Too Dangerous For a Lady (11 page)

The innkeeper almost saluted.

When they were in the street, Braydon said, “That's how your Frenchwoman knew where to send her dog, and all from gossip.”

“Skillfully teased-out gossip. She's a dangerous woman.”

“But safely on her way south. I'm sure you're itching to pursue and overtake, but that won't make the night mail arrive any sooner. Back to the Roebuck for a good meal. We've earned it.”

Mark was itching to turn back to the Wirral and make sure Hermione was safe, but he quashed that. Solange had left. All would be well.

As they settled to soup, Mark asked, “Who's Lady Sophinisbe?”

“My grandmother. Daughter of a duke, but I suspect she'd be as awe-inspiring if born in a cottage. Eccentric as all get-out, but a name to be reckoned with. I hope that if any enquiries are made about me here that connection will be remembered.”

Mark smiled. “It's a pleasure to work with you again.” The soup was again excellent, but after a few sips Mark put down his spoon. “It won't do.”

“What?” Braydon asked with a hint of resignation.

“I can't travel south and leave Lady Hermione unprotected.”

“Any danger is traveling south.”

“Solange is capable of hiring some local thugs and sending them off as a second wave of attack.”

“Local thugs to rescue sensitive papers?”

“Kill the woman. Kill the whole family. Burn down the house. Yes, I know it's far-fetched, but Solange wouldn't hesitate for fear of harming innocents. There's another, more likely danger. If she discovered the Riverview House address, she's fully capable of sending Lady Hermione an explosive letter there.”

“Why the devil haven't you killed her?”

The blunt practicality made Mark laugh, though without humor. “That would make me as vile as she.”

“You shot Boothroyd.”

“With urgent reason. We've both killed in war and lost count, but cold-blooded murder's a different matter, even when I can see the purpose.” Mark remembered the cooling soup and ate some more. “I'm going to follow Hermione's route and ensure she's safe.”

“What of your pressing need to be in London?”

“If the Spencean Crusade has crumbled, I can afford a few days' delay. Solange will have no incident to exploit. I recruited Hermione, thus carelessly putting her in danger. I can't do that again.”

“Again?”

It was something Mark tried hard to forget, but it had risen to the front of his mind. He sipped his wine.

“In Spain. A young widow. I was reconnoitering out of uniform. Spying, by definition. She sheltered me for one night, but then she sent me information. I shouldn't have allowed it, but a body of French were in her area and her information was good.” He put the wineglass down and pushed it away. “They hanged her in front of her farm, doubtless after other atrocities.”

Braydon nodded. “Bad luck.”

“Luck? I shouldn't have allowed it. I shouldn't have stayed there.”

“Not everywhere you lodged led to disaster. War creates these monstrosities, but Lady Hermione is not in the middle of a war.”

“She shouldn't be, but I dragged her there. This is a war, Braydon, between good and evil, law and chaos, and like any war, it doesn't care about the innocents.”

“So you go to guard her? Indefinitely? Didn't you say she detests you now?”

“With reason. I can guard her from a distance, but I must make sure she's safe. No, I'm not insane enough to sit by her gate forever, but I need to hear from London that both Solange and Seth Boothroyd are there. Once that's confirmed, if no other danger has appeared, I'll leave her to her safe life and take up my work.”

Pigeon pie and potatoes were brought in and Braydon served them. Remembering Maria Rodrigo had soured Mark's stomach, but he drank his wine and made himself eat. He'd be no use to anyone otherwise.

“I hesitate to mention this,” Braydon said, “but even without imminent revolution your knowledge of the Crimson Band is needed in London.”

“The letter will soon arrive, and I know nothing more than that about whatever Isaac plans for the gas. I included a note about the exploding letters.”

“What about the little things? Their individual natures and peculiarities. Their weaknesses and vulnerabilities. All the knowledge gained from a year in their company.”

Braydon was coolly pointing out where duty lay, but Mark couldn't abandon Hermione in danger.

“I'll guard your lady,” Braydon said.

“Without creating a stir?”

“I can attempt to blend in.”

