A Husband's Wicked Ways (3 page)

“Assuming I believe this lunatic story, why would Frederick send me something destined for the War Ministry?” she inquired, the sarcasm still heavy.

“The situation was desperate. We were under attack, and there was considerable doubt as to whether we would make it through. It was vital that this document reached the right hands. Frederick had the idea to send it to you…a destination that would draw no attention.” He leaned forward and dropped the packet in her lap. “I imagine the letter to you will explain all you need to know.”

Aurelia turned the packet over between her hands. The writing was definitely Frederick’s, although it was not in his usual beautiful and forceful script. The letters were untidy, the ink slightly smudged as if written in haste. As indeed he would have been if this story was true.

“You survived the attack,” she stated without expression.

“Yes,” he agreed simply.

“But Frederick did not,” she said softly, trying to absorb anew the knowledge of her husband’s violent death. She had grieved for his loss once, and now it seemed she must do so again.

“No,” her visitor said, watching her closely. “He was killed in a skirmish with half a dozen French soldiers. But by then we had entrusted the packet to an ensign to take to one of the ships in the harbor that were waiting to evacuate the survivors of General Moore’s army.”

Aurelia rose from the sofa and walked slowly across the room to a small satinwood secretaire that stood between two of the long windows. She took up a paper knife and slit the wafer that sealed the packet. With slow deliberation she examined the two sealed papers that it contained. One was addressed to Aurelia Farnham. No honorific, just the plain name in Frederick’s script, which, unlike the other, was clear and unhurried. He must have written the letter itself when he was not in desperate straits.

The second sealed paper had a simple inscription.
To be delivered unopened to the War Ministry, Horseguards Parade, London.

She became aware of her visitor’s tall, broad form standing at her shoulder. She hadn’t heard his approach across the expanse of Turkey carpet…surprising with such a big man, she thought irrelevantly.

“May I?” Without waiting for permission, he twitched the second paper from her suddenly nerveless fingers and slipped it inside his coat. “There is now no need for you to deliver this, as I am here. I suggest you read your letter. It will go much further than I can to explain what I can understand must seem like an elaborate and fantastic hoax.”

Aurelia turned to look at him, disliking that she had to look up to do so. “I must ask you to excuse me, Colonel.” Her voice was cold and stiff. “I would prefer to read my husband’s letter in private.”

“Of course.” He bowed. “I will return in the morning. There are things we must discuss.”

“Oh, I doubt that, sir,” she retorted. “You’ve had your say, and we can have nothing further to talk about. If I’m to believe you, the last three and a bit years of my life have been a lie. And I have you to thank for it, it seems. I have no wish to lay eyes upon you again.”

He shook his head. “I hope, ma’am, that you will change your mind about that. Read your letter. I trust it will enable you to see things in a different light.” He offered another bow, then turned to the door, gathering up his hat and cane. “I will return in the morning.” He left, closing the door firmly at his back.

Aurelia stared at the closed door, uncertain whether she was on the verge of hysterical laughter or tears. A fit of hysteria anyway. She couldn’t believe what he’d told her, and yet she knew without a shadow of doubt that it was true. The ring and the unopened letter in her hand shrieked the horrendous, unbelievable truth.

Frederick Farnham did not die on October 21 in the year of our Lord 1805, he died at Corunna on January 16, 1809.

But where did that leave Cornelia’s husband, Stephen? Viscount Dagenham had set sail with Frederick from Plymouth harbor in the early spring of 1805 on
a frigate that was to meet up with Admiral Nelson’s fleet. She and Cornelia had waved after the departing frigate, they had seen their husbands aboard together. And they had received official notifications of their husbands’ deaths within a few days of each other. And yet Colonel Falconer had said that Frederick had never been in the Battle of Trafalgar. At the time that naval battle was being fought, he had been in Bavaria.
Bavaria, of all places.

She couldn’t for the life of her remember what was going on at Ulm in October of 1805. Had the English been involved? And if they hadn’t been, why were Colonel Falconer and Frederick Farnham there?

Of course the answer was obvious. If they were spies, then they were covertly collecting information.

