“Elsmore is usually the soul of discretion,” Quinn said. “We’ve had to deal with each other regarding the occasional delicate financial matter, and I would trust Elsmore before I’d extend that honor to any other peer.”
“Elsmore was the first to call upon us when Quinn gained the title.” Jane opened the halves of a sandwich, then put it back together and passed it to Quinn.
“Jane is the Duchess of Mustard,” Quinn said. “Woe to any new kitchen maid who forgets to put mustard on my sandwiches.”
Even as one part of Duncan’s mind whirled with speculation regarding Parker’s motives, another part of his mind—or maybe his heart—watched the smiles Quinn and Jane exchanged, the way they sat so comfortably right next to each other. All of life for them had acquired a certain joyous intimacy from which others were excluded, and yet, the glow of that intimacy reflected onto any in their ambit, as a blazing hearth warms an entire room.
I want that. I want that with Matilda. “Did Elsmore have anything else to add?” Duncan asked.
“Eat your sandwich,” Jane said, lifting Duncan’s plate in his direction.
“The only other fact Elsmore added,” Quinn said, “was that the Marquess of Creswell and his younger brother do not get on well. No details. Younger sons in titled families can be discontent, and despite the lofty commission purchased for him, Parker fits that description.”
The tickle in the back of Duncan’s mind regarding younger sons grew to an itch. What was it…?
“As usual,” Stephen said, wheeling into the room in his Bath chair, “nobody sought to summon me when food was on hand.”
“You do not join us fresh from your slumbers, Stephen,” Duncan said. “Where have you been?”
Stephen drew up to the low table. “How can you tell?”
“You are in riding attire, and the mud on your boots would have been cleaned off by the boot boy last night. You’ve therefore already been abroad today and you went on horseback.”
Stephen helped himself to a sandwich. “Where did I go?”
Someplace that a man on horseback would be received more respectfully than a man in a fancy crested town coach. Someplace useful, where information could be gathered relevant to the current dilemma. Someplace where Stephen had connections of his own, connections not accessible to anybody else in the family.
“Horse Guards,” Duncan said. “Your military friends share your interest in modern weaponry, and soldiers love to gossip. What did you learn?”
Quinn had paused mid-reach toward the sandwich tray. “Never, in an eternity of trying, could I have come up with that guess.”
Was that respect in the duke’s eyes? Pride?
“A moment’s consideration of the facts,” Duncan said, “and you would have landed on the most plausible choice. Stephen likes to test me, but his little riddles are usually obvious in hindsight.”
Stephen also liked—craved—to be of use, hence his raid on a citadel neither Duncan nor the duke would have been able to breach.
“I delivered a few of my sketches to the artificers,” Stephen said, “and dropped a hint or two that one Colonel Lord Atticus Parker was trying to curry favor with Quinn. The rest was a matter of looking interested and dismayed.”
Duncan let Stephen draw out the moment, because Stephen’s excursion had been a brilliant inspiration. Of course the war hero would be the subject of talk among his fellow officers.
“In an eternity of trying,” Duncan said, “I could not have prompted the lowliest corporal to discuss Parker with me. I gather the news was bad.”
Stephen took a bite of his sandwich, and again, Duncan allowed him his theatrics.
“Parker is no bloody war hero to his fellow officers,” Stephen said, “excuse my language. He got his men trapped on a hillside and threatened them with flogging when they prevented him from bolting into enemy fire. The junior officers and enlisted men held the position while Parker screamed at them to charge into certain death. Next thing they knew, the battle had been won thanks to their efforts, and Parker was getting commended in the dispatches.”
“Bad news indeed,” Duncan said, getting to his feet. “Parker is a bully and a cheat, and he has my duchess.”
Kristoff, another Viking on the duke’s staff, rapped on the doorjamb and waited, cap in hand. He wore a workingman’s garb, and looked much the worse for his travels.
“Come in,” Duncan said. “Have you found my duchess?”