Mark gave him a look. “Have you ever attempted a disguise?”

“I know my limitations.”

“And your strengths,” Mark said, serving himself more
of the rich gravy. “Your remarkable memory. Knowledge can be in any container.”

Braydon's knife and fork paused. “You want to turn me into your encyclopedia?”

“If you have some spare room in that head of yours, I can tell you everything I know in the next few hours. But there's more. When I return to London, I'll have to lie low. Ned Granger's been exposed as the traitor in the Crimson Band, so any of them will shoot me on sight. But you can work openly with Hawkinville and his team, knowing all I know. You did say you wanted some action.”

“True, but given the need for speed, I suppose you expect me to take your seat on the night mail.”

“Is that so terrible?”

“Yes, but one must be prepared to suffer for one's country. Baker will enjoy driving my rig south, and he deserves some reward for the sacrifice of his livery.”

“I didn't cause much damage.”

“I'll buy him new.” Braydon refilled their wineglasses. “If the Frenchwoman and the chemist can't be brought to trial quickly, I'll kill them for you.”

Mark was surprised to be shocked. Such things had happened in the war. “In cold blood?”

“Makes for a steadier hand.”

“You won't get near them. You won't be in the Crimson Band.”

“I assume they walk the streets and someone can point them out to me. Pistols can work at a distance, and rifles at a greater one. I, too, am an excellent shot. You go to Tranmere,” Braydon continued, as if they'd been discussing the weather, “and I to London. I'll send word when I'm sure the vile Solange and her mad chemist are safely engaged there, at which point you will be free to join me. May both our enterprises prosper.”

They clinked glasses and resumed their meal.

Mark couldn't truly match Braydon's cool manner, for he burned to leave for Tranmere. He didn't see how danger could already be stalking Hermione, but couldn't shed the fear that it could be on her heels now. That it could even have pounced. He couldn't leave until he'd poured his knowledge into Braydon. Even for Hermione Merryhew, he couldn't neglect his duty so completely.

H
ermione had been grateful for the way her sister and brother-in-law continued to make light of the incident for the boys' sake, but she'd struggled to play her part, especially when the sun began to set. She'd never been truly terrified before, and the memory of the threat of casual death threatened to choke her.

Take the papers.

Break your neck.

It was Thayne's fault, but she must take some of the blame. She'd been stupid over him from the beginning, even when he'd confessed to being a criminal, and all because of an encounter six years ago, which she'd doubtless built in her mind. Even if the magic had been real, he was a different person now—a thief who'd made dangerous enemies. She should have forced him to leave her bedroom immediately, and if he'd refused, she should have screamed. Now all she could do was force him out of her mind and lock the door after him.

A few miles beyond the incident, they'd taken a break for the sake of the horses, but they hadn't left the carriage and they'd pressed on as fast as possible. They must reach Great-uncle Peake before he died, but she knew they all wanted to avoid traveling in the perilous dark.

The sun was down now, though they still had evening light, but they'd not reached Tranmere. They might have considered stopping, but the Wirral was a sparsely
populated place and they passed no suitable inn. When darkness settled, the map said they were within a mile, so they lit the carriage lamps and carried on, the children dozing, but the adults awake and tense.

Soon they saw lit windows ahead, but they couldn't make out any details of the buildings. There were other lights scattered across rising ground on their left, and on their right, glimmering at a distance, Hermione saw what must be the great port of Liverpool across the river. Was she the only one wishing they were entering a busy city instead of this quiet place that seemed hardly more than a large village?

The coachman had to halt and ask for directions. They were pointed up the slope and so the weary horses had a climb. In daylight and different circumstances they might have all left the coach and walked to ease the weight, but not tonight. They passed entrances to driveways, reading the letters engraved on pillars, until at last they arrived at their destination. The house was only a pale cube, and the only sign of life a faint glow from the fanlight over the door. Hermione had the irrational fear that they'd be turned away, back into the night. When William knocked at the door, however, it opened and they were soon made welcome.

