So their hostess had been relying on darkness and the effect of shock, a trauma that Fitzroy had circumvented by somehow getting unseen into the house.
But what if he had not? What if, broken and blinded, he had believed her masquerade?
Joanna shuddered and closed her eyes. Her hands were sticky.
She heard the soft Spanish voice speaking, as if it were a very long way off.
“Verdad es verde. My name is Carmen Dolores Gorrión. Juanita was my sister. She still died because of your cowardice and treachery. Who I really am changes nothing. And my revenge has only just begun.”
For the first time in her life, Joanna really fainted.
* * *
She heard the low hum of voices, like insects buzzing lazily outside an open window in summer.
Then Richard’s voice.
“It’s a diary. Your groom kept a diary, for God’s sake. Listen! ‘Whenever Lord Tarrant is away, my lady is entertaining. Several of the other officers are her lovers. It’s a shameful thing, when he is nothing but kindness to her.’ I’m sorry to have to read this. Did you know?”
Fitzroy replied softly, as if with a great regret. “Eventually, when she told me. Tomava la por rosa mas devenia cardo. I took her for a rose, but she proved to be a thistle. She took lovers from the day of our wedding. Does that change anything?”
“But she wrote to me that you were unfaithful!” Carmen’s voice, harsh now, all softness gone.
“We were at war, Señorita. I was rather lacking in opportunities,” Fitzroy replied dryly. “There were many more unattached men in the camp than women, and I spent a great deal of time with Richard and the other intelligence officers on one mission or another, a hideously masculine pursuit. Of course, you couldn’t have known that in South America.”
“So! Yet my sister had cause enough to hate you and took solace where she could. Was that why you let her die?”
“No.” Fitzroy sighed, as if his breathing pained him. “I forgave the lovers.”
“Then it was this.” Richard began to read aloud again. “‘It will only be a day, or sometimes it’s later the same night, after she lies with one of our officers. But always she takes a horse and rides secretly out of camp. Last night I followed her. How am I to tell Lord Tarrant? She goes to meet—’”
Joanna opened her eyes and tried to sit up. She almost bumped her head on her husband’s arm. She was lying on a high-backed bench, with her head pillowed in his lap and his arm supporting her.
“Fitzroy! You’re all right?” she asked.
He touched her hair, fleeting, tender, before he moved his arm aside. He was sitting at the end of the bench, his chest swathed in a makeshift bandage, his torn shirt lying open. His eyes burned like black pitch beneath his dark brows.
“I’ll live,” he said with wry affection. “And you?”
“The book that Mrs. Morris gave me— Mr. Flanders kept a diary?”
“Here,” Lady Carhill said, holding out a glass of wine. “Drink this.”
Joanna sat up and took the glass.
They were all seated at the big oak table: Carmen in the chair at the head; Richard holding the book that Mrs. Morris had brought wrapped in brown paper; Quentin at the other end with his head in his hands; Lady Carhill next to him.
Avoiding Joanna’s eyes, Richard set down the diary. “You knew all this, Tarrant?”
“I knew that she took lovers. She told me.” Fitzroy’s voice was quiet, controlled. “I discovered why much later. How the devil do you think it makes me feel to admit it publicly now? Yet what Flanders found out, and Green and Herring and some of the others knew eventually, was what she cajoled her lovers into telling her: our army’s secret plans, our strengths and weaknesses. Isn’t it obvious? Juanita rode out of camp to meet the enemy and sold the information to the French.”
“So she lied to me, to all of us,” Richard said. “You did not report it to Wellington?”
Fitzroy gave him a glance of pure incredulity. “She was my wife. Should I have seen her shot for a spy?”
Richard tossed the diary aside. He looked haggard.
“I don’t know. So that’s why you kept her so close, those last months. You were trying to prevent her having another opportunity. But she still tried to betray us once more, and she died. I think you’re going to have to tell us exactly what happened that night. For Señorita Gorrión’s sake, at the very least.”
Joanna felt her husband’s hand move. She opened her fingers and let his slide around them.
