Anne Barbour (11 page)

However, though he was not usually so maladroit in estimating a woman’s sexual appetites, it seemed he had sadly misread the situation with Catherine Meade. He seemed to have misread nearly everything about her, so perhaps he shouldn’t be too surprised. Still, she had definitely overreacted. To his mind there was nothing in his behavior to warrant the haymaker she’d delivered to his jaw. A simple “Unhand me, you varlet!” would have sufficed.

Justin might have been surprised to know that, in her own bedchamber, Catherine was reflecting in a similar vein. Really, she thought for at least the hundredth time, she had behaved like the veriest peagoose last night. To be sure, the man had sullied her hospitality by kissing her, but it was not as though he’d assaulted her. A dignified, “Sir, you forget yourself!” would have sent him on his way.

With a blush of mortification, she contemplated the image that was fairly burned into her consciousness of Mr. Smith, his eyes wide with astonishment, his cheek white with the outline of her fingers. For an instant, she thought she must have harmed him as she sent him hurtling across the corridor, but she hadn’t waited to find out. No, she’d slammed the door and cowered behind it as though the man had been attempting to ravish her. What must he think of her?

Not that it made any difference. No matter her—her startled reaction, it was he who was in the wrong. John Smith had been trying to beguile her with his disingenuous prattle ever since he’d arrived. Earlier last evening, she had been lulled by the sensitivity he had shown toward Grandmama’s headache. Now, however, her first impression had been confirmed. He was just like Francis! And it was this instant response to his caress that had caused her to fly into such a rage with him. How dare he try to use her! She had already told him she would allow him to stay at the Keep, but that was not enough! Oh, no, she was expected to warm his bed as well.

Her thoughts continued for some time in what she at last admitted was an effort to fan the flames of her anger. For, if she were to be honest, she would have to acknowledge the fact that she had been tempted. Just for a moment. His lips were warm and firm, his body lean and muscular. She had been shocked at the unfamiliar maleness of him, so very close. Adam had certainly never presumed to attempt such an intimacy with her, and she suspected that even if he had, her response would not have been so immediate or so frightening.

She turned her face into her pillow. She simply did not want to think about this anymore. Lord, how was she to face John in the morning? Of course, she had no intention of apologizing to him. No, she would continue to treat him with courtesy, of course, but she would
not
apologize. She would remain aloof and dignified—and hope to God he would regain his senses soon. The sooner John Smith left Winter’s Keep, the better off they’d all be.

Again, the thoughts of Miss Catherine Meade and the ersatz John Smith were, unbeknownst to them, running in similar channels. As Justin left his bed betimes the next morning for a gallop on Caliban, he mused that his stay in the little haven that was Winter’s Keep had already begun to pall. The pursuit of a lady who appeared to view him as a combination of the worst features of Casanova and Attila the Hun had lost its luster. It was a very good thing that within a day or two his ankle should be healed enough for him to proceed to London, where he would take up the threads of the mystery that threatened him.

As it turned out, Justin’s estimate was a trifle optimistic. It was not until one night almost a week later that he made his way stealthily down the front stairs at Winter’s Keep. The house was dark and silent, for he had waited until everyone was asleep before he ventured out. Quietly, he saddled Caliban and led him away from the manor. Once clear, he mounted the stallion and let him have his head, for there was a full moon this night.

Arriving in the city, he made his way to the lodgings of the accommodating whore who had provided him with shelter on his return to England a scarce week ago. This soiled dove, who went by the salubrious name of Highlife Kate, was no longer in the trade, having decided to abandon her reasonably lucrative career after the birth of her fifth child. However, she was as soft of heart as she was fertile (however inadvertently), and her door was always open to those favored few who had treated her with kindness in the days she plied her trade in the unsavory streets of Limehouse.

“Ooh, Luv,” she squealed with delight when he appeared in her doorway. “I thought mebbe you was off and away again, Spain or one o’ them other heathen places.”

