The Wife He Always Wanted (25 page)

“He stole it from her wagon. He spent many nights staring at her picture and claiming one day he’d go back for her.”

“She probably has several children now.”

“Yes, but I suspect she still thinks of your brother. I believe she was in love with him, too.”

Gabriel left her to finish looking through the package.

There was nothing remaining but several letters addressed to her. Most contained news of his travels and some of the people and things he saw. He wrote of Gabriel and their friendship and some of their misadventures. Her mind filled with his wonderful descriptions, and she felt as if she’d shared the experiences with them.

The longest letter was dated earlier than the others. He pondered life and spoke of memories of their childhood, his despair over leaving her, an apology for the same. Finally, he wanted her to know of his love should anything ever happen to him, and his wish to be reunited with her one day. By the time she read his scrawling signature at the bottom of the last page, tears fell unchecked down her face.

* * *

T
he party the following evening was interesting only because Laura and Brenna, with spouses, were in attendance. Sarah found she liked the somewhat reserved Lord Ashwood, finding him the opposite of his vivacious wife. Oddly enough, she also actually enjoyed the bickering between Gabriel, Brenna, and Simon. It was quite entertaining.

“I do not know how Lord and Lady Seymour ever had peace with the three of you always squabbling,” Sarah said, laughing, after an argument about the weather. They could argue about nearly everything.

“They did not,” Brenna said, frowning at her brothers. “Mother claims she got her first gray hair the day Simon pushed me in the duck pond and I nearly drowned.”

“I did not almost drown you,” Simon cut in with a scowl. He pointed a finger at her. “You knew how to swim.”

“True. However, I was wearing that horrid orange dress Aunt Frances gave me for my birthday. The weight of the bows alone sank me into the muck. If it had not been for Gabriel, I would not have survived.”

Gabriel nodded. “I dragged her out by her feet.” He smiled wickedly. “The good that came from the incident was that the atrocious gown was ruined.”

“It was abominable,” Simon agreed.

“The poor dear meant well, but Aunt Frances did choose the worst gifts,” Brenna added. Gabriel and Simon concurred.

Lord Ashwood turned to Sarah and said dryly, “Did they all just agree on something?”

Sarah placed a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with false surprise. “I think they did. Hurry, we must tell Lord and Lady Seymour so they may celebrate the occasion.”

The three Harrington siblings stared.

“I never knew my husband possessed such a quick wit,” Brenna said, frowning. “He could play a court jester.”

“There was a time when Sarah did not know how to jest. Now she is ready for the stage,” Gabriel remarked and winked at Sarah. Her eyes narrowed. “Take the lead in a farce, perhaps.”

“Simon always possessed good humor,” Laura added. “But never in the presence of his sister. She only hears his cross words. This is indeed a remarkable moment in Harrington history.”

Sarah, Laura, and Lord Ashwood laughed. Then His Lordship held out an arm to both Sarah and Laura. “I think we should go for punch before the bickering begins anew.”

With that, they walked off into the crowd.

Gabe was the first to recover. “There was a time when my wife barely spoke to me without looking down at her shoes. Now she is not one to hold back her opinions.”

“She is your ideal match,” Brenna said.

“I like her,” Simon said. “She suits you.”

“She does suit,” Gabe agreed. “I never thought I’d find contentment in marriage.”

Brenna stiffened then sighed. “Did we just agree again?”

Simon snorted. “I believe we did.”

“Take shelter, siblings,” Gabe said drolly. “The sky is about to fall in.”

Chapter Twenty-four

M
ister and Mrs. Harrington, My Lord,” the elderly butler said as he led them into a drawing room. “Would you like tea, Your Lordship?”

“Yes, Simpson.” Lord Hampton held out a hand, indicating the settee, and Sarah and Gabriel sat. “Guests should always have tea.”

The room was stifling hot. A huge fire blazed. Sarah wondered if an entire load of wood and coal had been dumped into the fireplace and set ablaze. She wanted to open a window straightaway, or three, but was too polite to ask to do so. Darn all those social rules! Instead, she sat politely and prayed she’d not expire into a puddle on the floor.

“Welcome to my home, Mister and Mrs. Harrington,” he said. “I admit to my curiosity when I received your note. More so some weeks past when discovering that Sarah was alive and married.” He smiled. “After you vanished with Albert, and we heard nothing more, I assumed the worst. I’m pleased to be wrong. You appear in excellent health.”

“Thank you, Your Lordship,” Sarah said. “It was a trying ten years. I lost my father, brother, and aunt.”

“Tragic,” he said. “Just tragic.”

Lord Hampton sat in the chair next to the drawing room window, a blanket spread over his lap, sunlight streaming across his legs. A band of white hair circled his head, and bushy brows topped a pair of blue eyes.

Sarah was surprised at how frail His Lordship looked, as if he suffered from an unknown malady. This would certainly explain the blanket and the slight hint of yellow on his skin. He was about the same age as Lord Seymour, though Gabriel’s father was robust and youthful.

Gabriel leaned in. “The death of Henry Palmer is why we’re here. Recent events have led us to deduce that not only was Palmer’s death connected to his government work, but that there are hidden documents that his enemies are desperate to discover.”