“When darkness settled, we were sure you'd stopped on the road, sir, but all's ready. I'm Mrs. Digby, Mr. Peake's housekeeper. Oh dear, we weren't told there would be children.” Billy and Roger must have looked distressed, for she said, “Never look like that, young sirs! You're very welcome, and we'll set you up in a fine room of your own.”

“Not tonight,” William said firmly. “They're asleep on their feet, and in a strange place they'll be best sleeping with an adult. Myself, in fact. My wife and her sister can share the other room and have the baby with them. If we could have a quick supper for the boys, Mrs. Digby. Bread and milk, perhaps?”

“In an instant, sir. Nolly, off you go and get it. Mary and Deb, fires, then warming pans!” The maids hurried to their duty and a footman went to bring in the luggage. “A groom's been hired, and the stables made ready, sir, for Mr. Peake doesn't keep horses or carriages at the moment. Come with me, if you please.”

“Plenty of servants,” Polly said quietly as they went upstairs. In other words, plenty of money.

Hermione and Polly were taken to a pleasant enough bedroom except that it was chilly. The fire had been allowed to burn down, but a maid hurried in with a sling of wood to build it up again.

As soon as the maid left, Hermione asked, “Do you mind William sleeping with the boys?”

“Of course not. He knows I'd want to be with you tonight, and you with me, after such an ordeal. Henrietta will have to sleep between us,” she said, placing the sleeping infant there. “I hope you don't mind.”

“Of course not. He's very kind. You're both very kind.” All the tears she'd been holding back burst free.

Polly drew her to the sofa and rocked her. “There, there. We're safe now and that madman is dealt with. There's nothing to fear. Nothing at all. Please do stop crying, dearest.”

Hermione managed to stop the tears, but she lingered in the hug, wishing she could tell Polly everything. The journey had given her too much time to think, and her thoughts had been terror-fueled. That brute had seemed dull-witted, so he'd acted on orders. There were others involved. She'd given Thayne back his wretched letter, but would his enemies—his throat-cutting enemies—know that? Or would they send another brute after her?

Take the papers.

Break your neck.

Perhaps she should run away from here so as to protect
Polly and the children. But how would the villains know she'd gone?

She drew apart and blew her nose. “I'm better now, and I'll be better tomorrow. It's been a long, hard day.”

“A dreadful one,” Polly said, rising to take off her bonnet. “It seems an eon since we fled the King's Head this morning,”

Hermione realized she wasn't wearing a bonnet and didn't know where her crushed and broken one was. The housekeeper must have thought her very odd to arrive bareheaded.

“I wonder what happened to the Spenceans,” Polly said. She didn't wonder long, for she added, “I wonder if Great-uncle Peake will want to see us tonight.”

“Oh, I do hope not.”

William knocked, then entered. “A couple of maids are helping the boys eat their supper and get ready for bed. I'm told Great-uncle Peake has already retired for the night. According to Mrs. Digby, he is worse by the day. She said we might only just be in time.”

“Good that we pushed on, then,” Hermione said.

“And that we weren't delayed by magistrates and courts!” Polly exclaimed.

“A supper is being laid out for us below,” William said. “A maid will stay with the boys. Another could come here to watch over Henrietta.”

Hermione knew she couldn't eat. “I'll look after Henrietta,” she said. “I'm not hungry. I just want to join her in the bed.”

But in the unpredictable way of infants, Henrietta decided to come fully awake and demand attention. Hermione fought tears again.

“We'll take her down with us,” Polly said, scooping up her daughter. “You go to bed, Hermione. Everything will be better in the morning.”

Polly and William took Henrietta away and a maid
arrived with hot water and a warming pan. Hermione was soon in a cozy bed, but she lay sleepless, in a room lit only by firelight.

It was less than twenty-four hours since Mark Thayne had invaded her firelit bedroom and turned her life upside down. He'd rekindled magic and stirred foolish hope, but then he'd plunged her into danger and fear. She prayed never to see him again, but the tears that came showed folly was hard to destroy.

