Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

He looked up, met her gaze, paused as if considering his response.

Blithely waving Filchett to the desk, she sat in one of the chairs before it. She heard Charles’s half-stifled sigh as he set down his pen and shut her father’s book to make room for the tray.

He’d been composing some list; that much she’d seen. She waited until Filchett withdrew. Sitting forward, she picked up the pot and poured. “What have you decided?”

If he thought she was going to let him deal her out of this game, he was mistaken. Lifting her cup from the tray, she sat back.

He looked at her, then picked up his cup and saucer. “My ex-commander’s focus is on identifying who in the ministry handed your father and Granville the information we’re assuming they traded for the pillboxes. Making a case against your father or Granville won’t interest him; not only are they dead, but they’re also clearly not the prime instigators of the scheme. Your father never had access to government secrets; he remained in the country most of his life—no self-respecting French agent would have even considered approaching him.”

“You think Amberly was the instigator.”

He sipped his tea, nodded. “Originally, yes. You said your father started collecting pillboxes while staying with Amberly in Paris. However, Amberly retired seven years ago, and the passage of information continued until recently.”

“So the baton, as it were, was passed from father to son, both in Amberly’s case as well as Papa’s?”

“It fits. Especially with dear Nicholas hot-footing it down here just as I appear on the scene.”

She frowned. “Could he have heard you were coming to investigate?”

“It’s possible.” He set down his cup. “While Dalziel takes these matters seriously, not everyone in the ministries is so inclined. Many think that now the war is over, secrecy isn’t an issue anymore.”

“Hmm…” After a moment, she refocused on his face. “So what now?”

“Now…even though the pillboxes’ existence confirms that some traffic, presumably in secrets, occurred with the French, they don’t implicate Nicholas or Amberly, no matter that Nicholas clearly knows of them. I need evidence that specifically ties Amberly or Nicholas to the traffic of Foreign Office secrets—how I’m to get that is what I’m presently wrestling with.”

She glanced pointedly at his list. “You’ve decided on something.”

He hesitated, then reluctantly said, “I’ve contacts of my own with the local smuggling gangs—as you so perspicaciously noticed, I’ve used them on and off over the years.” Picking up his pen, he toyed with it. “I can see two reasons for Nicholas behaving as he is—either he’s trying to ensure that Granville’s and therefore his tracks remain covered, or, just possibly, he believes there might be some new contact made, or at least some reason he might again need to use the smugglers as a conduit to the French. Either way, he’s out there asking questions.” His lips curved, not in a smile. “I’m considering whether I should arrange for him to receive some answers.”

“Such as what?”

“I won’t know until I get a better idea of what he’s been asking. Is he really setting himself up as Granville’s active replacement, or is he merely trawling to learn which group Granville used for running the secrets so he’ll know who has to be kept quiet?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t heard enough to say.” Leaning forward, setting her elbow on the desk, she propped her chin in her hand.

Charles watched her face as she thought, watched her thoughts flow through her expressive eyes.

“Given we’re certain Granville and Nicholas were in this hand in glove, wouldn’t Granville have told Nicholas which group he used?”

He shook his head. “Secrecy is a byword among the fraternity. Granville played at being a smuggler for a good many years; he would have absorbed that lesson well. Unless there was some exceptionally strong reason—and I can’t see what it might be—I seriously doubt telling Amberly or Nicholas who his smuggling friends were would have entered Granville’s head.”

She grimaced. “That sounds right. He was as close as a clam over anything to do with smuggling.” Her gaze dropped to his list. “So what have you written there?”

He had to smile, even though the message she was sending his way—that she wasn’t going to let him pat her on the head and tell her to go and embroider—wasn’t one he was happy about. “It’s a list of the gangs that might have been involved. I’ll need to contact them myself. They’ll hear soon enough why I’m here—I need to make clear that neither I nor the government has any interest in them but only in what they can tell me.”

“What if you run into Nicholas?”

“I won’t. You said he visited Polruan two nights ago—I’ll start there.”

“When? Tonight?”

No point trying to prevaricate. “I’ll ride down after dinner. If they ran goods last night, they should be in the Duck and Drake this evening.”

She nodded; he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

“Tell me about Amberly—how frequently did your father and he meet?”

She thought, then answered, telling him little he hadn’t already surmised. But his questions served to distract her. After ten minutes of steady inquisition, she stirred. “I’ll take the tray—I want to speak to Mrs. Slattery.”

He rose and held the door for her. She departed with the air of a lady with her mind on domestic concerns. Closing the door, he paused, then returned to his desk and his plans.

They met again over dinner; he came prepared with a stock of friendly familial inquiries designed to keep her mind far away from his evening appointment in Polruan. In that, he thought he succeeded; when they rose from the table, she retired for the evening, electing to go straight to her chamber. She didn’t even mention his planned excursion; he wondered if it had slipped her mind.

He returned to his study to read through the report he’d penned for Dalziel. He’d thought long and hard, but in the end he’d named names, accurately setting down all he’d learned thus far. Even more than his six collegues from the Bastion Club, he’d entrusted his life to Dalziel’s discretion for thirteen years; Dalziel had never let him down.

Even though they’d yet to solve the riddle of who exactly Dalziel was, whoever he was he was one of them—a nobleman with the same sense of honor, the same attitude toward protecting the weak and innocent. Penny and Elaine and her daughters stood in no danger from Dalziel.

Sealing the letter, he addressed it, then rose. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten o’clock. Opening the study door, he called Cassius and Brutus from their sprawl before the fire; stretching, grumbling, they clambered up and obeyed.

Shutting the door, he strolled to the front hall, dropped his letter on Filchett’s salver on the sideboard, then went upstairs, the hounds at his heels.

Ten minutes later, dressed to ride, he opened the garden door, stepped outside, softly closed the door, and turned for the stables.

He’d taken three strides before the shadow glimpsed at the edge of his vision registered. He halted, swore softly, then, hands rising to his hips, swung around to face Penny. Clad once more in breeches, boots, and riding jacket, with a soft-brimmed hat cocked over her brow, she’d been leaning against the wall a yard from the door—waiting.

So much for his successful distraction.

He set his jaw. “You can’t come.”

The moon sailed free tonight; she met his eyes. “Why not?”

“You’re a lady. Ladies don’t frequent the Duck and Drake.”

She straightened from the wall, shrugged. “You’ll be there—I’ll be perfectly safe.”