Aurelia followed the progress of this seemingly interminable conflict with the voracious tyrant Napoléon as best she could. She read the dispatches that were regularly published in the
Gazette,
and she listened with interest to the conversations of those who had an inside knowledge of the details. Mostly such conversations occurred around the Bonhams’ dinner table, when Harry and his friends and ministry colleagues were gathered. But information in general was scanty and sporadic, except for the great battles in which the English fought, such as Trafalgar, which were reported in detail. Reports of Moore’s gallant and horrendous retreat and stand at Corunna were only just making it to the English newspapers. But if what the colonel had told her was true, her
husband’s presence there would have been covert and his death would not make it to the regularly published lists of the killed and missing.

Frederick
. She looked down at the unopened letter in her hand. She had to open it, yet she dreaded doing so. She knew absolutely that its contents would turn her ordered existence on its head. She wanted to pretend that this afternoon had never happened, put it out of her mind completely, and simply resume her customary life with Franny, with her friends, with the conventional, gentle social round.

Aurelia stared unseeing at the paper in her hand. It was the life she and Frederick had accepted as their due. Quiet, comfortable, lacking for nothing, bringing with its serene pleasures the customary obligations of privilege. A life lived by everyone they knew, lived by rules and expectations that were bred into them from birth.

But Frederick had not lived that life. He had pretended to do so, but he had been someone else, someone she didn’t know at all. And he had been prepared to sacrifice his marriage, fatherhood, the friendships of a lifetime.
His wife.
And for what? To live underground as a spy. Dead to everyone who knew him, who loved him. Had he given a thought to his wife and child when he’d made that decision? Had he intended to come back to her if he survived the war?

A surge of hurt-fueled rage washed over Aurelia at this monumental deception her husband had practiced upon her. All the while he had been plotting his danger
ous and exciting life, she had been plodding along on the established tracks and expecting to do so until her death.

Her reluctance to open the letter vanished. It was sealed with wax imprinted with Frederick’s signet ring, which she still held tucked into her palm. She slit the wax impatiently with a fingernail and opened the sheet. Her head swam and her eyes blurred as she gazed at the sheet crammed with line after line in that flowing familiar handwriting. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she swallowed convulsively. It was as if Frederick was in the room with her. She could see his smiling green eyes, his full mouth, the long, gangly length of him. He never looked perfectly groomed, something was always slightly awry with his attire. And if she ever pointed it out to him, he would simply laugh. She could hear that laugh now, a light, cheerfully dismissive chuckle that told her he had more important things to consider than his appearance.

And she knew full well now what those important things were. Not estate matters, or hunting issues, or any of the trivial pursuits that occupied his fellow country gentlemen. No, they were dangerous secrets, secrets that had led to his death. And in her hand now were his words, finally truthful words coming from beyond the grave.

My dearest Ellie…

A childish treble in the hall made her jump, then hastily fold the letter, pushing it into the shallow pocket
of her skirt. Franny was back from her schoolroom day with Stevie Dagenham at the Bonhams’ house on Mount Street. Aurelia and Cornelia had decided it made good sense for the two children to share a governess until Stevie was sent away to school. He was seven, and Cornelia was fighting a battle with his grandfather the Earl of Markby to keep him at home at least until he was ten. She had Stevie’s stepfather on her side, and Harry had made a point of ingratiating himself with the earl, so Cornelia was hopeful. The shared governess was an arrangement that suited the children and their mothers, keeping the two households in close touch.

“Morecombe…Morecombe…where’s Mama, I have to show her something.” Franny’s insistent voice brought Aurelia back to the present reality. The letter would wait. She’d waited for an entire marriage and three years beyond it for the truth, another hour would make no difference. She gathered her composure, painted a smile on her lips, and went to the drawing-room door.

“I’m here, Franny. Have you had a pleasant day?”

“Oh, so many things happened, Mama. We went to see the lions at the Exchange, and they roared an’ roared. I think Stevie was just a tiny bit frightened…but I wasn’t…not one little bit.” The little girl ran to her mother, the words tumbling from her lips. “I drew a picture of the lions…see…they had all this hair, Miss Alison said it’s called a mane…”

Aurelia admired the picture, listened attentively to the minute-by-minute description of her daughter’s
day, murmured with due appreciation or astonishment at the right moments, and gently eased the child upstairs to the nursery quarters.