*   *   *

As they ate, Mark had told Braydon everything he knew about the Three-Banded Brotherhood and the Crimson Band. He included names, the locations of meetings and of stores of arms and supplies, including that guillotine. It would mostly be new to Hawkinville and some tiny detail could be crucial. As Ned Granger, he'd been sparing with communication, because every message had carried risk. Since assuming the alter ego, he'd not met with Hawkinville or any government official. If he'd been detected as a spy, his usefulness would be over, and in the Crimson Band under Solange's guiding hand, suspicion could easily mean death, so he'd passed on information in indirect ways, and only when he had something of imminent importance.

He was hoarse by the time he finished, and he drank some more of the ale that Braydon had sent for an hour or so ago. He glanced at the clock. Half past eleven. Too late to set out to Tranmere tonight. He was tempted to ride through the dark, but it would be demented, and all being well, Hermione was safe in her bed. He could only hope her misadventure wasn't giving her nightmares.

“Mrs. Upshaw won't mind my using your bed?” he asked.

“Of course not.” Braydon was packing his valise. “You'll take a coach to Tranmere tomorrow?”

“I believe there are boats. Smoother and probably quicker.”

“You'll merely lurk there? Perhaps you should put Lady Hermione on her guard.”

“She's been abducted. I think she'll be on her guard already.”

“Against explosive letters?”

“Hades, you're right. I'll make sure she understands.”
Which will involve another meeting, which I can't regret.

“Dying relative, wasn't it?” Braydon said. “We'll hope he or she doesn't linger. Once Lady Hermione is back in Yorkshire, on her home territory where strangers would be noticed, she'll be safer.”

“She'll be safest when Solange and the rest are either dead or in jail. Those papers should do it.”

“What then? You'll become Faringay again?”

“The threat doesn't end with them. Arthur Thistlewood is a greater danger than Waite. He's more like Solange in his demented purpose and without a scrap of Waite's caution.”

“Maybe so, but how are you going to achieve anything?” Braydon asked. “You can't be Ned Granger anymore. How long will it take to insinuate yourself into a new group, and aren't there already people there?”

Strangely, Mark had never thought to this point, but the danger remained. He must fight on.

“You work is done,” Braydon said with some force. “It's time to return to reality. You are Viscount Faringay, with responsibilities.”

Mark contemplated his half-empty ale glass. “Who is Faringay? What is he? I've never used the title. My father died when I was in the army and I didn't fancy suddenly assuming grandeur there. When I sold out, I slid into being Ned Granger. Can I settle to being a rural landowner, a patron of worthy causes who gives occasional speeches in the House of Lords? Look at you. A brief period of calm comfort and you're leaping back into the fire.”

Braydon locked his valise and glanced at his pocket watch. “How have you explained the absent Lord Faringay? I've never heard it mentioned.”

“He's on a somewhat vague mission to Mauritius to report on operations against the East African slave trade.”

“Which is operated by French slavers, so your excellent command of the language recommends you.”

“And Mauritius being so far away, no one is likely to notice whether I'm there or not. The governor stands ready to affirm my presence if asked.”

“How pleasant for you now to return to your native land.”

Mark played along. “I'll miss the warmth and sunshine of the south Indian Ocean.”

“What stories you'll have to tell.”

“I have them prepared.”

“Of course you do. If you need lodgings in London, I have rooms, and you'll have a transformation to achieve. A new wardrobe isn't acquired in a moment.”

“I've become rather fond of the casual way of dress.”

“You'll be a shabby viscount? You're too shabby now for even Ned Granger. You at least need a hat and that rip in your breeches mended. I'll consult Mrs. Upshaw.”

He soon returned with a beaver hat about half as tall as his own and considerably more hard-worn. Mark tried it on and it was a tolerable fit.

“People apparently leave things behind,” Braydon said, “and she holds them awhile in case they send for them. She's assembling a few items and I paid for a cheap valise she has by. If you change your breeches, she'll mend those.”

“Thank you.”

“You're normally on top of such details yourself.”

“It's been a brain-addling day.”

Braydon picked up the valise. “Time for me to go. Perhaps you'll have a few peaceful days to recover.”

“I hope I've not entangled you in more adventure than you'd like.”

Braydon smiled. “I don't think that's possible.”