Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

As she neared, his eyes opened; he went to smile, but the gesture turned into a pained grimace. “I think we’ve got the salient points covered.”

“Nearly finished,” Charles said. “I’ll send one of your grooms to carry it to the Abbey. One of my lads will take it to London.”

Presumably Charles’s grooms knew where to deliver such missives. Penny murmured, “Luncheon will be ready as soon as you’ve finished.”

Charles nodded and kept writing.

Fifteen minutes later, with the final draft completed, reread, and signed by Nicholas, then countersigned by Charles and dispatched with not one but two grooms to the Abbey, they headed for the dining parlor.

They dallied over the meal. According to Charles, there was little they could do but wait.

“We know who he is—a French agent. We know his mission—to execute the Selbornes, Amberly at the very least, for crimes against the French state, and to recover all or some of the pillboxes and snuffboxes. What we don’t know is what disguise he’s wearing. So we wait until either he shows his hand, or we learn something to the point from Dalziel.”

“Dalziel…” Nicholas sipped the red wine Em had insisted he drink. “He seems to wield considerable power.”

Charles nodded. “I have no idea whether that power derives from his position, secret as it is, or from his real self—his personal standing, his real title, his real name—all of which are even more secret than his position.”

Nicholas studied his glass. “I’ve heard…whispers, never anything more. He seems a conundrum, at least within the bounds of Whitehall. He behaves as if he has no personal ambition whatever.”

Penny watched Charles roll the comment around in his head, fitting it with his own observations.

He shook his head. “That’s not quite accurate. I seriously doubt Dalziel has any personal ambition toward political or public life—I suspect it wouldn’t be an option for him. That must make him an oddity in Whitehall; with no civil service future at stake, the mandarins would have no leverage over him. However , when it comes to ambition of a different sort, relentless determination…” He drained his glass. “I think he could give us all lessons.”

Nicholas raised his brows, intrigued; Penny kept her own counsel.

The conversation drifted to other things, but they were merely passing the time. Charles had sent instructions to Filchett to redirect any communication from London to the Hall, so they no longer needed to ride to the Abbey but could remain with Nicholas—keeping a watch on Nicholas.

Penny, Figgs, Em, and Norris had discussed the advisability of Nicholas’s resting; he was still pale and drawn. Penny held herself ready to distract him with some comment every time Norris, with the unobtrusive deftness of the best of his kind, refilled Nicholas’s wineglass.

At two, Nicholas could no longer stifle his yawns. “I think,” he said, blinking dramatically, “that perhaps I should lie down for a while.”

“An excellent idea.” Laying aside her napkin, she pushed back her chair. “While you’re upstairs, I’ll use your desk to make a proper list of the boxes.”

They rose and went into the hall; she and Charles watched as Nicholas climbed the stairs. Once he’d disappeared, Charles turned to Norris.

Who forestalled him. “Two of the footmen are already upstairs, my lord.”

“Good.” Taking her hand, he started for the door. “Your list can wait. Let’s get some air.”

She’d had enough of describing boxes and makers and marks; she let him tow her out onto the porch. “We could walk through the shrubbery.”

He glanced at the high green hedges, shook his head. “I’ve developed a dislike of your shrubbery.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“It’s too closed in, and this madman seems to like it.” He drew her arm through his and set off across the lawns, away from the shrubbery.

She thought, then glanced around at the wide lawns, the occasional trees, and nearby fields. “What if he uses a pistol?”

“He’d need to be reasonably close, within good range, and pistols have only one shot, have to come from somewhere, go somewhere, and are not all that easy to hide.” He paced beside her, looking down yet, she was quite sure, not seeing. “Besides, we’ve seen two of his kills. He likes to be close, for the act to be personal. He wants to kill Nicholas, and probably you, too, and certainly Amberly, but he’ll use a knife or his bare hands.”

She shivered.

He glanced at her, squeezed her hand reassuringly. “It’s actually his weakness. As long as we can keep him at a distance from you three, make sure he can’t get close, he’ll be stymied. Eventually, he’ll try something reckless, then we’ll have him.”

Looking up into his face, into his dark eyes, she saw nothing but supreme confidence. “You’re very sure of all this.”

Charles shrugged, looked down as they walked on.

“I suppose you’re used to it.”

For a moment, he didn’t reply, then he said, “That’s true in a way, but…I was usually in his position.”

Drawing breath, he looked up, met her eyes—and saw not the faintest vestige of shock or consternation. Rather, her expression was a mirror for his own arrogant resolution; she’d guessed the truth and didn’t care.

His lips quirked self-deprecatingly; looking ahead, he conceded, “You’re right. In this instance, it helps.”

They circled the house, then returned to the library, refreshed. Penny sat at the desk and composed a neat list. Halfway through, she put down her pen and wiggled her cramped fingers. “Remind me—why is this necessary?”

“Because once you’ve completed it, Norris and I will verify it as accurate, after which we’ll both sign and date it. Then even if anything subsequently goes missing, we’ll still have proof it was here.”

She considered the reasons why that might be useful, sighed, picked up the pen, and continued transcribing.

When she’d completed the list, Charles took it and, leaving her to enjoy her cup of tea alone, retreated with Norris to the priest hole. She mentally wished them joy. Then Nicholas joined her, looking better than he had; she poured him a cup, and they sat in silence—a more companionable silence than she’d shared with him to date. One benefit of adversity shared.

Half an hour later, Charles returned. He handed the list to Nicholas. “I’d put that somewhere safe.”

Nicholas glanced at it, then nodded. “Thank you.” His gaze shifted to Penny. “Both of you.” He drew in a deep breath, opened his mouth.

Charles dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t bother. We’re all in this together, and aside from anything else, after learning the whole story, I’m dying to meet your father.”

The comment surprised a bark of laughter from Nicholas. He swiveled to face Charles, but Charles, frowning, was moving to the windows that looked out along the drive.

“Visitors?” Penny wouldn’t have been surprised; news of the attack on Nicholas would have percolated through the local grapevine.

Charles didn’t immediately respond. Both she and Nicholas could now hear what he had; horses trotting up to the front steps. Charles started to smile, a smile that grew to unholy proportions as he turned back to them.

“Not visitors—Dalziel’s sent reinforcements.”

Two of them. Charles strode out to the front porch to greet them. Penny and Nicholas followed more slowly.

Charles went down the steps as the pair handed their horses to the grooms who’d come running. The men turned eagerly to meet him; there followed much shaking of hands and slapping of backs, and a few pointed, distinctly jocular remarks Penny suspected she wasn’t supposed to hear.