She stayed with Franny during her supper and sat by the fire as Daisy, the nurserymaid, gave her a bath, listening to the endless prattle. Not for the first time it occurred to her that Franny was an unstoppable voice and had been from her first birthday. Frederick had been astonished at his little daughter’s grasp of language…

Frederick
. The letter in her pocket crackled against her thigh as she made an involuntary move. Later…there would be time enough later.

“What story should we read tonight, love?” she asked cheerfully, receiving her towel-swaddled daughter into her lap.

G
reville Falconer left the house on Cavendish Square and strode rapidly in the direction of Horseguards Parade, where the War Ministry was situated. The document he had retrieved was securely tucked into an inside pocket of his coat. He had no need to read it since he knew what it contained, although he would be hard-pressed himself to reproduce the map. Frederick Farnham’s skills at cartography far exceeded his own, and the map that comprised the major content of the document was far too detailed for Greville to reproduce from memory. Although Frederick would have been able to do it.

He was aware once again of the sharp stab of loss. Frederick had been his friend. First as his student, apt, quicker than most to grasp the finer details of espionage, a pupil who shared his master’s intellectual pleasure in the covert world of manipulation and deceit, who embraced the inherent dangers with a leap of the heart.

And then as his colleague, one to whom Greville could trust his life.

He would always mourn Frederick’s death, would always wonder if he could have saved him if he’d made a different thrust with his saber, if he’d chosen a different lane in their headlong race through the streets of Corunna down to the harbor. Intellectually he knew it would have made no difference. The enemy was in every street, and they had been ambushed, hopelessly outnumbered. Frederick had died quickly, one clean sword thrust to the heart, and the young ensign had taken the document to the harbor while Greville had drawn off the pursuit. Two of Frederick’s assailants had paid the price, and the map and its vital information had been sent. Frederick had not died in vain. It was some compensation, Greville supposed.

He showed his credentials to the sentry at the gate-house and entered the outer courtyard of the ministry. He made his way to a narrow, arched doorway at the right-hand corner of the courtyard and climbed the curving flight of stone steps. He emerged into a corridor lined with grimy mullioned windows that let in very little light.

“Falconer, isn’t it?”

He spun around at a vaguely familiar voice. A man had just emerged from a door behind him. His green eyes looked tired, his neckcloth had lost its starch, he was coatless, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone.

“Bonham.” Greville extended his hand. “Are you still beavering away at your hieroglyphics?”

“Still at it,” Harry said, shaking the offered hand warmly. “I don’t think I’ve seen the light of day for three days.” His gaze was shrewd as he regarded the colonel. “So, you got out of Corunna?”

Greville nodded soberly. “One of the few.”

Harry returned the nod of acceptance in silence. The two men were only slightly acquainted, and they knew little about each other’s particular business, but they were both at home in these shabby, hidden corridors of the War Ministry. They shared the same relish for the dark underworld of war, the secret maneuverings, the devious plotting, the heady excitement of a triumph that could be acknowledged only among fellow toilers in the underworld.

“Are you on your way to see the chief?” Bonham asked casually. It was an unspoken rule in their world that no one inquired too closely into a colleague’s business.

“Checking in,” Greville responded. “I only returned to London this morning.”

“I’ll look for you on St. James’s Street if you’re staying in town for a while,” Harry said. “Assuming I ever get out of here.” He raised a hand in farewell and turned to walk down the corridor in the opposite direction.

Greville made his way to a door that led into a suite of offices at the end of the long, dim corridor reeking of dust and mice. The door was ajar, and he tapped lightly before pushing it fully open.

The man sitting at a massive oak table between the windows got to his feet when he saw his visitor. “Greville…I am glad to see you safe.” He leaned across the table to clasp the colonel’s hand in both of his. “What a criminal mess that was…but Moore did his best.”

“Aye, and died a brave death,” Greville returned. His gray eyes were suddenly shadowed. He laid his hat on the table, along with his cane, and drew off his gloves.

“And Farnham, too,” Simon Grant, the head of the secret service, said swiftly. He was the only other person who knew the true identities of both the
asp
and his late partner. “I was sorry to hear of his death, Greville. I know how much you valued him. As did I.”

