Friends and Foes (18 page)

Philip watched with a heavy heart as Layton’s coach disappeared down the winding Kinnley carriageway. He had hoped having his brother nearby for Christmas, amidst his family, would have helped pull him from his lost and wandering state. But Layton had left every inch as impenetrable as he’d arrived. Sorrel had been right. He felt as though he were losing his brother.

Sorrel.
The thought of her brought a smile back to Philip’s face. He’d spent most of the previous night trying to convince himself that he’d actually kissed her and, even more surprising, that she’d actually kissed him in return. The memory was far too detailed to not be real.

Lampton War Tactic Number Thirteen: Know when to surrender.

Philip made his way from the front doors of Kinnley deep in thought. After the initial disbelief dispelled, he had been left with the rather uncomfortable question of how
she
felt about their rather unexpected kiss the night before.

He’d seen a tear or two slip from her eyes despite having been told by several members of Sorrel’s family that she never cried. She’d clearly been upset. They’d touched on rather personal subjects, for both of them. He couldn’t help worrying that he’d taken advantage of her during a vulnerable moment. She might not have welcomed his advances if she hadn’t already been overset.

He hoped that wasn’t the case. Desperately hoped.

The echoing remnants of a female voice spouting a curse gave away Sorrel’s location. Philip leaned against the library doorframe and smiled at her sprawled in a heap on the floor next to a bookshelf. “That is a phrase I did not learn until my days at Eton. Even then it was only whispered.”

“Never mind my language and help me up off the floor.”

Same Sorrel,
Philip thought, wondering if her sharp tone was a good sign or not. “Promise not to beat me with your walking stick?” He crossed the room to her.

“I make no promises.”

Philip held his hands out to her, which she accepted without hesitation.
A good sign,
he thought. In a moment she was on her feet.

“Would you grab my book for me?” she asked, leaning against the shelving. “And my cane.”

“Where to, my dear?”

“The sofa, please.” No reaction to the
my dear
. Hmm.

He assisted her to the sofa as requested. “May I join you?” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sounded so unsure of himself. He was pretty sure his voice even cracked.

The faintest of blushes stole across Sorrel’s face. A ray of hope. He sat as close to her as he dared, watching her for any reaction she might offer. None was forthcoming.

Philip found himself almost frantically searching for a conversation topic. He felt deucedly uncomfortable with the silence between them. Did she expect an apology? Or another kiss? Or should he be keeping a wary eye on that walking stick of hers? She most likely knew how to wield it like a true swordsman.

The silence had stretched on far too long. Philip eyed the thin, yellow volume in her hand. Something about it struck him as familiar.

Sorrel seemed to notice his attention. “I didn’t have a chance to look at it before,” she said. “I couldn’t hold on to it and crawl at the same time.”

Her words humbled him—she’d pulled herself across the cold floor that evening because he’d left her helpless there.

“Have I apologized enough for that?” he asked, hoping his embarrassment showed sufficiently.

She shrugged. “Probably not.”

“I was being an idiot.”

“I know.”

“You aren’t going to make this easy for me, are you?”

Sorrel smiled broadly but offered no words of encouragement.

“I felt rather disgruntled that night.” Philip slumped back against the sofa, not feeling the least inclined to play the dandified gentleman. “I was sulking, I suppose. After Ipswich, you know.”

“Ipswich?” Sorrel lowered her book to her lap and looked at him with obvious puzzlement.

“I didn’t . . . couldn’t like the idea of . . . Well, I was bothered by that man in Ipswich you’ve been writing to.” Lud, it was hard to admit that.

“Dr. Darrow?”

“Dr. Darrow?”

“I wrote to a surgeon,” Sorrel said, brows knit in confusion. “About my leg.”

“Your leg?” The skies began to brighten!

“Oh, heavens!” Sorrel was nearly laughing, he could tell. “You thought I had written
romantic
letters?”

“Uh . . . I . . . um . . .” Philip felt suddenly uncomfortable.

“Philip Jonquil, don’t tell me you were jealous!”