On being assured of his continued presence in England, and on being apprised of his most pressing need at the moment, she supplied him with a grimy coat, breeches, and a shabby waistcoat. Adding a pair of torn hose and cheap, scuffed boots, she plied him with a savory stew before he set out on his appointed rounds.

His first stop was a tavern not far from Kale’s digs. Here, he took a seat in one of the darkest comers of an already stygian taproom. He was halfway through his second pint of bitters when a gentleman sauntered into the room. Although, “gentleman” was perhaps not the sobriquet one would choose in describing what was, for all intents and purposes, a walking bundle of dirty laundry.

He was very large and had obviously not come nigh or near a bar of soap for some months. His hair, greasy and black as tar, hung down over a threadbare coat collar. A crust of beard spread over a misshapen jaw.

Justin lifted his tankard in a barely perceptible gesture as this apparition made his way into the room. It was enough. In a few moments the man had settled himself in the chair opposite, and Justin raised his hand once more, this time to order a second measure of ale.

“Good to see you, Jack,” he murmured.

“Yer a sight for sore peepers yerself, sojer,” responded his guest. “Hear you’ve had some interestin’ adwentures of late.”

“You could say that.”

“In fact, heard you was dead.”

“As you can see, that somewhat overstates the case. It was a near thing, though, and as you can imagine, I’m more than a little interested in discovering who has taken such an interest in snuffing me.”

Jack squinted at him over the top of his tankard. “I’ll tell ye somethin’ else, sojer. Word is ye’ve been givin’ aid and comfort to a certain French general.”

Justin stiffened slightly. “You shouldn’t pay so much attention to rumor, Jack. For example, that one’s a flat-out lie.”

Jack stared at him unblinking for several seconds before nodding. “Glad t’hear it. I has me standards, after all, and treason is somethin’ I don’t hold with.”

“Nor I, Jack. Nor I. And now that you mention it, I’d very much like to know who helped Rivenchy escape and then blamed it on me.”

“Orright, then. What d’ye want me t’do?”

John leaned forward and issued a short but precise list of instructions, following which he placed a small roll of soft on the table.

“I think this should cover your expenses, plus a little something for yourself.”

Jack swept the roll into a capacious pocket without examining it, and finishing the remainder of his tankard in one gulp, he stood.

“Thank ‘ee, sojer,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of one hirsute paw. “You can count on ol’ Jack Nail.”

“I know that, Jack,” replied Justin, his mouth curving in a brief smile. “And I know I can count on your discretion as well.”

Jack did not answer, but nodded abruptly in a gesture of affirmation. The next moment, moving extraordinarily swiftly for one so bulky, he had exited the taproom.

Justin left a few moments later, setting out in a westerly direction. Some forty minutes later, he arrived in Ryder Street, in a sedate area between St. James’s Street and the square of the same name. After pacing the street in front of a certain elegant town house for some minutes, he disappeared into a tidy alley just to its left. From there, via a few barrels and a drain pipe, he scaled the outside wall and eased himself through an upstairs window. He did not light a candle but, sinking into a nearby chair, waited in the dark.

He waited for a very long time. His eyes had begun to droop in a light doze, when the click of the door latch alerted him. Muscles tensed, he watched a figure enter the room, illuminated by the candle he carried in from the corridor outside.

“Hullo, Robbie,” said Justin.

The man in the door showed no sign of surprise, but peered into the darkness.

“ ‘Lo, Justin,” he drawled. Moving about the room, he lit other candles from the one he held in his hand. “I was wondering where you’d got to, but I didn’t think it would be long before you’d show up here.”

Having finished his task, he turned to Justin, who had risen to move toward him. “Good God.” Robbie surveyed his friend. “Changed tailors, have you? You look like last week’s dirty dishes.”

