Friends and Foes (12 page)

Sorrel turned back toward the front of the corridor and limped heavily back to the parlor. The party would be ready to leave soon. She refused to be caught eavesdropping. Philip may very well have returned and would never let her hear the end of it. Somewhere in the last few days, his opinion of her had begun to matter. She had yet to decide whether that was a good development or bad.

Philip kept to his extensive portrayal of a care-for-nothing dandy even as he took careful note of every person he passed on the streets of Ipswich. He sauntered about and checked his reflection in an obliging window. The women he passed received a tip of the hat or a deep bow or a particularly dapper smile. He made a point of passing through shops, even purchasing an item that caught his eye. If anyone were suspicious of his presence in Ipswich, they’d find ample evidence that he’d come for nothing more or less than a leisurely shopping trip.

After thirty minutes of painstakingly creating a pretext for the trip, Philip encountered Garner outside a haberdashery. The time had come to attend to weightier matters. Without any acknowledgment beyond a civil nod, they parted ways. Philip slipped down a narrow gap between two shops up the street, following it to a back alley. He’d undertaken searches in Ipswich before.

He doubled back. Garner met him directly behind the shop where they’d passed one another. The man held out a dark overcoat. Philip couldn’t help an appreciative smile.

“You object to my choice of attire?” He picked at an invisible fleck of lint on his Weston jacket.

“Your taste is impeccable, as always,” Garner said. “But draws too much attention.”

Philip pulled on the oversized overcoat. He knew the routine as well as Garner did, but enjoyed pricking that man’s patience. He opened the top of a crate tucked behind several barrels and piles of discarded paper. Their associate in Ipswich would have placed a few things inside to help Philip appear less flamboyant.

“Has Ol’ Rob received any information about a meeting place?” he asked, buttoning the overcoat.

Garner nodded. “Word is, Le Fontaine is passing information to a contact at the Drake and Crown within the next half-hour.”

“Thirty minutes?” Philip switched out his shiny hessians, with Garner’s assistance, for a scuffed pair of well-worn boots. “Remind me to thank Rob for giving us so much warning.”

Garner didn’t respond beyond a poorly hidden sniffle. He wasn’t anticipating the coming encounter with any excitement. Philip merely wanted the information he needed to finish this last mission. He wanted to be done.

His watch and fobs went into the crate, as did his walking stick and tall hat. He plopped atop his head the very unexceptional headwear waiting inside. So long as he kept the coat buttoned, his startlingly white shirt and extremely colorful waistcoat might go unnoticed.

“We’d best walk quickly,” Philip said, doing just that. “I hope you brought a handkerchief. All that sniffling will make people think you’re weeping like a baby.”

They emerged from the back alleys a stone’s throw from the Drake and Crown. The area was not as fine as the section of town they’d just left, but far from the worst Philip had seen. Le Fontaine was playing the game by his usual rules. He seldom lowered himself to meetings amongst the very dregs of humanity but made a point of avoiding the most elevated. The Drake and Crown fit that description nicely.

Philip and Garner stepped into the taproom with all the ease of regulars. Nervousness or lofty airs would draw too much notice. They took seats at a corner table. Garner made a point of regularly declaring his dislike of their work, but the man had a knack for it. To all the world he must have appeared to notice nothing beyond the somewhat questionable pint of beer sitting in front of him. Philip, however, knew a perusal when he saw one.

“Well?” Philip asked in a low voice.

Garner knew the question behind the single word. “Fewer patrons than I expected,” he replied, leaning over his tall glass. “And none show the slightest discomfort. None are speaking in low tones nor seem to be having an important conversation.”

“Though some appear to have gone through more than their share of ale.” Philip eyed a man struggling to stay on his chair and another who’d already lost that battle. “You seem cold,” Philip said, giving Garner a very weighted look.

He received a nod of understanding. Casually and as natural as breathing, Garner wandered toward the large fireplace. He would be listening to the voices he passed, searching their words for tell-tale phrases.

Philip pretended to devote himself to the joys of watered-down ale. His acting abilities barely proved sufficient. Rather than play the role of a devoted drunkard, Philip opted for “man with a great deal on his mind.” He found, though, his mind had but two things weighing on it: Le Fontaine and General Sorrel, the latter being far more pleasant to ponder.