“A little . . . I guess.”

“And that is why you were so decidedly against my writing to him?”

Did she have to pursue this so acutely?

“Then you don’t think I am completely daft?” Sorrel seemed anxious for an answer.

“For writing to a surgeon?”

“For pursuing the surgery?”

Philip sat up straighter and looked her in the eye. “What surgery?”

“Dr. Darrow has a colleague in Edinburgh who he thinks might be able to partially fix my leg.” There was an almost begging quality to Sorrel’s tone, as though she were extending to him her last ray of hope. “There is no guarantee the operation will even help—simply traveling to Scotland will be an ordeal—but it is a possibility.”

“This colleague, he knows what he’s doing?” Philip felt concerned already. An operation. A grueling journey.

Sorrel nodded, her eyes boring into his.

“What does Dr. Darrow think can be done?”

Sorrel placed her book on the side table and turned to face Philip full on, an eagerness in her eyes that entirely captivated him. “The bones in my leg were never set after they were broken. My father wouldn’t allow it. But if—”

“Wait. Your father wouldn’t allow your bones to be set?”

She sighed with obvious exasperation. “Doing so would have been contrary to the judgments of God,” Sorrel answered with the same bitterness Philip recalled hearing in her tone when she’d spoken before of her father. “He was rather too convinced of his own authority on all matters: religious and secular.”

No wonder Sorrel had taken such a quick dislike to Philip’s portrayal of himself as decidedly arrogant. “I think I remember Fennel saying your father had passed away.” Philip didn’t want to push an already touchy subject, but he needed to know. If that man were still drawing breath, Philip would give him a rather detailed understanding of the judgments of God.

“Yes, and not a soul mourned his passing. The entire family put aside our mourning clothes exactly one year to the day of his death.”

Philip had never been more grateful for his own parents than he was in that moment. How he wished Sorrel could have had even a moment of the upbringing he had always taken for granted. Determined to at least not force her to speak of obviously painful memories, Philip took Sorrel’s hand in his own and kissed her fingertips. “Tell me about this doctor in Scotland.”

Sorrel’s smile of reply was thick with gratitude. She obviously had no desire to discuss her father any further. “Dr. MacAslon would break the bones in my leg again”—Philip instinctively closed his fingers tighter around hers—“and then set them straight.”

“Break them again? Lud, Sorrel. That sounds awful.”

“I know.” A look of anticipatory pain crossed her face. “But, Philip, if it works, I might not be dependent on my cane. My limp would improve. Dr. Darrow thinks some of the pain would be alleviated.”

“In other words,” Philip said, “the outcome would be worth the price.”

She nodded.

Philip brought both his hands to hers, his thumbs caressing her palm. “What did your family have to say?”

Sorrel shook her head. “Mother left the room halfway through the explanation and has adamantly refused to discuss it since. Marjie wept from start to finish. Fennel sat and looked at me just as if I’d told him I wanted to drown a litter of puppies.”

“They’re only worried about you.” Philip kissed her fingers again, noticing she hadn’t objected before.

“Good morning.” Leave it to Hanover Garner to interrupt what could have been a promising moment.

Philip didn’t return the greeting but put a little more space between himself and Sorrel then shot a look of venom at Garner’s back. Sorrel laughed quietly as she retook her book.

“How much longer are you staying, Garner?” Philip asked.

“At Kinnley?”

“In the room,” Philip grumbled

Sorrel quietly laughed. “Stop it, Philip.”

“A few more days I suppose.” Garner sighed. “Then I really should return to London.”

“Hate to see you go,” Philip said.

“I doubt that very much, Ph—er, Lampton.”

Philip glanced over at Sorrel, wondering if she’d noticed the slip. Two men barely acquainted would certainly not be on a first name basis. She didn’t seem to have caught the error.

“Of course if the snow starts up again, we’ll all be here a few days longer than planned,” Garner said.

Philip found himself truly hoping the prediction came true. He’d really enjoy being snowed in with Sorrel.

