  In contrast, his traveling companion looked slovenly, though this was more a matter of the man’s nature than a consequence of the journey from London. Mr. Conway had a robust frame that was not favored by the current fashion. No corset, no matter how sturdy the whalebone stays, could reshape his barrel chest or slim the thick waist. He sat sprawled on the chaise longue, one leg stretched toward the floor, the other set carelessly on the damask fabric. His frock coat was missing a button, and his loosened stock lay limply against his shirt. His eyelids were raised only to half-mast.

  “Pray, do not think I will permit you to sleep there, Con,” Sherry said. “I can suggest an inn in the village suitable for that purpose, however.”

  Grunting softly, James Conway roused himself enough to reveal a pair of indigo irises.

  Gibb picked up his tumbler of whisky from where it rested on the mantel. He tilted his head in Conway’s direction. “He has a toothache.”

  “Then allow me to recommend someone to look at it. Mr. Briggs. He is the innkeeper in the village.”

  Conway pressed his cool crystal tumbler against his jaw and smiled weakly.

  Sherry regarded Gibb again. “I hope you mean to state your purpose quickly.”

  “Actually, Sherry, I wagered Con that you would refuse to see us. It is more than surprising we were offered libation.”

  “You will recall that I was gone from home when you arrived,” Sherry lied. “And the libation is hemlock.”

  Gibb grinned, though on his thin face the effect was a trifle ghoulish. Conway could not muster more than a sour smile.

  “Well?” asked Sherry.

  “It’s Liverpool,” Gibb said. “The prime minister has specifically requested your services.”

  “Surely someone informed him that I am out of it.”

  “He wants Michel Ney, Sherry.”

  “Le Rougeaud?” Sherry made a scoffing sound. Ney’s widely used sobriquet referred to not just the flaming color of his hair but the ferocity of his temper. “No, I won’t deliver him to Liverpool. Let the French have him.”

  “The people love him.”

  “Didn’t Napoleon call him the bravest of the brave? The last man to leave Russian soil, fighting every step of the way—all of it backward? Certainly they love him.” Ney had been named a marshal of France under Napoleon, and the man was so admired by the men he led that when Bonaparte was exiled to Elba, the Bourbon king allowed Ney to retain his rank and position.

  Conway lifted the tumbler away from his cheek for a moment. “He betrayed his people—and his men.” He looked to Gibb to finish the rest of it.

  “We know that when Boney left Elba it was Ney they sent to secure his surrender. God’s truth, Sherry, the man promised Louis he’d bring Boney back in an iron cage. He might have meant it at the time, but when he saw Napoleon he laid down his sword and joined his fight again. That decision eventually cost thousands of lives. There never should have been a Waterloo.”

  “I don’t intend to argue in favor of the man’s release, Gibb. A public trial is what the French deserve. They need someone to stand in Boney’s place. If he is banished, then they can vent their spleen on Ney.”

  “That is precisely what concerns us,” Gibb said. “We don’t think they will have the stomach for it.”

  “Badly mixed metaphors aside, what evidence do you have to suggest they won’t put him to trial?”

  “It ain’t the trial that’ll be the problem,” Con mumbled. “It’s the goddamn execution they’ll fumble.” He winced as pain spiked. “Ney should have my tooth. He’d put a pistol to his own head.”

  Gibb knocked back his drink and set his tumbler down. “There might be a better way to set the thing before you, Sherry, but Con’s distilled it to the essentials. Ney will no doubt be afforded a trial, but it will not astonish if his fellow marshals form the tribunal. They might find him guilty of taking Napoleon’s side when he should have captured the bastard, but can they execute him? He was one of them. They made him their spokesman last year and gave him the unenviable charge of going to Boney and recommending his abdication. Ney did it, clearly not for himself but for what everyone believed was the good of France and the survival of what was left of the army. Less than a year later, when Napoleon escaped Elba, he’s asked—this time by his king—to perform an almost identical task. Do you think the other marshals are not sympathetic?”

  Sherry shrugged. “It matters not a whit to me. Did I not already say I am out of it?”

  “Waterloo, Sherry. English lives were forfeit. Allies lost. Ney betrayed all of us when he took Napoleon’s side after Elba.”

  “Perhaps the target should be Boney.” He saw Gibb and Con exchange glances. “Ahh, so that is being considered as well. Dangerous stuff, that.” He held up one hand, making it clear he did not want to entertain discussion on that count. The less he knew, the better. “Why were two of you sent all the way out here to pose the question? I admit, my curiosity’s piqued.”

  Con mumbled, “Too important to trust just one of us with it.”

  Sherry frowned, looking from one to the other. “No, that’s not it. Or not all of it. There’s something you’re not telling me. Were you given some instruction in the event I refused the assignment? Should I anticipate spending the rest of my days looking over my shoulder?”

  “Bloody hell, Sherry,” Con said. He tossed back his drink then pressed the empty glass against his cheek again. “What do you take us for?”

  “Assassins.”

  The single word brought a stillness to the room that had not been there before. Sherry regarded each of his guests candidly, unwilling to allow himself or them to pretend it was otherwise.