“I valued him as a colleague, but also as a friend.” The colonel reached into his coat and withdrew the document. His tone was now brisk and businesslike.

“This is Farnham’s map of the key passes over the Pyrenees into Spain. The French have to hold them if they’re to continue to control Spain and Portugal.” Greville unfolded the parchment and laid it on the table, smoothing out the creases. “By the same token, if we can take them ourselves, we can prevent the French advance and ensure that no supplies get through to them.”

Simon Grant bent over the map, reaching for a magnifying glass. “The army’s ready for transport to the Peninsula under Wellesley. He’s planning a landing at Lisbon, and a campaign straight up the Tagus River.” Grant looked up with a small smile. “He’ll send the French
packing out of Portugal in no time, you mark my words, Greville.”

“I don’t doubt it, sir,” the colonel said drily. “Farnham and I made contact with guerrilla groups across the Peninsula. Remarkably cooperative they were. Bonaparte’s miscalculated the opposition this time. The last thing he’ll be expecting will be sneak attacks from partisan groups, passionately fired by patriotism. They’re preparing to gather along the Tagus to offer support to the general.”

Greville leaned across the table and turned the map over. “On the back here you’ll find the code names and passwords of the various groups. Wellesley’s spies will be able to contact them with that information, and they can be sure of a friendly reception.”

Simon Grant examined the list of names and numbers for a moment before saying, “Should Bonham take a look at these, just to make sure there are no nasty surprises embedded in the codes?”

“Certainly. I would stake my honor on their authenticity, but…” Greville shrugged. “I know better than to stake lives on assumptions.”

“Precisely.” Grant rang a handbell on the table beside him and it was promptly answered by a young ensign. “Take these to Lord Bonham, Beringer.”

The ensign clicked his heels as he bowed and took the parchment. “Right away, sir.” He disappeared at a near run.

Simon grimaced. “Harry won’t thank me for more work, the poor devil’s not left the building for three
days. Fortunately, his wife appears to be an understanding woman.” He looked sharply at the colonel. “So, are you prepared for a stint at home, Greville?”

“If that’s where you need me.”

“We suspect the Spanish are trying to establish a foothold in the heart of our intelligence community. And you know how we can’t allow that,” Simon added with a faintly derisive smile. “Bonaparte now rules Spain, the king’s in exile, and the Spanish intelligence networks report directly to Fouche in Paris…at least that’s where he was when last we had tabs on him.” His smile grew harder. “The man’s as slippery as he’s ruthless.”

Greville nodded his agreement with a grim smile of his own. “So, do we know what approach the Spaniards are going to make?”

Simon nodded. “We think they’re coming in through the upper echelons of society…you know the kind of thing, an exiled grandee, a poverty-stricken nobleman persecuted by the French.”

“And they’re actually in the pay of the French?”

Simon nodded. “We’re fairly certain of it. Our information thus far has been spotty, few facts but hints, odd pieces of correspondence we intercepted. Nothing definite, but we’d like you to retire the
asp
for the moment and work under your own identity. We need you to set yourself up in London for a while, mingle with the upper ten thousand, frequent the clubs of St. James’s, attend court when you can…”

“I’m not sure I’m equipped for the dancing role,”
Greville said with a twist of his lips. “I have no time for society nonsense, Simon, you know that. I’m more at home in the back alleys and taverns in the company of guerrilla fighters and men with poison-tipped daggers.”

Simon laughed. “I know…I know, my friend. But you can also play this part…you were bred to it, after all. And you certainly look the part. But, make no mistake, this is no sinecure. The Spanish are as devious and dangerous as any. All their agents could give lessons to the Inquisition. You’ll need all your skills, Greville, to stay one step ahead of them, and I don’t have to tell you what will happen if they suspect you.”

Greville contented himself with a raised eyebrow that spoke volumes.

Simon continued, “If you don’t have sufficient social contacts in town, then we’ll get Harry Bonham to take you around. He has a foot in every social puddle, although I think the frippery nonsense makes him as impatient as it makes you. But he also has entrées into the political and diplomatic scene. Let him introduce you to the influential folk. The rest will be up to you.”

Greville inclined his head in acceptance. “If that’s what you want me to do, then, of course, I will do it.”