“Do either of you speak French?” Sorrel asked quite unexpectedly.

“I do,” Garner replied quite confidently. Philip could have throttled the man, boasting the way he was.

“Is there another translation of
pécher
besides ‘sin’?” Sorrel’s eyes were back in her book, apparently a French–English dictionary.

Garner shook his head. “There is not.”

Sorrel seemed to ponder his words, mouthing something silently. “That doesn’t sound quite right. Perhaps I heard wrong.”

“Heard?” Philip asked, intrigued.

“I overheard a conversation which has bothered me ever since.”

“A conversation in French?”

Sorrel nodded. “Partly, anyway. But I am almost positive ‘sin’ isn’t the right verb.”

“
Pêcher
is pronounced almost precisely the same,” Garner offered. “Perhaps this Frenchman was saying
fish
rather than
sin.
”

“Fish.” Sorrel sat silently for a fraction of a moment, mouthing again. She still didn’t look satisfied. “Fish does fit better, but it is still bothersome. The man’s pronunciation was perfect, but he used a completely incorrect article.”

“Are you sure he was incorrect?” Garner sounded doubtful.

“I am certain.” Sorrel held up her translator.

“What grievous error has offended your lingual sensibilities?” Philip smiled. There were times when Sorrel’s stubbornness was positively endearing.

“Not offended.” She rolled her eyes at him. “I’m curious is all. He used
le
instead of
la.
And on a word as common as
fountain.
He ought to have known that, I would think.”

Philip’s smile faded in an instant, and he felt the color drain from his face. “
Pêcher de Le Fontaine?
”

Sorrel’s eyes widened.

“You heard someone say that?” Philip asked. Sorrel nodded. “Where? When?”

“In Ipswich,” she answered, watching him with borderline alarm. “Just last week.”

“Devil take it,” Garner muttered.

“Close the door, Garner.” Philip rose to his feet in an instant. The door clicked and locked. Philip ran his fingers through his hair.

“Philip, you’re worrying me.” Sorrel looked as concerned as she sounded.

“I am sorry, my dear. You just have no idea what you’ve overheard.”

“‘Fish from the fountain’? It sounded strange but—”

“How much can we tell her?” Garner asked, his face pulled and drawn.

Philip hesitated. Information could be dangerous. He dare not put Sorrel in peril. But she may have overheard a conversation crucial to the efforts of the Foreign Office.

“Does this have anything to do with why the two of you were in Kent?”

Philip’s eyes jumped to Sorrel. He was certain Garner’s did, as well.

“Don’t bother to deny it,” Sorrel warned. “I saw Mr. Garner in the inn that night you attempted to steal my walking stick.”

“How long ago did you realize the connection?” Philip asked.

“The night Mr. Garner arrived. I have a very good memory for faces.”

“And you never said anything? To anyone?”

Sorrel shrugged. “I thought it curious but assumed you had your reasons.”

Philip smiled at her. “And here I thought you didn’t trust me.”

“Perhaps I don’t,” she countered. “I may have simply been holding on to the information to use as cannon fodder.”

“So how much do we tell her?” Garner asked, his nose running incessantly.

“Everything, Garner. Everything.”

Sorrel listened with growing shock at the tale Philip weaved. He spoke quickly and directly of the Foreign Office, his role as an agent, the disguise he’d created as a dandy and the information he came across because of it, as well as their nearly three-year mission to catch a dangerous French spy known only as Le Fontaine.

“Then those men weren’t referring to a fountain, but to this spy?” Sorrel felt her stomach knot inside.

Philip nodded, his face lined in anxiety. “And that spy is planning to hand over more information to Napoleon’s sympathizers. Perhaps he has already.” Philip continued pacing a short line in front of the sofa where Sorrel sat watching him with growing agitation.

“What do we tell the Foreign Office, Philip?” Mr. Garner asked, wiping at his perpetually dripping nose—how the man had suddenly come down with a cold Sorrel couldn’t say.