“She’s at the Creswell town house, sir. Ned is standing watch, though the boy is nearly dead on his feet. The marquess is away at the family seat, and the staff was surprised to be hosting Lord Atticus. He is not a favorite with them, and he’s brought along a woman who seems less than thrilled to be in the colonel’s company.”
“So we know where Matilda is,” Quinn said, around a mouthful of sandwich, “we know the manner of man holding her captive. Why can’t I just play the duke and demand her release?”
The king could move in any direction on the chessboard, but he could travel only one square at time. When he was out of moves, the game ended.
“Because Parker will simply refuse to surrender her,” Duncan said. “He’ll claim she’s not home to callers until this wedding she warned Jinks of has transpired, if Parker even admits she’s on the premises. You will be checkmated at the door.”
“What if I—?” Jane started, but Stephen interrupted.
“What does that leave, Duncan? You’ve gathered all the information we can lay our hands on, time is running out, and marriage is forever.”
Marriage, which meant Parker could not be made to testify against his wife. Marriage, which would preclude forever any union between Duncan and his duchess. Thomas Wakefield’s life hung in the balance, as did Matilda’s happiness.
At least.
Jane and Quinn exchanged another look, this one worried. Quinn patted Jane’s wrist, and she shifted subtly closer to him. Husband and wife, wife and husband, the two as one flesh…Insight struck like a thunderclap, stunning in its impact, the effect reverberating through Duncan’s body and mind.
And his heart.
“That leaves the bishops,” Duncan said. “We need a set of eyes watching every entrance to the Creswell abode, and we need them there now.”
* * *
“We can be married the moment the priest arrives,” Parker said. “The sooner we speak our vows, the sooner I can honorably decline to share what I saw you doing in your father’s study all those months ago.”
They had arrived in London at midmorning, and Matilda had promptly demanded a nap. She’d pretended sleep, her mind refusing to quiet. As soon as she’d risen to heed the call of nature, a maid had come bustling in to make the bed.
Parker had sauntered in not five minutes later.
Matilda was in another borrowed nightgown and dressing gown, and she’d been given a bedroom that once again had no means of escape.
“For you to be in this room with me now is hardly proper, Atticus.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Suppose not, but then, by tonight we will be man and wife. A little familiarity in the interests of apprising you of your good fortune shouldn’t bother you. You’re a widow, after all.”
He peered at his reflection in the cheval mirror and twitched at the lapel of his uniform. In every way, Parker looked the part of the loyal officer, but would even a loyal officer see his father-in-law hung for treason?
“Why such haste regarding the vows, my lord? Do you expect me to marry in the rag you found me in?”
He turned his right side to the mirror, adopting the contrapposto stance of heroic statues from time immemorial.
“That is a worthy point. One cannot marry a duchess in rags without causing at least the priest to raise an eyebrow. Something ready-made will have to do. I’ll find you a modiste who can alter a completed article to fit you and we will still sit down to supper as man and wife.”
Such urgency—to protect her? And yet, Parker did not offer to send
for the London modiste whom Matilda favored.
He shifted, putting the other foot forward.
“I’d like my father to be present at the ceremony,” she said. “Papa is doubtless worried about me, and he’ll be endlessly grateful to you for bringing me to safety.” If safety this was.
Parker paused in his preening. “My dear, I sense that you do not grasp how truly precarious your position is. If Wakefield should be arrested, you are the very first party the Crown will suspect of conspiring with him. Distance from your dear father is the wisest course for you. Unless we are well and truly wed, I will have no choice but to reveal that you were translating highly sensitive stolen correspondence, and that you dodged off for parts unknown rather than entrust me with the information you found.”
Assuming Parker had read the same information, what had he done with it? How did he know that the document had been stolen rather than entrusted to the Crown’s courier?
“What will happen to your career when it becomes known that you have married the daughter of an accused spy—assuming Papa wasn’t in possession of that missive for lawful reasons?”