A shadow passed over Lord Hampton’s face. “I know nothing about any documents or that he worked for the government. He was my secretary. I would know if he had another profession.”

Sarah and Gabriel shared a glance. “Lord Hampton, my father was a British spy.”

He placed a hand on top of his head. His grizzled face grew puzzled. “A spy?”

“Yes,” Gabriel said slowly. “We think you were his contact. Certainly you knew this?”

His Lordship fell silent. “I cannot remember anything about spies.” He rested his chin on his chest. He muttered something about spies, and wine, and an actress with a French name. It was all nonsensical.

A sheen of perspiration covered Gabe’s skin. He leaned close and whispered in Sarah’s ear, “I think his memories are fading.”

Her stomach sank. A feeling of dread washed over her. She whispered back, “Lord Hampton is the last link to my father, traceable back to those years of his service. If the earl cannot help, and the spies remain elusive, then the case is over.”

This time, Gabriel said nothing to assuage her fears. There was nothing to say. She was correct.

“The French have not put out a decent wine since the Revolution,” Lord Hampton said. “It is very disappointing.”

“Your Lordship,” Gabriel interjected. “Try and focus on Henry Palmer. Can you remember anything about his death?”

Fearing they’d hit another disappointing end, Sarah wanted to beat her fists on the table at her knees. Unfortunately, it would serve no purpose.

“Henry is dead?” Sadness etched his face. Then, “Of course, Henry is dead. He was murdered.”

“He was.” Sarah leaned forward. “Can you tell us what you know about his death?”

“It happened not far from here,” His Lordship said. “He lived not far from here, with you and Albert. It was a sad day, that, when a good man cannot walk through Mayfair without being accosted and murdered.”

He slipped back into muttering about footpads and the state of London where pickpockets roamed free.

“We will learn nothing here.” Gabriel stood. Sarah followed. “I need some air.”

As they readied themselves to leave, Lord Hampton lifted his head. “Wait. I do remember something. There was a woman who asked after Henry. She came here a few years ago. My son spoke to her. She was angry.”

Sarah and Gabriel shared a startled glance. “Do you know what she was angry about?” Sarah asked. Finally something!

“She thought we had something of hers.” He paused. “A journal. Then she mentioned the name of a Bow Street Runner. A Mister, Mister . . . Bloombush.” He frowned. “No, wait, it was some sort of bush. Rosebush, I think. Oh dear, I cannot remember anything more.”

“Mister Rosebush?” Gabriel grumbled. “I fear his memory is worse than I suspected.”

“Father.” A stout and sullen man entered the room. He crossed to His Lordship and placed a hand on one narrow shoulder. Together, the pair shared a strong resemblance. The viscount glared at Sarah and Gabriel. “You are not supposed to have visitors.”

“Geoffrey, this is Sarah, Henry Palmer’s girl. You remember Henry? He was my secretary.”

Geoffrey patted his father’s shoulder. “I do remember Henry.” He tucked the blanket tighter around his father then faced them. “What is this visit about?”

“They said Henry was a spy,” Lord Hampton said. “I am trying to help them solve his murder.”

The Viscount Kilmer sighed. “We know nothing about spies or murder. I apologize for my rudeness, but I must ask you to leave. My father needs his rest.”

“Of course,” Sarah said. She could not fault the viscount’s protectiveness. “Thank you for your assistance, Lord Hampton. I’m certain your information will be of great help to our investigation.”

“You’re welcome, Sarah.” He gave a wave. “Do come and visit again. We can talk about Henry.”

“I will,” she said.

The viscount escorted them into the hallway. “I hope you do not put much weight on Father’s ramblings. His mind is fractured. On some days, he struggles to remember my name.” He led them to the door and jerked the panel open. “Please do not come again.”

His forceful tone brooked no argument. He closed the door tightly behind them. When they reached the walkway, Sarah’s frustration bubbled over.

“Will we ever find a solid clue and settle this case?” she groused. “It appears my father will never have justice.”

Gabriel took her arm and led her to the waiting carriage. “Do not give up quite yet, love. All is not lost.”

“It’s as if my father’s death was not meant to be avenged,” she said, defeated. “How can I not give up?”

He grinned. “Because we still have a Rosebush to uncover.”

Sarah waited until they were seated and Gabriel took up the reins. “I have never heard the surname ‘Rosebush.’ You cannot think it’s a real person?”

“I do not,” Gabriel replied. “I do, however, think that there is some truth to this name. Lord Hampton did possess some lucidity. That is why we are going to Bow Street. If anyone knows this ‘Rosebush,’ it is Brown. And hopefully he’s discovered some information from our shooter. Between the two, we might have new clues.”

* * *

F
or the first time in weeks, Gabe felt a rush of optimism, although, obviously Sarah did not share the view.

“I once had an aunt who’d also suffered from a fractured mind. Her moments of lucidity, though few, were there,” he said. “With Lord Hampton, I suspect there is some form of truth in those moments. The name may not be entirely correct, but there is a chance it will lead us to the Bow Street traitor.”

