How To Distract a Duchess (17 page)

“Hush!” he whispered. “The only thing bigger than Mrs. Farthingale’s waistline is her nose. She’s into everyone’s business, and I don’t think you want her in yours.”

He didn’t say another word as he showed her into his apartments and locked the door behind them.

“So this is where an earl’s son comes when he wants to pretend he’s not,” she observed tartly as she looked around the room.

The furnishings were spare, only a couch and straight-backed chair with a trunk situated between them to act as a serving table. The room was spotlessly clean, but totally without charm.

Or a woman’s touch, she thought with a flash of relief.

Through an open door into the adjoining room, she glimpsed his bedchamber. A simple string bed was covered by a well-worn quilt. Artemisia jerked her gaze away. The last thing she wanted to think about in this man’s private rooms was his bed.

Trevelyn remained silent, waiting for her to tell him why she’d come. Artemisia didn’t need to glance at her brooch timepiece to know that not many hours had passed since she ordered him out of her sight. He must think her changeable as a weathercock.

He motioned for her to sit on the serviceable couch but didn’t take a seat himself. Instead he leaned against the wall and peered from behind the thick damask curtains up and down the street. Did he think she’d been followed?

“I presume, madam, your visit has a purpose,” he finally said, raking a hand through his hair.

“You told me to call upon you should need arise,” she said. A dark curl escaped his attempt to push it back and fell over his forehead. Artemisia was nearly overcome with the urge to smooth his hair back for him. Looking at him, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, something dark flared in her belly. Need definitely arose, but she didn’t think that was what he meant when he offered his assistance. She suppressed her reaction to him with difficulty.

“Yes, well, I require clarification on one or two points.” Artemisia cleared her throat and removed her velvet-trimmed bonnet, signaling that she was prepared to stay as long as it took for her to be satisfied with his answers. “On the morning you accosted my father in the garden—“

“I think ‘accosted’ is rather harsh, Your Grace.” Trevelyn sat down on the straight-backed chair and hooked an ankle over the other knee. “Mr. Dalrymple and I simply enjoyed a pleasant conversation.”

“That’s what I wish to speak with you about,” she said, adjusting her skirt so it spread evenly on both sides of her hips, anything to avoid his direct gaze. “You mentioned a key, I believe.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “We also spoke of roses and before you leaped from behind the pampas grass, I think your father gave me a short dissertation on aphids and assorted other pests.”

“No,” she said. “You discussed the feeding habits of the tigress and the bear. Rather an odd subject for an English garden, wouldn’t you agree?”

He shrugged.

“Then my father directed you to seek out Mr. Beddington, though I believe that was your intent from the first,” she said, not wanting to divulge more than she must. “Mr. Deveridge, you know something about this key. Why are you seeking it?” She leaned forward in her seat. “Please tell me what you know. It’s of vital importance.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why?”

They were interrupted by a light rap at the door.

“That’ll be our stew,” he said as he went to let the matron in.

His landlady had brought more than stew. A fresh loaf of brown bread, still warm from the oven, with a saucer of clotted cream and pot of gooseberry jam, a jug of ale, rich and dark as ordered and “a spot of tea for the lady.”

The aroma of the food was heaven itself. When Mrs. Farthingale set the heaping tray before her, Artemisia decided it would do Mr. Shipwash no good if she fainted dead away from hunger. She thanked the good woman and joined Trevelyn in sampling a mouthful. The taste did full credit to the delightful smell.

“I assume you hail from Wiltshire, same as your cousin here. You know, I’ve an old maid aunt as lives in Amesbury,” Mrs. Farthingale said. “What part of the shire will you be coming from then, Miss Doverspike?”

“I’m sure Hortense will enjoy visiting with you after she’s had a chance to refresh herself,” Trevelyn said as he stood and maneuvered the woman to his door. “She’ll see you later, then, Mrs. Farthingale. Thank you.”

After he closed the door behind her, he put an ear to the crack to listen for his landlady’s lumbering tread.

“About the key—“

“Shh!” he ordered with upraised hand.

Artemisia waited for him to rejoin her. “You were telling me about the key.”

“No, I wasn’t.” He sat back down and spooned the piping hot stew into his mouth. Artemisia restrained a smirk when he was forced to wash it down with a liberal swig of ale. “I was asking why you wanted to know about it.”

“Very well,” she said. “If you must know, Mr. Beddington’s assistant, Mr. Shipwash, has been abducted and is being held until some key is delivered in exchange for him.”

“The devil you say.” Trevelyn put his bowl and spoon down and started pacing. “Any idea who’s done this thing?”

“No, I hoped perhaps you might know.”

“Me? How could I know?” Trevelyn asked.

“Since you are obviously seeking this object, you might know who else has an interest in it?” She raised an inquiring brow at him.

He brushed off her question. “Why don’t you ask Beddington? He must have a clue.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

He covered his mouth with one hand for a moment, clearly pondering the matter. “Whatever he may have told you, I have good reason to believe Mr. Beddington has the key. Allow me to offer my assistance. I will be happy to deliver the item for you and retrieve Mr. Shipwash. When is the exchange to take place?

Artemisia gave a short laugh. “You must think me simple. Why should I trust you to give up an object I know you’ve been seeking yourself?”

“Flawlessly logical.” He conceded her point with a half smile. “However, if you’ve come to me for help, you must realize that you have to trust me.”

She looked into his dark eyes and, with everything in her, she wanted to trust him.

“How can I?” she whispered. “You lie as easily as you breathe.”

He sat back as abruptly as if she’d slapped him. He stared at her for the space of several heartbeats, then down at the floor, his brows wrestling with each other.

