A Husband's Wicked Ways (17 page)

“There’s nothing to forgive.” And there wasn’t. If he didn’t want to talk about his childhood, that was his business.

He studied her expression for a moment, then nodded as if satisfied. “We’ll walk in the park at five o’clock,” he told her, slipping back easily into the role of senior partner in the enterprise. He opened the door and stepped behind it so he was invisible to the outside world. “Meet me just inside the Stanhope Gate. It’s time we started to be noticed together.”

“I’ll be there.” She stepped through the door, pulling it shut behind her. She glanced up and down the street, saw no one she knew, and quickly went on her way. Her mind was in turmoil. The glories of the afternoon were one thing, one wonderful thing, but they had brought her closer to the man himself. Was that what he had been afraid of? What had produced that sudden coldness? He was afraid that physical closeness would engender a need on her part for emotional closeness? If so, he’d been right. He’d warned her that he never discussed personal matters, that there was no place for private emotions in the world of the spy. But he had to have them even if he didn’t discuss them. It wasn’t
human to have no emotional relationships, no personal history.

Had his lonely childhood scarred him in some way? Had there been something that made emotional withdrawal natural for him?

Had something in his early life groomed him for the isolated, dangerous world of the spy?

T
HE FISHING KETCH DOCKED
at Dover in the late afternoon. A heavy shower dampened the quayside, and the two gentlemen who stepped from the deck of the ketch carried umbrellas. The quayside itself reeked of fish and tar, the stench accentuated by the rain. From the wide-open door of a tavern came raucous laughter and the odor of spilled beer, sawdust, and tobacco.

The taller of the two men examined his surroundings through a quizzing glass with an air of fastidious disapproval. He was richly dressed, his chin supported on a highly starched, elaborately folded neckcloth, his dark coat and waistcoat of the softest wool, legs encased in skintight pantaloons, feet in glimmering top boots. His tall, lean, athletic build spoke of a man of action. He sported a neat spade beard, a high-crowned beaver hat, and carried a silver-knobbed cane.

His shorter companion was stocky, clean-shaven, with
a rather round face, and dressed in the dull black coat and britches of a factotum. They both looked around, clearly expecting some kind of welcoming committee.

A sailor came down the gangway with two portmanteaus that he dumped unceremoniously at their feet. “There y’are, gents.” He held out a callused, grimy hand.

The tall gentleman, with a flare of his nostrils, gestured imperiously to his companion, and the other hastily felt in his pocket and took out a copper coin. He dropped it into the waiting palm. The sailor looked at the coin, spat derisively onto the cobbles very close to one shining boot, and returned to the ketch.

“So, it would seem we are not expected, Miguel.” The voice was clipped, impatient, the man’s expression conveying the hauteur of one not accustomed to being kept waiting.

“He’ll be here, Don Antonio,” the other man reassured, looking around. “Carlos has never failed yet.”

“So, we should stand here in the rain?” A sculpted eyebrow lifted as Don Antonio turned his well-bred countenance to his companion.

“Would you prefer to enter the tavern?” The suggestion was tentatively made.

Don Antonio gave him an incredulous stare, then began to pace the cobbled quay, picking his way through the puddles. “At least we can make absolutely certain our arrival does not go unnoticed. Whoever’s watching for a stranger’s arrival will make good note of two sod
den gentlemen who clearly have nothing to hide, hanging around miserably on the quayside in the rain.” He gave a scornful laugh.

“Ah, here he is,” Miguel declared, as a coach pulled up at the edge of the quay. The door opened and a man jumped down, hurrying across the cobbles towards them.

“Forgive me for not being here to greet you on your arrival, Don Antonio, Senor Alvada. But one of the horses threw a shoe on the road from London.” The man bowed low, the rain pattering onto his bare head. “If you would care to take shelter in the coach, I’ll bring your luggage.” He was a small man and struggled with the two portmanteaus.

Neither of the gentlemen offered him any assistance, however, both hurrying across the quay and into the dry confines of the coach.

“Miserable country and its miserable weather,” Don Antonio observed, settling into a corner of the vehicle. He rubbed at the window with his gloved hand. “This damp gets into a man’s bones.”

“Yes, indeed,” responded Miguel, taking the opposite corner. “Carlos should have a snug parlor reserved for us, though. We’ll have a good dinner, a good bottle, and a comfortable night’s sleep before we continue to London.”

“A good dinner?” Don Antonio scoffed. “In this benighted country? The English don’t know the first thing about food. They cook like peasants.”