Philip released a long, deep breath. “If the exchange hasn’t happened yet, we tell them to send reinforcements—that Le Fontaine is within our grasp.”

“And if the exchange has already occurred?” Mr. Garner asked after a sniffle. He looked almost hopeful that their chance had slipped by them.

Philip rubbed his face with his hands. “Castlereagh will have our necks,” he grumbled.

Mr. Garner tugged nervously at his cravat. Sorrel could tell the moment Philip caught sight of his partner’s aggravated movements. “Calm down, Garner. Not literally. Though I doubt he’ll be happy to learn one of Le Fontaine’s men was in the Dove and Crow at the same time we were and neither of us managed to uncover as much.”

“Maybe we’ll be dismissed for dereliction of duty.” Again that almost hopeful accent in Garner’s words. Did the man find his work so unappealing?

“
Dereliction
?” Philip replied doubtfully. “We hardly missed the conversation purposefully.”

“But you could tell Castlereagh we did.”

“Confound it, Garner.” Philip’s patience finally gave out. “Could you not be so scragged lily-livered for the duration of even
one
mission!”

“Your language, Philip,” Mr. Garner mumbled, eyeing Sorrel awkwardly.

“Oh, that was mild for Miss Kendrick.”

“Thank you for pointing that out, Philip.” Sorrel hardly appreciated the reminder of yet another of her unladylike mannerisms.

Philip’s eyes turned to her as if suddenly remembering her presence. “Sorry, Sorrel.” He resumed his pacing.

“Do sit down before you have a stroke,” Sorrel insisted.

With a sigh of frustration, Philip flopped onto the sofa beside her, posture entirely abandoned, looking nothing like the Town Tulip Sorrel had grown accustomed to seeing. Mr. Garner wandered to the nearest window and anxiously stared out into the cold winter.

“You seem rather determined to catch this Le Fontaine.” Sorrel knew she sounded like a simpleton but was trying to offer what support she could.

Philip nodded. He leaned over until he could easily whisper in her ear, something she found she rather enjoyed. “Once Le Fontaine is apprehended, I will be released from my duties as an agent.”

“And you’re anxious to be released?” Sorrel turned slightly to face Philip as she spoke to him, leaving them face-to-face and a mere breath apart.

“Extremely,” Philip whispered, his eyes studying her face, seemingly memorizing every inch of it. He leaned closer to her, quite obviously intending to kiss her again.

Though she would have welcomed his attentions under different circumstances, she was not keen on the idea of an audience. Mr. Garner had not left the room. Sorrel put her fingertips to his mouth to stay his attempts.

“What can I do?” she asked.

Philip raised an eyebrow, his message all too clear. Sorrel blushed but shook her head. With a smile of amusement, Philip kissed her fingertips then leaned back against the sofa once more, staring out across the library.

“Do you remember anything else about those men or their conversation?” he asked.

“I saw only one of them.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“I would. I have a good memory for faces.”

Philip glanced across at Mr. Garner. “True,” he conceded. “Did they say anything else?” Then he added with a dismissive wave of his hand precisely like Mother was wont to do, “Besides a secret, coded message?”

Sorrel tried to relive the moment. “Something about north. North of somewhere. And there not being a port.”

“North of
where
?” Philip pressed, though he didn’t turn his gaze back to her.

“I don’t remember.” She hated admitting it.

Philip took a deep breath and shut his eyes. “What else?”

“There were several numbers, though no explanation as to what they meant.”

“Do you remember the numbers?” Philip lounged with his hands on his torso, fingers entwined, eyes closed as if in deep concentration. He looked positively endearing lounging so undandylike with his hair tousled and his brows knit.

Sorrel leaned silently closer to him.

Mr. Garner’s attention remained focused outside.

Hardly believing she was doing such a thing, Sorrel laid one hand on the side of his face and placed a rather chaste, tender kiss on his other cheek. Philip’s eyes flew open wide, and Sorrel couldn’t help a grin.

“The temptation was just too great,” she whispered.

“You, Miss Kendrick,” he answered with hardly a sound, “are a distraction.”