“Good.” Simon Grant moved around the table to shake hands once more. “Where are you staying?”

“My esteemed aunt Agatha on Brook Street. I always stay there when I’m passing through town, but if I’m to take up residence in London for an extended period, then I shall have to make other arrangements.”

“Let me know when you’re settled then, and I’ll have a word with Bonham.” Simon clasped Greville’s hand tightly. “It’s good to have you back…we lose too many these days.”

“Yes,” the other man agreed without expansion, returning the firm handshake. He picked up his hat, gloves, and cane and turned to the door. He paused, his hand on the latch. “The department owed Farnham a fair sum of back pay, did they not?”

“That is so,” Simon agreed, regarding Greville quizzically. “And there’s a widow, I believe. We’d pay it out gladly to her if there was a way of making sure she didn’t know where it came from.”

Greville made a vague gesture that could have meant anything. “I’ll look into it.” He offered a half salute and left the office.

On the now dark street, he hailed a passing hackney and directed it to Brook Street. His aunt Agatha, Lady Broughton, was his late mother’s widowed sister. She was a lady of considerable means and very fond of her own way, but otherwise a kindly soul and always delighted to see her nephew, although always somewhat disconcerted at his lack of social activities on his rare visits to town. She would be delighted to host her nephew for an extended period during the delights of the season, he knew, but a bachelor needed his own establishment.

He entered the hall with a nod of thanks to the butler, who had opened the door, and went straight up to his
own bedchamber, an imposing if somewhat old-fashioned apartment. A fire blazed in the grate, the lamps had been lit, and Greville could appreciate comforts that rarely came his way when he was working. He walked to the window and drew aside the curtain. The gas lamps had been lit on the street, and a private carriage bowled past, its owner presumably on his or her way to an evening of social gaiety, if not outright dissipation.

It was not his world, any more than it had been Frederick Farnham’s. But Frederick’s wife had given every indication of fitting neatly into it. Not wife, he reminded himself.
Widow.

He frowned into the fizzing yellow light of the lamp below his window. Frederick had talked often of Aurelia…Ellie, he’d called her. One evening in particular…when they’d both been drinking deep of a flagon of hard cider in a barn in Brittany, listening to the sounds of pursuit, the baying dogs, the shouts of the enemy, finally fading into the night.

You know, Greville, I don’t think Ellie really knows who she is, or what she’s capable of. She has strengths she doesn’t know she has because she’s never had to use them.

Greville let the curtain drop again over the window. There had been more in that vein, the younger man’s voice redolent with the knowledge that the chances of seeing his wife again were almost too remote to contemplate. They’d grown up together in the same small country village, their neighboring families closely en
twined in the way of County families, who made up the aristocracy of the countryside. They had married as a matter of course, fulfilling the expectations of both their families. But Frederick Farnham had recognized something in his wife that no one else had seen. He had followed his country’s call, knowing full well that he would probably never live a normal life again, knowing that he would never have the opportunity to tap those hidden depths in his wife. He hadn’t said it in so many words, but it had been implied in every word he spoke that concerned her.

How would he have felt if in his absence another man did that?

It was a startling thought, and Greville knew that it had grown from the recesses of his mind where, without his conscious intent, plans and strategies for his new assignment were breeding. He needed a cover, a front for his present task.

If Aurelia did indeed have the hidden and unacknowledged depths her husband had believed in, then perhaps she would be willing to help him, if he presented it correctly…if he offered the right incentives. Of course, she had given the impression that afternoon of disliking him intensely, but that was hardly surprising. He’d just told her she’d been living a lie for more than three years, and the man she’d married was not at all the man she’d thought him. Killing the messenger was the natural response. But first impressions could
be amended. And there were, as he’d just reflected, always incentives.

Greville knew that he was no courtier. He had none of the smooth skills of flattery and flirtation. Oh, he could dissemble and act any part he deemed necessary in the interests of his work and survival, but those skills had no place in this particular situation. Honesty…a direct appeal to her inner nature, hidden to herself as well as to others. An appeal reinforced by her husband’s example, and the example of other aristocratic women who variously put their diplomatic and social skills, their houses even, at the service of their country. It was by no means an outlandish suggestion. And it might work.