“I hope you are correct. However, we’ve had too many disappointments. I think I shall keep my giddiness in check until we are clear about the validity of the clue.”

Gabe snorted. “I have never seen you giddy.”

She tucked her hands on her lap. “I’ve been saving it for the time when the case is concluded and my father’s killers have been convicted of the crime. Then I will be absolutely giddy.”

A short time later, they pulled up in front of No. Four Bow Street. “Think positively, love,” he said. “I sense we are about to see our luck change.”

“Hmmm.”

They went inside and were directed to the whereabouts of Mister Brown. He was seated behind a desk in a cluttered office. Upon their arrival, he stood. His cravat was askew and his coat rumpled. The Runner appeared to have had little sleep. The case was taking a toll on him, too.

“Mister and Mrs. Harrington. I was expecting a visit. Come. Sit.” He indicated a pair of chairs. “We’ve unearthed a new clue.”

“Did the shooter give up his companions?” Gabe asked.

“Sadly, no. Mister Chumley and his brother did not have the name of the man who hired them to shoot you.” Brown sat. “The matter was all very clandestine. Their faces were covered when they were taken to an old farm a distance from London and given their instructions. However, his brother managed to overhear the name of the nearby village. That, and the description of the house, has given us a place to start looking. We have sent men to glean information from the local constable.”

“This is excellent new information,” Sarah said. Gabe heard hope in her voice.

“We also have information,” Gabe said. “We spoke to Lord Hampton. His memory has faded, but he did have the name he believes is that of a Runner that The Widow asked his son about some years ago. Mister Rosebush.”

Brown’s eyebrows knitted over his eyes. “We have no one here with that name,” he said, then paused, and his face went white. “No, it cannot be.”

“You know him?” Sarah said.

“Rosebush
must be
Abercrombie
Bushnell!
He’s a clerk here and that’s the only name that fits. Excuse me.” Brown got to his feet, rounded the desk, and vanished out the door. After a minute, muffled voices sounded from the hallway. Several men hurried past, including Mister Brown.

“We may have found our traitor,” Gabe said as he stared out the open door.

“Found with help from the confused mind of Lord Hampton.” She rubbed her hands together. “I feel a flush of giddiness bubbling up.”

Gabe grinned. They shared some hushed speculation about Mister Bushnell. Minutes later, Brown reappeared, followed by a pair of Runners, dragging a weeping man between them.

The previously mentioned Mister Bushnell was short and stout, his hair white and his face mottled. It was nearly impossible to understand his hysterical stammering. However, Gabe understood enough to gather that he’d never meant to turn traitor. That he had a wife who spent more than he made as a clerk. And he did not think his actions would endanger anyone.

“You caused the death of Henry Palmer and maybe others,” Brown said, and caught Bushnell by the throat. “You will tell me everything you know, or I will send you off to Newgate and make certain the inmates know you are a French spy.”

“Please, no,” the man sobbed. “They will kill me.”

Sarah rose to her feet. Rage burned through her. She moved close to Bushnell. “Henry Palmer left behind children, you pitiful man. My brother and I lost our only parent when you gave his name to the French.”

“I’m sorry,” he wailed. Sarah was having none of his excuses. She drew back her fist and hit him square in the nose.

Bushnell’s nose cracked and blood poured out. He made a strangled gasp as Sarah turned on her heels and fled the room.

Gabe hurried after her. He found her leaning against a wall, rubbing her hand, tears streaming down her face.

“The bastard,” she said and held up her hand. “I think I broke my fingers.”

Gabe took a look. There was some swelling. “Perhaps one or two bones,” he agreed and pulled her close. “But Bushnell fared much worse. I am very proud of you.”

Sniffing, she reached into his pocket, drew out his handkerchief, and wiped her eyes. “I wanted to kill him. I do want to kill him.”

“I know.” He kissed her forehead. “The web is closing in around our spies, and Bushnell may be able to save his pathetic life if he helps us catch them. Otherwise, he will hang with the others.”

“Hanging is what he deserves.”

“He does. However, if we can capture The Widow and those she works with, his life might be a fair trade. He will never be released from Newgate. There is some solace in that. It will be its own death sentence.”

She grumbled under her breath and nodded. “I am exhausted. Can you take me home lest I change my mind and commit murder?”

* * *

T
hunder rumbled, almost drowning out the sound of the door knocker. The normally wet London had seen more than its share of rain this week. Just when it appeared there might be a reprieve, the clouds would gather again and start another deluge.

Gabe had gone off to meet with Mister Brown, and Sarah was expecting no visitors. The emotional upheaval from yesterday left her drained, and she planned to spend a quiet afternoon at home. It was not to be.

She peered at her wrapped fingers and awaited the butler.

Harris announced visitors. “Lady Seymour, Lady Ashwood, Mrs. Blackwell, and Lady Harrington are here to see you, Mrs. Harrington.” He appeared slightly winded after having managed to get through the list of titles.

“Thank you, Harris. You may send them up.” Sarah stood and smoothed down her simple rose-patterned day dress. Having not expected visitors, she was decidedly underdressed.