“Sorry.” Sorrel mouthed the apology she hardly felt then settled back to a more distant position.

“Those numbers could be important.” Philip returned to his normal voice. “Can you remember any of them?”

“Twelve,” she recalled. “Actually, he said ‘double twelves.’”

“Which man?”

“The one I couldn’t see.” Sorrel creased her brow and re-created the scene in her head. “But he spoke as though confirming what the other man had told him at some point.”

“They were arranging the meeting, then.” Philip nodded as if to himself. “Anything else?”

Sorrel closed her eyes, trying desperately to recall what else she’d heard. Philip had made it sound like a matter of utmost importance. “There were more numbers. But I can’t recall them.”

“Anything other than numbers?”

She could remember little beyond snippets. “The numbers. And a French name.”

“What was the name? The French name?” Suddenly Mr. Garner was intensely interested, though his nose continued dripping with fervor.

“I don’t remember. Perhaps if I thought about it.”

“That name will be Le Fontaine’s contact in France,” Mr. Garner said, his eyes threatening to widen. “If we could learn that man’s identity . . .” Mr. Garner just shook his head as if overwhelmed by the possibility.

“I don’t remember.” Sorrel had seldom felt so distraught.

“Devil take it, woman!” Mr. Garner snapped, staring down at her with near mania in his eyes.

Sorrel instinctively shifted closer to Philip, her heart pounding the way it always had when her father launched into one of his tirades.

“We have to have that name!”

“Garner.” An edge in Philip’s voice belied the calmness of his tone.

Mr. Garner immediately snapped to his senses, his eyes softening. Sorrel took a deep breath. Where had Philip been all those years when Father had yelled and raged and she’d had to defend herself and her siblings on her own? Sorrel reached for Philip’s hand. She’d seldom been more grateful for another person’s presence.

Philip squeezed her fingers but still looked tense.

“Please forgive me, Miss Kendrick,” Garner offered with genuine contrition. “I have been tracking Le Fontaine’s French counterpart my entire adult life. To finally have a name would be . . .” He walked away shaking his head, leaving his sentence incomplete and hanging in the air around them.

Sorrel glanced at Philip, feeling the importance of the bit of information she couldn’t manage to recall. “I am sorry, Philip. I just can’t remember. The name. The numbers. I can’t remember any of it.”

Philip nodded and smiled. “Tell us if it comes to mind.”

“I will. I promise.”

“You have a letter to write, Garner,” Philip said. “Tell Ol’ Rob we aren’t certain of the date, but we will tell him as soon as we know. It will be either noon or midnight.”

“And if the meeting location is not near here?” Garner asked, dabbing at his nose. “Not knowing the day, we can’t know how much time we’ll have to gather reinforcements.”

“Then you had best start praying again.”

Garner sighed and left the room, resigned to his task. Sorrel watched him go, the questions in her mind multiplying by the minute. What kind of agent
hopes
the enemy gets away? And yet he became a man possessed at the thought of uncovering a different spy. How had Philip become involved with such dangerous work in the first place?

“I would offer you a shilling for your thoughts, but I understand the price has gone to a guinea,” Philip said.

“I suppose this is all a little hard to take in at once,” Sorrel said.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you so much.” Philip shifted to the edge of the sofa and propped his head on his hands, his elbows on his knees. “You realize, of course, how sensitive this information is.”

“Of course. I wish I could offer you more.”

“You’ll remember it.” He sounded so confident.

“Before it’s too late?” Sorrel had her doubts.

“Let us hope so.” He looked tense. Sorrel reached out to him and laid her hand on his arm.

“How can I help, Philip? Please let me help you.”

“You have done a great deal already.” He patted her hand. Sorrel knew a dismissive gesture when she saw it.

“I will think over that conversation,” she assured him. “I will tell you the moment I recall anything.”

He smiled, but his eyes remained strained, his demeanor tense. Watching him dealing with the significant weight on his shoulders, Sorrel almost missed the devil-may-care dandy she’d originally thought him to be.