Miguel said nothing, merely hunched his shoulders
into his coat. Don Antonio Vasquez had a vehement loathing of the English and all things English, and Miguel had no intention of exacerbating that loathing with any words of excuse or defense. Only a fool would risk annoying Don Antonio, a man without remorse, without conscience, and he was very, very good, a master of his profession with no equal in Miguel’s eyes. Don Antonio chose his associates with the greatest care. On each enterprise he would pick someone who had a particular skill or penchant for a certain type of action. Miguel, trained by the Inquisition, had no illusions as to why he had been selected for this mission. He considered it an honor of the highest order.

“I took the liberty of booking bedchambers and a private parlor at the Green Man, on the road to London, Don Antonio.” Carlos, rain-sodden, clambered into the coach. Don Antonio withdrew farther into his corner with a grimace of distaste at the puddle forming beneath the other man’s boots.

“The kitchen has a good reputation,” Carlos offered hopefully. “And quite a decent cellar, I’m told.”

“That remains to be seen,” said the gentleman. “Let’s just get there, shall we, before we all drown?”

Carlos rapped on the roof to signal the driver, and the carriage lumbered forward. “The
asp
has leased a house on South Audley Street, Don Antonio. I have found very pleasant lodgings for you on Adam’s Row, very close by.” Carlos spoke fast, as if afraid he would be cut off at any moment. “I will act as your majordomo, of course,
and have taken the liberty of hiring a chef who comes highly recommended. Senor Alvada”—Carlos nodded politely to Miguel—“will be acting as your secretary.”

“Do we have an entrée at court?” Don Antonio asked.

“Doña Bernardina y Alcala is now the Countess of Lessingham. But she remains loyal to her Spanish blood. She will ensure you have all the entrées necessary, Don Antonio.”

“Good.” He nodded, his mouth twisting in a sardonic smile. “Her loyalty to poor King Carlos in exile will be put to good use, although not perhaps to the use she imagines.” He smiled a little. “I do enjoy a double-headed mission,” he said almost to himself. “Such an economical use of effort and resources. We shall set up our network and flush out the
asp
at the same time.”

He swiped his glove against the window again. “I have waited a long time for that, gentlemen. Now, how soon before we get to this paragon of an inn?”

“Half an hour, Don Antonio.” Carlos exchanged a glance with Miguel, who shrugged with fatalistic patience.

“How well do you know that colonel, Sir Greville Falconer, Harry?”

Harry knew his wife too well to assume she was making idle conversation. He put down his pen and looked across the desk at her as she crossed the carpet in the
library. “We’re slightly acquainted, why do you ask?”

“Aurelia met up with him in Bristol.” Cornelia perched on the arm of a chair, smoothing down her blue silk skirt. “They spent some together.”

“Ah. I see.” Harry toyed with the feather tip of his quill pen, frowning slightly. “And you think Aurelia might be interested in Falconer?”

“Maybe.” Cornelia lifted her shoulders in a graceful movement. “Is there any reason beyond the obvious why she shouldn’t spend time with him?”

“And what’s the obvious?”

“You know perfectly well. I’m assuming he’s involved in the same business you are.”

“To be quite honest with you, my love, I have no idea exactly what it is that Falconer does.”

“But it’s something to do with the ministry?”

“As far as I know.” Harry leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head. “You know perfectly well, Nell, that if I did have any specific information, I couldn’t discuss it with you.”

His wife sighed. “I suppose I understand that.”

“Does Aurelia suspect he might have anything to do with the ministry?”

Cornelia nodded. “She thinks it’s possible. I just wondered if you could give me a hint as to the kind of work he does.”

“Well, I can’t, my dear. I’ll say only that in general he doesn’t haunt the ministry corridors. To my knowledge he doesn’t even have an office there.”

“Which means he works abroad.” She frowned when her husband said nothing to confirm or deny the statement. “I suppose if that’s the case, then he won’t be around for much longer.”

Harry sighed. He tried not to have too many secrets from his wife, but another man’s business was not his to divulge. Yet he knew that Falconer was on some mission in London that would require a longer-than-usual stay. “If I were you, I would discuss it further with Aurelia. If she’s really interested in Falconer, then she’s going to be asking him questions.”

“Which, if he’s anything like you, he’ll find a way to deflect,” Cornelia said tartly. She stood up. “I’ll leave you to your correspondence.”

“Nell, love, I can’t discuss someone else’s work.” Harry stood up and came around the desk. He put an arm around her. “If you like, I’ll talk to Falconer about Aurelia. Maybe I can get an idea of his intentions. I’m sure he has no more than a flirtation in mind, and Aurelia’s more than capable of looking after herself in such matters.”

“True. But I wouldn’t want her hurt.”

“I’ll talk to Falconer.” Harry kissed her, his mouth lingering on hers. Then he said rather ruefully, “He’s going to tell me to mind my own business, of course, and I wouldn’t blame him either.”