The one and only thing he’d purchased in Ipswich he meant to give her as a gift on Christmas. Had she thought of him during her stay in the town? What would she think of his offering? He allowed a small smile. Sorrel would certainly not be indifferent to his gift. She might very well beat him with her walking stick.

Why did he enjoy her company so much? She had fire and spirit and determination. She was also stubborn and contrary and . . . lovely.

Philip pulled himself back into the moment only to realize Garner had wandered back without his noticing. He needed to focus.

“Feeling warmer?” he asked.

“Not particularly.” Garner hadn’t heard anything suspicious, then.

“Blast,” Philip muttered. “Have you missed anyone?”

Garner nodded as he raised his glass to his lips. “The table closest to the door.” He spoke almost from within the glass.

That would be harder to listen in on. The only reason they could possibly have for passing that table was leaving the pub entirely. Not having found Le Fontaine, they couldn’t do that yet.

A quarter-hour passed without anyone new joining the small group in the tap room. Philip and Garner had required nearly ten minutes to walk there. The time frame given for Le Fontaine’s meeting had nearly passed.

Philip pulled a few coins from his pocket. “Shall we make our way out? Slowly?”

They did just that. Philip took a long moment to toss the barkeep the coins he owed him, all the while keeping an ear on the only conversation in the room Garner hadn’t listened to.

“Tell yer woman that a man’s gotta ’ave a pint with his friends now and then. Can’t expect ye to spend all yer wakin’ hours tied to ’er apron strings.”

A discussion of marital discord? Philip could have groaned. Was there no one in the entire establishment who meant to discuss matters of international concern? Philip had a spy to track down and hadn’t managed a single piece of solid information in months.

“Fiend seize it,” Philip muttered under his breath as they stepped out into the cold. Had he truly just wasted a half-hour in a run-down tap room? He’d parted company with his family and friends in order to pursue this tip. He might have spent the afternoon happily brangling with Sorrel.

“So did we miss him, or was he never here in the first place?” Garner shoved his hands in the pocket of his coat.

“It matters little either way. We still have no reliable information on when or where he might make another appearance.”

They made their way slowly up the street, sauntering as if they hadn’t anywhere to be.

“How long before our party will be expecting us?” Garner asked.

Philip rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the tension he felt there. “I find myself without a watch at the moment. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d wager we haven’t a great deal of time.”

“It is unfortunate Le Fontaine didn’t choose the Dove and Crow to meet up with his comrade.” Garner’s sniffles had cured, but his attitude hadn’t grown sunnier. “We might have taken luncheon with our friends. Lord Cavratt meant to reserve a private parlor.”

Philip’s frustrations took firm hold of his own attitude. “How precisely did you mean to overhear a conversation in a tap room from within the walls of a private parlor? Have you abilities you’re concealing from me?”

Garner ignored the comment. Not twenty yards from the point they meant to slip once more into the back ways and return to their own part of town, a man not quite as tall as Philip but more solidly built stepped directly into their path. He sported a great deal of dirt, a very small collection of teeth, and, more to the point, a rather vicious-looking club.

“Not again,” Philip mumbled. He’d been set upon by footpads the last time he’d gone after Le Fontaine.

“There be a toll for passin’ this way,” the man informed them.

“How much?” Philip asked.

“Wha’ever ye got, cove.”

“Very well.” Philip shot Garner a knowing look. “I think I’ve a coin or two.” He pretended to pull something from his pocket and extended his closed fist.

When the man moved forward to retrieve his bounty, Philip came at him with the other hand, landing a solid blow to the man’s middle. Garner knew his cue. With the thief bent over from the impact of Philip’s punch, Garner threw his elbow into the back of the man’s neck. As he reeled forward, Philip easily took the club from the thief’s loosened grip.

“That, my friend,” he said, “was ‘wha’ever I got.’ I hope it proved sufficient.”

He received only a groan in response. Philip and Garner left the man to contemplate a change of occupation. The club found a new home tossed into a rubbish pile somewhere between that less savory part of town and the crate where Philip’s things were hidden.

He changed quickly into his usual attire, speaking in low tones to Garner. “Let Ol’ Rob know we found nothing. We’ll have to send word to the Foreign Office.”

“I don’t understand it,” Garner said. “More than one source felt certain Le Fontaine would be here today. Rob’s information seemed good.”