And who would accuse Papa if Parker did not? The question chilled her, bringing her whirling thoughts to a stop. Parker and Parker alone apparently knew the details of this situation—Parker, Matilda, and Papa.
“I will have married an innocent, as far as the world knows. I will shelter her from any hint of suspicion.”
“I am innocent,” Matilda said. Something Parker should have been desperate to believe about his intended. “I was looking for a damned pair of scissors when I found that letter, and I’m still not entirely sure what it said. Neither do I know whether that missive was in Papa’s possession or secreted among his personal effects by another intended to incriminate him.”
Another who now sought to marry her?
“Temper, my dear.” Parker strode for the door. “I’ll see that a suitable dress is delivered within the hour and send a maid to do something with your hair. If we are to allay inconvenient suspicions, the clergyman must be greeted by a radiant bride, and your travels have taken an unfortunate toll in that regard. We shall contrive, nonetheless, and you will soon be safely established as my lawfully wedded wife.”
No, I will not. The Archbishop of Canterbury could not force her to speak her vows with Parker, not until she knew what game he played.
“Find me a dress, Atticus, and send me a maid. Radiance will require some effort.”
He bowed and withdrew, clearly pleased with himself, while Matilda was increasingly certain the colonel was not a loyal soldier and not at all interested in safeguarding Thomas Wakefield’s future—or her own.
Chapter Eighteen
“I got no farther than you did,” Carlu said, studying the winter ale served by the Brightwell village inn. “The manor house staff is either loyal or telling the truth: They know nothing of a woman fitting your daughter’s description. Had it from the butler himself, and his version of events was repeated by the stable lads and farmer Jingle.”
Carlu had become a dark angel of conscience, never referring to Matilda as anything save “your daughter.” Thomas Wakefield hoped she’d still claim him as her father, if this mess ever sorted itself out.
“So she’s not here, never was here,” Wakefield said, “and we have no idea where the colonel might be either.”
Petras pulled up a chair. To him, a Muscovite born and bred, England had no winter worth the name.
“Some ale, sir?” a serving maid asked.
“Please.” He smiled as only a young man convinced of his own charm can smile. The maid blushed—all the maids blushed for Petras, and Carlu kicked him under the table.
“Do I take it Tomas is enjoying a constitutional?” Wakefield asked when the maid had scurried away.
“Tomas has indulged his fascination for wildlife,” Petras replied. “He found many trails in the Brightwell home wood, some of them made by a woman, others by a child. The majority, though, were created by men. A day old, no more.”
“A party searching for game?” Carlu asked, frowning at his tankard.
“Gamekeepers wouldn’t stick to the well-worn trails,” Wakefield said, “nor would poachers in search of game. A man intent on poaching game would move deliberately and quietly, not march around making a racket. Any dog tracks?”
Petras waited until the maid had set his ale on the table and then moved away before he replied.
“No dogs. The woman’s boots were made by Hoby.”
Hoby, the most successful bootmaker in London, said to have several hundred cobblers and cordwainers in his employ.
Matilda had worn Hoby boots. “She wasn’t here,” Wakefield said, though that fact was no cause for rejoicing. He’d been certain Matilda had at least come this way if not bided in the area.
“Parker was here at this very inn,” Petras said, in the same tones he might have used to observe that rain was on the way. “He made a pest of himself with the maids.”
“A ditch,” Carlu muttered. “A cold, muddy ditch beside a lonely, dark road. Why do you never listen to me, sir?”
“We’re here, aren’t we?” Wakefield replied. “Empty handed, as usual. If Parker passed through here a week ago, then what does that matter to us?”
A pressing need to shake some answers from the fools at Horse Guards had Wakefield nearly bolting from the room. That would cause talk, though, and at all costs, he must move about in as unremarkable a fashion as possible.
“Parker was here last night,” Petras said. “We missed him by hours.”
Carlu’s glower should have left a circle of flames around Wakefield’s chair.