“Very well, madam,” he said. “It appears I must trust you.”

“I’m sure you realize the things one reads in the newspaper are not always the whole story,” he began.

“Assuredly.”

“So it is with people. Sometimes, they are not what they seem. Your father, for instance.”

“I fail to see what my father—“

He reached across the low chest between them and placed his fingertips on her lips. Her mouth tingled beneath his touch.

“Let me finish before you rush to judgment. The world knows Angus Dalrymple as an astute businessman who made his fortune in India.” Trevelyn slowly removed his hand as if loath to sever the brief connection. “However, he was much more than that.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” She set her tea cup down and looked away to regain her composure. The last thing she needed was to further muddle the situation by giving in to the sparks that leapt between them. “Angus Dalrymple was, I mean,
is
also a wonderful father.”

“No doubt,” he said. “What you didn’t know is that he was also an operator in the Great Game.”

“What do you mean?”

“Intelligence gathering. Espionage if you will. Dalrymple was one of the best. He ran a string of operatives that stretched from Bombay to the Punjab.” Trevelyn explained. “Her Majesty’s government depends upon the covert reports of men like your father to make policy in India.”

“What kind of policy?”

He spread his hands before him. “We suspect Russia would like to carve up the subcontinent and given the untender mercy the Czar shows his own people, one can only imagine how ill he might use the Indians.”

“Of course, one might argue that we British have misused the peoples of India as well,” Artemisia said. “Blessings of education and trade notwithstanding, there is a simmering resentment among the natives which even as a child I recognized. One has to wonder how we English would like it if a group of armed Hindus and Mussulmen took over the governance of our island nation, even if they claimed it was for our own good.”

“I can’t say I disagree with you, but we can discuss the politics another time.” Trevelyn’s smile brought out the dimple in his left cheek. “The fact is, your father’s work helped expose and end abusive practices by some of our countrymen. His contacts kept him apprised of wandering survey teams, native opinion, any covert agreements made with tribal leaders. It’s vitally important work. If we can stop Russian adventurism or an Indian uprising with means short of actual combat, we will. The right information in the right hands can save countless lives.”

Artemisia took this in with wonderment. She had the utmost respect for her father, but it seemed her esteem for him was still too small. She looked up at Trev.

He was much more than she’d taken him for as well. He was no bored second son who amused himself with play acting and seducing titled widows. “And you too are involved in this ‘Great Game’ somehow?”

His shoulders lifted in a self-enfacing shrug.

“But how does Mr. Beddington and the key figure into all this?”

“That’s the crux of the matter,” Trevelyn said. “When an operative suspects he’s been compromised or, in your father’s case, falls ill, he sends a key. It contains the encoded names of all his contacts. You can see now why it’s so important for me to retrieve it. If the list fell into unfriendly hands, the lives of your father’s agents wouldn’t be worth a feather’s chance in a whirlwind.”

She nodded gravely. “And that’s why you were trying to speak with him.”

“Yes,” Trev said. “Mostly because I couldn’t find the man to whom he sent the key. Your father’s last message told us he’d given the key to Mr. Beddington. We’ve no agent in the corps by that name, so we’ve tried for years, searching out your father’s known associates with no success. Once I discovered the trustee of your father’s estate was a Josiah Beddington, I assumed I’d found him.”

Artemisia frowned. Her father never knew she used the name as a cover for her business dealings. He was too ill by the time she took the reins of the family fortune in male guise. At any rate, he’d never given her anything she’d remotely consider a key.

“I’ve had the devil’s own time trying to find the chap, inquiring at all the clubs a man of his stature might frequent, calling at his office, disguising myself to seek employment.” He cast her a wry smile. “Even posing nude as your model, hoping you’d arrange an introduction. Not the most dignified way to serve Queen and country, you must admit. When I finally meet the man, I have to learn how he’s managed to remain so invisible. It’s a trick that will stand me in good stead. Beddington’s the most elusive subject I’ve ever tried to bag.”

“And once you have the key?”

“Rumors of a Russian incursion into India have been flying fast and furious for some time, but we’ve no way to be sure. If the Czar is planning a venture down the Khyber Pass, Angus Dalrymple’s contacts will know,” Trevelyn said, barely concealed excitement in his tone. “I plan to revive your father’s string of operatives and start where he left off. It’s the next ship headed for Bombay for me.”

Artemisia was surprised at the strange tightness in her chest at this news. Hadn’t she wished him on another continent just that morning? Trev sat down opposite her and leaned forward, elbows resting on his spread knees.

“Now that you know the truth, will you help me? Once I have the key, I will see what can be done to rescue Mr. Shipwash. You have my word upon it.” He reached over and took one of her hands in his. His hand was warm, but the touch sent a shiver up her arm. “Will you take me to Mr. Beddington?”

“It will do no good,” she said with despair.

“How do you know till we’ve tried?”

“Because . . . “ She paused, realizing she was about to hand him information that could sink the entire Southwycke fortune and create a scandal to rock all of London. But there was really no choice. She straightened her spine.

“I don’t need to take you to him,” she said. “You have already been introduced.
I
am Mr. Beddington.”

He released her hand and sat back in surprise. “You?”

“I use the name Josiah H. Beddington to conduct my family’s business. No one would deal with a woman. Believe me, I tried.” Artemisia knotted her fingers together. “So I invented a male persona and hired Mr. Shipwash to act as my assistant. And I haven’t got any dratted key.” Her face fell. “I don’t know what to do. If anything happens to James, I’ll never forgive myself.”

He sat still as stone for about a minute. Artemisia could almost see the wheels whirring in his brain as he digested this new turn of events.

“You must have it and just don’t realize you do,” he finally said.