“It’s a small price to pay for my peace of mind,” Cornelia said with a smile. “I’ll talk to Aurelia some more.
After all, they only met a couple of times in Bristol, it probably means nothing at all.”

At five o’clock Aurelia entered Hyde Park through the Stanhope Gate and glanced around casually. There was no sign of Greville. Waiting for him would merely draw attention to herself, and if she had learned one thing in her time in the country, it was never to be conspicuous unless she wanted to be. It was unusual for a woman to walk or ride alone in the park at the social hour of five o’clock, particularly without a groom or footman in her wake, so she turned back to the street, strolling purposefully in the direction of Piccadilly, her hands clasped inside her muff.

She heard his step the instant before he came up beside her. “Lady Farnham…well met.” He swept off his beaver hat and bowed. “Shall we take a turn around the park?” He offered her his arm.

“I was wondering what kept you,” Aurelia murmured, slipping her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow.

“Forgive me, I had some business to transact and it took me rather longer than I’d expected.” He lowered his head towards her ear as he spoke barely above a whisper. His lips hardly moved, but Aurelia heard every word.

They entered the park and Greville looked around, a smile of greeting on his lips. “Now, let’s see how much attention we can attract.”

Aurelia followed his lead, examining the pedestrians, carriages, and riders thronging the tan, the carriageway, and the grassy walking path alongside it. Greville kept up an animated stream of chat as they walked, doffing his hat to anyone who gave them a second glance.

Aurelia was hailed several times and on each occasion stopped to talk, introducing Greville when necessary. Then she saw the one person who would ensure that word of this perambulation in the company of a near stranger to the ton would spread like the proverbial wildfire.

“Letitia Oglethorpe,” she murmured in a voice that only Greville could hear. “Just the lady we need.” She waved vigorously at a barouche bowling down the carriageway towards them.

“Why, Aurelia, how delightful to see you…isn’t it a charming day.” Letitia leaned over the door of the barouche as it drew to a halt beside them. Her eyes gleamed with predatory curiosity as they swiftly assessed Aurelia’s companion. “What a pretty hat, my dear.” Her eyes were still on Greville.

“Thank you,” Aurelia said. “May I return the compliment.” She wasn’t sure she wanted to. Letitia’s hat was a monstrous concoction of black taffeta with tulle flowers and six white plumes. It looked to Aurelia as if the first slight breeze would take it aloft like an eagle in full flight.

Letitia patted a plume with a complacent smile. “I am rather pleased with it…but come, my dear, won’t you
introduce me to your escort…a new face, I believe. So refreshing…it’s such a bore in town these days, only the same old faces.”

“Allow me to present Colonel, Sir Greville Falconer,” Aurelia said, her smile fixed. “Sir Greville, Lady Oglethorpe.”

“Ma’am…I’m honored.” Greville swept off his hat with another flourish as he bowed over the hand languidly extended over the barouche door.

“How long have you been in town, Sir Greville?”

“A week or two, Lady Oglethorpe.”

She nodded, her eyes sparkling. “Colonel…my goodness, how brave. Are you just back from fighting that tyrant?” She put a hand to her breast. “Just the thought of the savage gives me palpitations.”

“Then I suggest you don’t think of him at all, Letitia,” Aurelia said with a sweet smile. “Leave such matters up to the colonel and his friends.”

“Oh, but how could a sensitive soul not be tormented by the idea of the monster?” Letitia exclaimed. “Don’t you agree, Colonel?”

“His name certainly strikes fear into the bosoms of most of the fair sex, Lady Oglethorpe,” Greville said, his voice dripping with honey. “But pray don’t alarm yourself. Bonaparte will not set food on England’s shores.”

“Oh, so brave…so strong.” Letitia fanned herself with her hand. Then she turned to Aurelia, and her eyes were sharp. “Shame on you, Aurelia, for keeping Sir Greville to yourself.”

“Sir Greville and I are but recently acquainted, Letitia. I happened to meet him in Bristol last week while I was visiting a relative. Believe me, I had no intention of…of
keeping him to myself.
That would be a little fast, don’t you think?” Aurelia’s smile didn’t waver, but there was no hiding the sting in her voice.

A slight flush crept up Letitia’s neck. Somehow, whenever she was in the company of Aurelia or Cornelia or, indeed, Livia, they managed to imply some failure of breeding on her part. She turned her head away sharply and smiled upon Sir Greville. “I do hope you will call upon me, Sir Greville. Everyone knows where to find me.” She wagged a finger at him. “I shall look for you before the week is out…. Drive on, Leonard.”

“I should be honored, ma’am.” Greville bowed again and stepped back as the barouche moved forward. “No love lost there, I gather,” he observed, offering Aurelia his arm again.