“Blame it on my luck lately,” Philip offered. “I can’t seem to get the upper hand on any of my enemies.”

“You have so many, do you?”

“Enough, Garner. More than enough.”

“We are fortunate Lizzie did not come along,” Crispin said to Philip as they watched James Driver attempting to make room in the carriage’s storage box for the group’s parcels. “She’d most likely have placed her purchases inside and attempted to fit
us
into the box.”

“That would have been positively ruinous for my cravat,” Philip scoffed, smoothing his neckcloth as if it had already endured such a disfiguring experience.

“Your cravat could use a little destruction.” Crispin eyed him critically.

“You and Sorrel have no appreciation for the fashionably inventive.”

“Took you to task, did she?” Crispin seemed far too pleased with the idea. Philip offered no response.

“Seems to be coming on to rain,” Garner noted as he walked past the spot where Philip and Crispin stood.

“Snow a week ago, now rain?” Philip glanced at Crispin. “What kind of party are you hosting, Cavratt?”

Crispin smiled at the friendly jab. “Perhaps we should leave for Kinnley before the weather thwarts us further.”

In an instant, Catherine and Sorrel emerged from the warmth of the Dove and Crow. Crispin handed his wife into Philip’s carriage, his being the better sprung of the two vehicles they had taken to Ipswich. Philip smiled to himself, noticing Crispin kept hold of Catherine far longer than necessary.

Perhaps I ought to walk back to Kinnley,
Philip mused. The newlyweds might not prove enjoyable traveling companions.

“Do not be daft, Sorrel.” Fennel’s voice broke through Philip’s thoughts.

“I will beg you to cease berating me and help me inside.” Sorrel’s tone was tight and tense.

“Lord Lampton’s carriage rides smoother. If you think I am going to return to Kinnley just to explain to Marjie why you are too sore to move, you are much mistaken.”

“I will be fine, Fennel.”

“You are not fine
now
. I don’t know what was so important to bring you all this way, but I won’t—”

“Perhaps I may be of assistance,” Philip offered, not liking the mutinous look on Sorrel’s face and not wishing to see Fennel bashed across the head with that lady’s walking stick. “I am quite an expert at sibling disagreements, I assure you.”

Sorrel pressed her lips more firmly together. Fennel gave Philip an almost desperate look. This was, apparently, more serious than he had realized. “Now what seems to be the difficulty?” Philip asked.

“Sorrel is stubborn as an old mule.” Philip tried not to smile at Fennel’s assessment—cutting remarks seemed a family talent.

“I rode
to
Ipswich in this coach, and I see no reason why I shouldn’t
return
in it.” Sorrel eyed Fennel with all the inflexibility of a . . . well, a mule.

“You would be more comfortable in the other carriage.”

“If you are so enamored of Lord Lampton’s vehicle, perhaps
you
should ride in it.”

“It is rather remarkable, I must admit.” Philip shrugged.

“Which is why Mr. Garner ought to be permitted to return in it, just as he arrived,” Sorrel argued. “I have no intention of putting him out.”

“Mr. Garner does not require a gentle ride,” Fennel countered.

“Neither do I,” Sorrel declared defiantly.

“Blast it, Sorrel!” Fennel snapped at her. “I have no desire to endure Marjie’s tears over your state when you return.”

“I could sneeze, and Marjie would cry over my fragility.”

“You are growing ill again, Sorrel.” Fennel ignored his sister’s effort to redirect the conversation. “Do not attempt to deny it, you know I can tell. This is twice within a single week. I will not spend another Christmas seeing you delirious with fever and writhing in pain.”

Philip had never seen Fennel anything but even-tempered, but at that moment he would not have been surprised to see steam rise from the lad’s ears. He was angry and frustrated. If Philip didn’t miss his mark, Fennel was worried, more so than he’d been the day Sorrel had been so ill that Philip had been required to carry her back to Kinnley. Sorrel did not seem as bad off as she’d been that day, but Fennel’s reaction contradicted that assumption.

“I believe Catherine would appreciate your presence,” Philip told Sorrel. “Otherwise Crispin and I are likely to lead the conversation into completely disreputable territory: fisticuff matches, horse races, that sort of thing.”

Sorrel did not offer an immediate reply. Her gaze dropped to the ground around her feet. She let out a huff of breath. “I am so weary of all this.” The whispered words broke with some deep, pervading emotion.