She glanced up. Fitzroy seemed calm, almost resigned. Yet tension still etched every plane of his face. He was very pale.
“What the hell makes you think you have the right to demand it? Yet it’s for your sake, Lenwood, not hers, that I will tell you.”
“You argued. I remember that.”
“I came into our tent to find her studying our plans for the show at Orthez—maps, memos—God knows how she obtained them. She screamed at me and threw things, before she ran out and almost knocked you down.”
“Then we followed her together.”
“Only to find that the partisans had already intercepted her. Call it native intelligence or dumb luck, but they were suspicious of her. You know the rest.”
Carmen stood up, her black eyes filled with tears.
“Yes! We know the rest. I came from South America when her letters stopped and found it all out. You let her be shot to save yourself. Because she carried secrets? What if she did? It wouldn’t have changed the outcome of the war.”
“It was still a betrayal,” Richard said.
“Betrayal? Why shouldn’t she hate you, all you English? You killed our father and our mother and burned our house. Why shouldn’t she have used an English officer to fight back and take revenge? She married this Lord Tarrant in hatred. She even sent me the ring he gave her.”
She held up her hand. Sapphire and diamonds blazed in the sunshine.
“My grandmother’s ring,” Fitzroy said.
“Yes, you, Fitzroy Monteith Mountfitchet, son of an earl, such a perfect example of the English gentleman! You let her be shot down like a dog, rather than risk your own hide. So I have tracked you down and found you, and I have done my best to make your existence a living hell. What do you think my sister’s life was like, married to an English lord she despised, taking all those loathsome English officers to her bed?”
“Yes,” Fitzroy said, his control slipping, his face as white as his torn shirt. “I know.”
Joanna clung to his hand, trying to let him draw strength from her if he could.
“And that’s what remains, after all the accusations against my sister and your claim of loving her.” Carmen’s voice dropped to a hiss. “She was shot dead, because you were too cowardly to save her.”
The blood drained entirely from his face. Joanna felt him shudder.
“I could not save her. I tried for two years, but it was never enough. Juanita was damaged too deeply. She couldn’t recover. I discovered on our wedding night what our soldiers had done to her, before I found her in the stable. It was too much to forgive. I didn’t blame her, but I could not save her.”
“So you let her die?” Richard dropped his head into his hands. “Dear God.”
“Yes,” Fitzroy said. “It’s unforgivable, isn’t it?”
Joanna watched his face. His expression was closed, remote.
In the person of one English officer, himself, he had tried to make up for the actions of a drunken, looting gang of men, a task impossible. It was war. He was often gone on missions. So for two years, he and Juanita had been trapped together in a hell of their own making.
Yet how could he claim he had loved her, when he had taken the easy way out?
Perhaps once peace had come, with time and love she could have been healed? Surely it hadn’t been necessary to sacrifice her life? Was that all the value Fitzroy put on love?
Never doubt, whatever happens later, that everything you feel tonight
is real; that I love you.
He had claimed her body and soul. Joanna couldn’t bear it if the love he had expressed to her were only a cipher, shallow, easily forgotten.
The pain seemed unbearable.
But then it came to her, as if a voice spoke in her ear: And you tell yourself that you love him, Joanna. Then shame on you for your lack of faith!
“You haven’t told us everything, have you?” she asked gently. “Why didn’t you shoot at her assassin and save her?”
“It’s quite simple.” Fitzroy closed his eyes, as if against the humiliation of their gathering moisture. “I couldn’t lift my arm. She had just sunk a knife into my back.”
Silence, as if the grave yawned.
“But you saved my life,” Richard said quietly at last.
Fitzroy’s eyes flew open and he grinned at his old colleague.
“Whatever made you think that? No, the partisans saved us both. I’ve certainly never claimed otherwise. As soon as they realized Juanita was dead, the French galloped off. They had come to meet her, after all.”
“The partisans?”