  It was Gibb who finally spoke. “We came together for protection. Con was supposed to ride out alone. His tooth? That happened the night before he was set to leave. He was attacked in Vauxhall.”

  “Three of them,” Con said. Rising to his feet, he went to the drinks tray and poured another whisky. “Knocked me about. I chased them off, but I took a bit of a bruising. Ribs and back. Cut my arm. Damn if the tooth isn’t the worst of it.”

  “Was it provoked?” asked Sherry.

  Con shook his head, then immediately regretted it. The tumbler went up to his cheek. He looked to Gibb to take up the story.

  “A sennight before Con was attacked, I was almost run down in front of my townhouse. I jumped out of the way, but it was a narrow thing. One of my retainers was not so fortunate. Had his foot crushed and might still lose it. There are other incidents. Barnett. Penn. Woodridge. Merriman.”

  Sherry’s dark eyebrows lifted in tandem. “He’s one of us, then.”

  Gibb nodded. “So it would appear. There’s always the possibility that someone has spoken out of turn and brought this down on us, but with so much at risk, it seems unlikely.”

  “It is curious that none of the attacks have ended in more than injury. Either he is not very good or there is another purpose. If he is indeed one of us, then it cannot be that he is not good at his work.”

  “Our thoughts also,” Con said.

  Sherry was struck suddenly by what was perhaps the true reason for their visit. “You were told to make certain I was here in the country.”

  Gibb shrugged. “There was some question regarding your sudden departure from the service and what your intentions were.”

  “My intentions are to stay well out of it. Tell me, was the Marshal Ney assignment simply a ruse to explain your visit?”

  “No ruse. As long as we found you here, we were to offer the assignment.”

  “Could I not be directing the assaults on all of you from here? Con said he was fallen upon by three men. If i
t was not simply random, but rather a single scene in the play as you suggest, then it is being directed by someone, not necessarily carried out by them.”

  “That’s right,” Con said, returning to the chaise. He did not drop to a half recline this time but sat at the foot of it and rested one elbow on his knee. “But I was only recently in town. If you were in the country, you could not have known I was back.”

  “I see.” Sherry kept his features carefully neutral. “You mentioned others. Merriman, I think you said. Barnett?”

  “Both of them. Barnett took a spill from his mount in the park. Could have been fatal, I suppose, but he had the good fortune to land on his arse, not his neck.” Con looked to Gibb once again to pick up the tale.

  “Merriman was accosted by footpads, same as Con. Woodridge and Penn were in bed for days with a stomach ailment. We suspect poison.”

  “It seems that while we are not to be eliminated, we are certainly being warned.”

  “We are. You are out of it.”

  “Perhaps not.” He gave them a brief account of what happened at Covent Garden, leaving out the fact that his rescuer was a woman and that she was currently in residence at Granville Hall.

  “In April, you say?” Gibb rubbed his pointed chin with the back of his hand. “That would make you the very first. You told no one?”

  Sherry shrugged. “It seemed unimportant. I escaped without injury.”

  “What do you make of it?” asked Gibb.

  “Nothing more than you. It is proof we are all vulnerable. Did you truly think that I might be the one committing these acts?”

  “We couldn’t dismiss it. You know we couldn’t. It is the end if we don’t discover who among us is responsible. It is no secret that you have not shared our thinking for some time. Of course it was conceivable that you would decide it was not enough to merely leave, but that the whole of it must be finished.”

  “Except,” Sherry said, “were that my decision, it would already be done.”

  Thirteen

  Lily was sitting at the pianoforte pretending to play a piece when Sherry let himself into the music salon. Her fingers moved lightly along the keys, never depressing one with enough force to strike a single note. She hummed the song that was in her head, and occasionally her lips would part and a clear, sweet note would emerge.

  She stopped abruptly, flushing brightly, when Sherry quietly applauded her efforts. Turning in her chair, she chastised him with a look.

  Sherry held up his hands as though he might ward off this criticism. “I did not think it necessary to announce myself.”

  “You move like a cat. It is unnerving. If you cannot change your ways, you might at least tell Mr. Wolfe to stop having the staff oil the door hinges.”

  Chuckling, he pulled up a chair beside her. “Have you played even a single note?”

  “Oh no. I could not.”

  “Of course you can.” He took her hand and placed her fingers in position for a C chord, then pushed down. “See? You can. Now, one at a time. Fingers curved and tripping lightly up the scale.” He demonstrated what he wanted her to do on keys an octave higher.

  Lily followed his movements, her own fingers moving more slowly and deliberately. “You were with those gentleman longer than was your wont, I think. Are they gone, or will they be staying?”

  “Gone.” He manipulated her fingers again but could tell that her heart was not in it. “What is it?”

  “They are from your other life, aren’t they?”

  He did not ask her what she meant. He supposed it helped her to think of what he had done as if it were somehow separate from the man he was now. It was not so different than how he thought of it, though the visit from Gibb and Con was an unpleasant reminder that remaining apart from that life required more in the way of determination than distance.

  “Yes,” he said. “They are.”