Philip had the sudden, almost overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms. Prickly, unapproachable Sorrel suddenly seemed all glass and china: delicate and breakable.

Fennel reached out to her, laying his hand gently on her arm. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know.”

“Poppy, why don’t you and Charlie ride back with Mr. Garner. I will see your sister returned as comfortably as possible to Kinnley.”

When Sorrel offered no objection to Philip’s presumptuous interference nor his nickname for Fennel, Philip’s concern grew. He’d fully expected to have to argue his point even as the only other carriage rode out of sight, perhaps having to carry her kicking and screaming into his vehicle complete with stares from the crowd that would gather to witness such a display. He even thought he might have enjoyed coming out the victor in that encounter.

Fennel seemed to hesitate. Philip motioned the boy toward the waiting carriage with a flick of his head. No grown woman’s pride could possibly survive being ordered about by a fifteen-year-old, especially her own brother. Sorrel’s pride, Philip had begun to realize, was more battered and sorely protected than most.

With a smile of obvious gratitude, Fennel disappeared inside the Cavratt equipage, which almost immediately began its journey. Sorrel stood perfectly still, not looking at Philip, not watching the departing carriage.

“I think he means well,” Philip said after a heavy silence.

“My entire family ‘means well.’” Sorrel sighed. “I’d rather they think of me as a capable, intelligent, grown woman.”

“
I
think you are a capable, intelligent, grown woman.” Philip put two fingers beneath Sorrel’s chin and gently turned her face up toward him. “Fennel is young, yet. He is still learning how to go about in the world.”

“He should not worry himself over—”

“Compassion is as much a part of his nature as independence is a part of yours,” Philip said. “But when you fight him so much, he has little choice but to fight you back.”

An alarming quiver seized Sorrel’s lower lip. Philip felt himself panic. He knew he was absolutely unprepared for a teary Sorrel—he hadn’t yet adjusted to her easy acquiescence only moments before.

“The weather may not hold out much longer,” he blurted. “We should be going.”

But Sorrel took sudden hold of Philip’s hand, her sable eyes locked intensely on his. “Philip,” she said in a pleading tone completely foreign to their usual encounters. The only other time Philip had heard her sound so beseeching was when she’d been shivering with a fever. Maybe Sorrel truly was growing ill again. “Do you think I am frail?”

“Frail?” Philip chuckled. He brushed Sorrel’s cheek with the hand she was not holding. “Sorrel, if you were any
less
frail, I wouldn’t stand a chance in this war of ours. You’d positively fillet me.”

“Yes, I would,” she replied with a hint of a mischievous smile, the lightness returning to her tone. “And I am afraid I would enjoy it.”

Philip allowed his hand to slip to her chin, which he cupped as he smiled back at her. “You are a truly dangerous enemy.”

A blush stole across Sorrel’s face, completely ruining Philip’s declaration. This “dangerous” enemy was absolutely charming.

“She will freeze to death, Philip,” Crispin called from the waiting carriage. “Kindly quit accosting her and allow Sorrel to come in out of the wind.”

“I see the troops are rallying behind you, General Sorrel.” Philip chuckled as he handed her into the carriage. “Should I be worried?”

“Immensely,” she replied over her shoulder.

Crispin and Catherine occupied the rear-facing seat, leaving Philip to share the forward bench with Sorrel, and they looked far too pleased with the arrangement. Philip probably should have objected or at least wondered at his friends’ intentions. Instead he found himself feeling entirely satisfied.

Philip pulled out a carriage blanket and began unfolding it for Sorrel. “Not an offer of assistance,” he said at the moment she got that militant look in her eyes. “I just know if you catch your death of cold on the way home, I will have every female at Kinnley declaring war on me. At the moment, you are the only combatant I can handle.”

Sorrel laughed and shook her head. “Losing your touch, then?”

“Afraid so.”

Sorrel accepted the offered blanket and pulled it over her shoulders. So she was colder than she’d let on? Philip suddenly wished he’d requested a third brick for the carriage. Another blanket was stored beneath the driver’s seat. Philip shook himself. When had he become the overly attentive traveling companion?

Within ten minutes, rain began to fall outside. He could see trees whipped by recurrent gusts of wind. The road to Kinnley would be anything but easy.