“Of course. They bound me up and propped me on my horse. You were slung unconscious across yours. And so we limped back to camp. I’m sorry about everything I said to you later. I hadn’t wanted it to turn out as it did. Once she was gone, I saw no reason for anyone else to know what Juanita had been doing. The partisans took her body with them. They promised to bury her in hallowed ground.”
Carmen spun to face him, her black eyes blazing.
“Juanita was seven years younger than I, the baby of our family. When I went to South America, she was still a child. She wrote me only parts of this, but I see now how it was. As for those men, Herring and the others, she told me how they spied on her, scorned her—English scum!”
“No,” Fitzroy said. “Honest men, only doing their duty.”
“Damn you! All of you! Men just like them ruined her in Badajoz, left her bleeding and broken, her heart slaughtered. They deserved to die. And you, Fitzroy Mountfitchet, are a romantic fool. I have lost interest in you.”
She crossed to the doorway and tugged at the bellpull. The door opened to reveal a servant.
“My carriage,” Carmen said. “We return to Spain. Quentin, you will come?”
Quentin gave her a crooked smile. “I don’t believe so, mi corazón. It was sweet while it lasted, but you have mistaken my feelings for Fitzroy. I don’t hate him anywhere near as much as you think.”
Carmen shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He is nothing, a mere pawn. It was amusing to play with him for a while.”
“You have ordered the murder of innocent men.” The ironic edge was gone. Fitzroy’s voice blazed with anger. “Do you think we should let you walk away?”
“Of course. For now I will tell you that the game has only just begun. My family shall still be revenged on England. And you Englishmen are helpless to stop it.”
“What now?” Fitzroy asked. “Is there further retribution?”
“Of course. You are such a master spy and you have not guessed? Your batman, Herring, told you the truth. Did you think it was just a feint? No, Wellington is the real prize. Only remember this, when you get the news of his death, that the sparrow has finally won.”
Joanna turned to Fitzroy. “The sparrow?”
He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them.
“Obvious enough, given her surname: Gorrión, the sparrow.”
‘Who killed Cock Robin?’ ‘I,’ said the Sparrow, ‘with my bow and arrow . . .’
Carmen opened her reticule and tossed a package of papers onto the table.
“Your precious Iron Duke will die tomorrow in Cambrai. The plans are all there. May it bring you pleasure to read them.”
The door slammed shut behind her.
“For God’s sake!” Richard leaped to his feet and tore open the packet.
Lady Carhill tugged Quentin by the sleeve. “You will let her escape?”
“Sit down, Quentin.” Fitzroy leaned back as Richard scanned the papers. “She wins this round. Wellington’s life is far more important than hers. We must read what she leaves us.”
“But she said the plot is for tomorrow,” Joanna said. “Even if the entire navy attempted it, you cannot get warning to France in time, and you are wounded.”
“My dear wife, have a little faith.” Fitzroy opened one eye to look at Richard. “Well, Lenwood?”
“It’s all here,” Richard replied grimly. “Wellington will be ambushed as he returns to his headquarters in Cambrai. They plan to use a crossbow. It may sound medieval, but it’s just as deadly as a rifle, and completely silent, of course. It’s a hideously simple plan. The assassins have every chance of getting away with it.”
“Oh, no!” Lady Carhill cried, still clutching at Quentin’s sleeve. “Wellington must be warned. You will ride immediately for the coast, Lord Lenwood?”
Richard flung down the papers and ran his hands back through his blond hair. He was gaunt.
“Impossible,” he said. “Joanna is right. By the time any messenger from England arrives in France, he will be days too late.”
Chapter 15
Fitzroy smiled at Joanna before forcing himself to stand.
“But what you don’t realize, Lenwood, is that we Mountfitchets regularly deal in signs and wonders. We have all the birds of the air on our side.”
With a gasp, he sat down again. “Sadly, I don’t believe I can ride.”
Quentin gently disengaged Lady Carhill’s fingers. He looked grim and shaken.
“Then I suppose it’s up to me to save the peace of Europe, brother.”
Fitzroy nodded to him. “Do it, sir. There’s still no time to be lost.”