  Lily’s hand slid from Sherry’s and fell to her lap. She did not look at him. “I do not imagine you can say what they wanted.”

  “No, I can’t. But I can tell you that I will not be joining them and that they accepted my answer.”

  Lowering her eyes, Lily nodded faintly. “Good. I’m glad of it.”

  “Were you afraid for me, Lily?” Touching under her chin with his index finger, he brought her around. “Did you think I would give them the little enough that remains of my soul?”

  “Do not make light of it.”

  “I wasn’t. It is a perfectly serious question.”

  “Then, yes,” she said. “I was afraid for you. For myself, also. I don’t know what pressure they can bring to bear. They had you once.”

  “Those two? No. They never had me. I was a younger man, in the grip of an idea—of ideals—when I was selected and groomed for this service to the Crown. I believed what I was told, believed in what I was doing, and place no blame on anyone save myself for what I have done since.” He lowered his hand. The pianoforte made a soft, discordant sound as Sherry rested his forearm on the keys. “I think it is true for each of us in the service that there comes a time when the scales are removed from our eyes. Some do as I did and make the decision to leave. Others stay but are more disposed to cynicism in their views. Then there are those who not only remain but are compelled by a sense of righteousness or apprehension to justify their existence. They are the ones who recruit others to the very small circle. It was such a man who recruited me.”

  Sherry fell silent. He slowly tapped the F key three times, wholly unaware of what he was doing until Lily’s eyes shifted to his hand. He mocked himself with a small smile. “Forgive me. I was thinking how remarkably easy it was for them to have me. You are younger even than I was, and I do not believe for a moment they could have you. It is perhaps youthful arrogance that permitted me to see the solution to complex problems in terms of good and evil, black or white . . .” His voice trailed off, then added even more softly, “ . . . dead or alive.”

  Lily touched his forearm. “Does the why of it matter so much now?”

  Regarding her hand curved gently over his arm, Sherry considered his answer. “Yes, I think it does. There is no end to young men such as I was, and therefore there will be no shortage of candidates. It may be true there is but one way to finish the thing.”

  Frowning, Lily drew his attention back to her face. “You are speaking of something else now. I can feel it.”

  Her perspicacity did not surprise. “Yes,” he said. “I am. It is entirely possible that one of us, or rather one of the number that I recently left, is set on destroying the whole. It would seem your actions in Covent Garden did indeed interfere with an attack against me.”

  Lily snorted lightly. “You still entertained doubts on that score?”

  “No, not the way you think. It is merely a certainty now that the attack was not random.”

  “Those men. They came to tell you that?”

  “It was not the purpose of their visit, but yes, I learned as much from them.” And more besides, he thought. It seemed to him that few in their confederacy had not been singled out. Suspicion would naturally fall first on those who were not the target of an attack, but it would be the greatest idiocy if it remained there. Sherry began to see more clearly why they desired him for the particular assignment that was pressing them now. Once cleared of responsibility for the attacks, he was the only one they trusted. The very fact that he had broken off with them was what made his participation so essential and valuable.

  “You are doing it again,” Lily said.

  “Hmm?”

  She smiled. “So deep in thought that you make yourself alone. I am still here, Sherry, and I am willing to listen. Willing to be part of whatever you will share with me.”

  “I know. But I am well out of it, and any lingering doubts on their part have been put to rest. There is nothing you should, or need, to know. I suspect that with one notable exception I will not see any of them again, and I will make every effort to put him from my life as well. It is unf
ortunate that as it regards him, the outcome is not entirely in my hands.”

  “A family member, then,” Lily said flippantly. “It cannot be a friend or a retainer because you could always dismiss—” She stopped. It was not often that she caught Sherry so unaware that he had no time to close his expression. She glimpsed his stricken countenance in the heartbeat of time it required him to slam the shutters on it. Lily knew she should pretend she had not seen it, but her curiosity would not let her remain silent. “Never say it is Mr. Caldwell.”

  Sherry blinked. “Who?”

  Lily almost laughed at the perfectly blank cast of his features. It was not feigned. He was still recovering from the fact that her poor attempt at levity had come so close to the mark. “Mr. Caldwell,” she repeated. “You must recall your sister’s husband.”

  “Of course I do, and it is not Nick. Do you think I would permit my own sister to marry such a one as I am?”

  Taking umbrage on his behalf, Lily pushed her chair away from the pianoforte and stood abruptly. “It is remarks of just that sort that put me out of all patience with you. You insult yourself when you say such a thing; moreover, you insult me. It is really not to be borne.”

  Sherry did not try to stop her from stepping out of his reach. “I meant no insult.”

  She waved that aside. “Do you think I don’t know that? It is what makes it so perfectly aggravating. To say you would not permit your sister to marry one such as you is tantamount to saying you possess no redeeming qualities. If you cannot have the sense to know your own goodness, then at least you might acknowledge that I have the sense to know it. You have nothing at all to say about whether or not I am with you. It is my choice, and I have chosen you for what you are, not for what you are not. I would have you show me the kindness of respecting that, please.”