You are growing ill again, Sorrel.
Fennel had looked so worried. Philip began to feel concerned himself. Sorrel sat quietly watching the scene outside. Did she look a little peaked? Philip thought she looked pale.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly, leaning closer to her.

“I am a little tired,” she admitted with a sigh. “Frailty, I suppose.” A hint of frustration colored her tone.

Philip shook his head mutely. Sorrel was far too critical of herself. “It is nearly two hours to Kinnley,” he reminded her. “Not one of us will think less of you for catching some sleep.”

Her countenance fell. “I didn’t . . . A day trip didn’t used to . . .”

Philip impulsively took hold of her hand poking out from beneath the carriage blanket. “Ten minutes in my company would wear out Wellington.”

A crooked, half-forced smile flitted momentarily across Sorrel’s face before her gaze returned to the worsening weather outside. Something was obviously gnawing at her. But Sorrel, as always, was a closed book when it came to emotions. Philip seldom found himself at a loss for words but couldn’t in that moment think of a single thing to say. Why in the world did he wish he had some words of comfort for her? Something to lighten her obviously heavy mind?

Philip tucked her hand back beneath the carriage blanket then turned his attention to the opposite window. Sorrel seriously disturbed his peace. He had enough on his mind without worrying over the difficulties of a woman who’d been a stranger to him only two weeks earlier.

A deep chuckle from across the carriage caught Philip’s attention. He glanced over at Crispin caressing and kissing Catherine’s hand, smiling at her like a lovesick puppy. She watched her husband with obvious adoration. The two were oblivious to the world around them, absolutely besotted with one another and ridiculously happy.

Philip let his eyes wander back to the window. He wasn’t jealous. Not much. He had enough going on in his life without the added complication of love. He had his brothers to worry over, his estates to manage. Parliament. The messy business of spying. Le Fontaine. His work had always been satisfying, knowing he was making a difference—improving, perhaps even
saving,
lives.

That was a noble, worthy ambition. He’d get around to marriage and the succession eventually. But, he demanded of himself, what woman in her right mind would set her cap for a shallow dandy? Being regarded that way had never bothered him so much before. It was necessary, after all. But lately . . .

Philip rubbed his face with his hand, feeling twice his twenty-eight years. Maybe Garner had the right of it, after all. Perhaps he was getting too old for the life of an agent.

“Are you feeling well?” Apparently Crispin’s awareness of his surroundings surpassed Philip’s estimation.

“Just tired from all that shopping and what,” Philip answered.

Crispin chuckled his obvious disbelief. “I don’t believe I saw a single parcel on your person.”

“It was a small item,” Philip answered mysteriously, with a pat at his pocket.

“Really?” Catherine looked far too intrigued, so Philip shot her a guilty smile and a raise of his eyebrows. She laughed lightly. “I can see how that could be exhausting. Now we need to find out what has drained dear Sorrel.”

Philip turned his eyes to the woman who seemed to occupy his thoughts more often than not the last few days. Despite her earlier declaration that she felt only “a little tired,” Sorrel’s head bobbed repeatedly to one side, her eyes already closed, her posture slumped.

“I hope she can sleep,” Catherine said compassionately. “She has been looking pale today.”

“Fennel thinks she is ailing again,” Philip remembered aloud, watching her closely and not liking what he saw. Her face looked pale as parchment, dark circles marring the skin under her eyes. He didn’t like seeing her look so decidedly unwell. “If she weren’t so ridiculously stubborn, she’d have stayed at Kinnley instead of traveling all this way.”

“Please don’t scold her about this.” Catherine watched him with concern. “I think her reasons for coming were quite pressing.”

“Pressing enough to risk a fever hours from civilization?”

Sorrel could be so deucedly stubborn at times. First jaunting off on horseback while unwell, then hying herself to Ipswich a few days later at the onset of yet another illness.

“Seems she came to Ipswich to—” Crispin began, but Catherine placed a halting hand on his arm.

“Crispin,” she protested. “We promised.”

“We promised we wouldn’t tell
Miss Marjie,
” he corrected.

“How can we know Sorrel would want Philip to know?”

“It is Miss Marjie’s pity she doesn’t want,” Crispin said. “Philip’s not the pitying kind.”

Philip smiled. “Piti
ful,
maybe, but not pity
ing
.”