“Quentin?” Joanna said. “But he’s been in league with that woman from the beginning. How can you trust him now?”
“Sweetheart, there are times we must trust what we believe we know about another person’s heart. Though we’ve been apart for most of these last years, we were boys together once.”
Quentin tried to grin at her and failed. His skin was chalky.
“Don’t listen to Fitzroy’s attempts to reclaim me, Joanna. I’m past redemption, a damned drunkard.”
“But you didn’t know what she really was.” Lady Carhill’s eyes were enormous. “None of us knew. We were all pawns, weren’t we?” She turned to Fitzroy. “Those men you mentioned: Green, Herring, Flanders. Carmen had them killed?”
Fitzroy nodded, still watching his brother.
“It’s a little disconcerting,” Quentin said with a desperate attempt at bravado, “to know that one has taken a murderess to one’s bed. You’re right to have no faith in me, Joanna. We may have been the unwitting dupes of a vicious woman, but we weren’t innocent. How the hell can I trust myself?”
“By staying sober, sir.” Fitzroy smiled with the old deviltry. “And, besides, Joanna’s brother will go with you.”
“Go where?” Richard said.
“To the bottom of my garden. What do you know about pigeons?”
* * *
Quentin and Richard left at the gallop to attempt to get a message to Wellington in time. Quentin would dispatch the Belgian carrier pigeons, while Richard rode on to Whitehall to inform Lord Grantley.
Joanna and Fitzroy traveled back to London in Lady Carhill’s carriage.
It was a silent journey. Fitzroy slept with his head against Joanna’s shoulder. Lady Carhill stared from the window at the passing countryside and said nothing.
They arrived back at Fitzroy’s house as the day drew in.
Menservants carried their master up the stairs to his bedroom. The paint-stained sheets were gone, silently changed by the efficient household staff.
Joanna glanced at the slim volume of Wordsworth and the note Fitzroy had written, which she had tucked inside.
Joanna. Remember. Whatever happens later, I love you.
Fitzroy was placed in the great bed, his face as white
as the sheets, his disordered hair raven in contrast.
The doctor came. Fitzroy was bled, bandaged anew, and given a sleeping draught made from poppies. He slept heavily.
Nothing more could be done.
Joanna sat and studied his sleeping features, her heart filled with fear.
At last the door opened. She turned as Richard and Quentin came in.
“We sent four pigeons,” Quentin said with an attempt at gaiety. “The message is attached to their legs. If they survive hawks and bad weather, they will arrive at their home loft in Belgium in four or five hours. If Fitzroy’s man finds them there, as he should, it will only be a matter of a couple more hours hard riding to get warning to Wellington in Cambrai.”
“So it’s now in the hands of Fate and our feathered friends,” Richard said.
“I shall tell Fitzroy,” Joanna replied, “in the morning.”
“So how is the fallen hero?” Quentin asked lightly.
Her control snapped. “He’s very ill. Don’t you care?”
Total blankness came over Quentin’s handsome features.
“I care damnably, as it happens. But what the devil can I do about it now? Do you think that what I’ve done can be forgotten overnight, like the name of someone you hope not to meet again? Fitzroy is the only brother I have. Believe it or not, I’d rather he lives to rain curses at me if he wants to.”
“It was my sword did the damage,” Richard said. “I was momentarily insane, I think.”
“But I was the man he should have been able to rely on, wasn’t I? Yet I believed all those lies about him. Now, pray, where is Lady Carhill?”
Joanna blushed, still angry. “She’s waiting downstairs. She thought perhaps you would like a ride back to town in her carriage.”
“An excellent scheme.” Quentin strode to the door.
He turned as he opened it and tried to wink at her. His eyes were glazed.
“We shall know in a day, perhaps, if the pigeons were successful, and by morning if I am. Thank God I’m free of Mrs. Barton-Smith—or Carmen, I should say—at last. I was afraid to replace her, and rightly as it turned out. Who knows? The knife might have been for my back next.”
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