Tomas strutted in—Tomas had perfected the strut, and the dark-eyed stare that made a lady’s knees go weak, to hear him tell it. He took the fourth seat at the table and appropriated a sip of Petras’s drink.
“The ducal driveway tells a tale,” Tomas said in the most unremarkable tones. “Two large coaches, traveling at the same time. The tracks go up, the tracks go to the carriage house, the tracks go right back down the drive, all within the space of—I’d say—several hours, no more than a day or two ago, based on the melting and the mud. Fresh teams put to, footmen, grooms, or stable lads hopping about. Big horses in both directions, not puny nags from the last coaching inn. An outrider on another big horse.”
“Private teams,” Carlu observed. “Parker’s titled brother travels out to Bristol frequently. The marquess might have private teams in the area.”
“Parker did not pay a call on Brightwell,” Wakefield retorted, “much less abscond with Matilda, and depart without causing gossip.”
The serving maid came by again. “Ale for you, sir?” she asked Tomas.
“Please, fair maiden. And one of your smiles would illuminate the rest of my day.”
The maid did smile, and blush, and curtsy before she backed away from the table.
Both Petras and Carlu kicked Tomas under the table. “Now is no time for one of your performances,” Carlu hissed.
Tomas shrugged. “If a man as well favored as I did not attempt harmless flirtation, the maid would remark it and be needlessly offended. I owe it to her and to our attempts at discretion to make her smile.”
“The Portuguese are a peculiar race,” Petras observed philosophically. “All that hot sun.”
“And the wine they consume,” Carlu suggested. “Inferior vintages in great quantities. Curdles small brains faster than those with greater endowments.”
“No talk of endowments,” Wakefield said, because this lot could turn crude innuendo into an art form. “Where did Parker go?”
“London. He left no vales, he was traveling with liveried servants, and the crests on his vehicle were turned, which only proves he’s an idiot. What good is it to turn the crests if you have half a dozen self-important buffoons swarming about in livery? He left yesterday about midday.”
Carlu, Petras, and Tomas did humble work, mucking stalls, fetching the pos
t, minding the front door. They were also professionals at a game more complicated than chess could ever be, and they were watching Wakefield with a casual regard that suggested his life was in danger.
As Matilda’s life had been in danger for months. The queasiness Wakefield had lived with since her disappearance escalated to dread, if not terror. For her, and for himself.
“I never meant for this scheme to get so out of hand,” he said.
Nobody spoke. The maid set down a fourth serving of ale and withdrew.
“I missed my wife,” Wakefield went on softly. “I was drifting from one city to another, and I was offered a chance to do more than peddle inferior portraits and incomplete tea services.”
Carlu flicked a glance at Tomas and Petras. All hands were in evidence—Carlu’s casually wrapped around his tankard, Petras’s resting on the table, Tomas’s linked behind his head. In the time it took the maid to curtsy, all three men could be holding knives.
“You were offered easy coin,” Carlu said. “You had enough, you simply wanted more.”
“Greed is so unbecoming,” Petras observed. “So common.”
“A sin,” Tomas added. “A deadly sin. Of the seven deadly sins, I prefer lust myself, though gluttony and sloth have much to recommend them as well.”
“Pride is more your forte,” Petras suggested. “Envy besets me.”
“Leaving wrath to me,” Carlu said. “What are your orders, Mr. Wakefield? Do we return to London in search of Colonel Parker, or will you continue on to Oxford without us?”
Wakefield would never make it to Oxford. His fate would be a cold, muddy ditch on a lonely road, and not because he’d taken coin for advancing the affairs of this or that party, but rather, because Matilda had been caught up in his schemes and left to shift for herself. Those engaged in espionage did so according to rules as well defined and unrelenting as the Code Duello, and even more rigid.
Silence stretched while the maid came by again and used her rag to wipe down the table. Tomas turned a soulful gaze on her.
“Fair lady of the dazzling smiles, might you know where a handsome, lonely stranger such as myself could find employment in the area?”
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