Justin grinned- “This from a man who once spent a month in the hills of Beira without once changing his underwear?”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.” Robbie shuddered delicately, a gesture at odds with his shambling, muscular frame and features that could most kindly be described as craggy. Robbie McPherson was wholly a product of the Scottish Highlands. His hair, an untamed thatch of brick-red, seemed to possess a life of its own and was matched by a flourishing set of mustachios. His hands, as one of his fellow officers had once described them, “Could choke an ox while he was balancing a caber.” His eyes were the color of a glenful of heather—a bottomless gray-green, and at the moment they were narrowed in scrutiny.

“So what have you been up to, laddie?” he asked, pouring a generous measure of brandy for himself and his guest.

It took some minutes for Justin to outline his recent adventures, but he held Robbie’s undivided attention.

“And she believes you’ve lost your memory?” he asked, when Justin at last paused for breath.

Justin nodded. “To her, I’m a poor, wayfaring stranger who came to grief in the performance of a heroic deed on her behalf. As such, I am entitled to consideration, commiseration, and her unlimited hospitality.”

Robbie shook his head. “Honest to God, me lord. You could fail into a manure pit and come up with diamonds in your mouth.”

“Mm, yes. I suppose you could say I have a certain element of luck in my favor, but I prefer to think that my present circumstances are the result of sheer cunning.”

“I suppose I don’t need to ask if the lady is attractive.”

“Well, she’s not what you’d call a raving beauty, and she appears to be coming up on thirty, but she’s exceedingly well preserved.”

“And already smitten with her mysterious guest, I suppose.”

Justin’s smile faded. “If she is, she’s hiding it remarkably well.” He rubbed his jaw reminiscently, and Robbie’s brows lifted in mock astonishment.

“What? Don’t tell me you suffered a rebuff? From a spinster?”

“A sp—? Mmm, yes, I suppose she is.” It was difficult, Justin realized in some surprise, to think of Catherine Meade, she of the glorious golden hair and the jeweled eyes as an ape-leader. “At any rate,” he continued briskly. “I did not slither into London at considerable personal risk and climb rickety drain pipes to discuss my amatory failures. Tell me, what did you discover before leaving Spain?”

Robbie leaned forward in his chair, his face serious. “Not nearly as much as we’d hoped. Everyone is very closemouthed about your supposed defection. Even Wellington has been un-wontedly silent on the subject.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I think that, having so often expressed his confidence in your ability and your dedication, he now feels foolish and—no doubt—betrayed.”

Justin’s expression hardened. “I expect you’re right. What about Scovell?”

“He seems to have accepted without question the story of your death at the hands of the French after you delivered Rivenchy to them.”

Justin swore long and fluently. “My God, Robbie. George Scovell and I go back to Corunna. I was one of the first men he recruited for the Guides.” He rose to pace the floor. “Do you have any idea whose body was substituted for mine in that ditch?”

“Not really. However, a private in the Rifles went missing just before Rivenchy escaped. It was assumed he took himself some unauthorized leave, and no connection has been made between the two events. However, his description almost exactly matches yours. His uniform was discovered in his barracks by one of his mates, so it was assumed he changed into mufti for his little holiday. Nobody but me, it appears, thought it odd that, though you’d been seen leaving camp for the bridge at Huerta wearing full uniform, when your body was found, it was clad only in breeches and a shirt, with nothing in the pockets except a handkerchief with your initials in one corner.”

“How convenient,” said Justin thoughtfully. “Well, hell, anyone could have crept into my tent and stolen those.”

“Mmm, yes, but it would almost have to have been someone from the Light Bobs. A stranger skulking around the camp would surely have been noticed. Remember, the reason for your mission was the concern over French soldiers fleeing the battle field after Salamanca. Wellington had ordered extra guards posted. There were a few outsiders, of course, as there always are around a military camp—peddlers, beggars etc. In fact, I thought I saw—” He shook his head and grinned. “Well, no, it couldn’t have been. I guess I’m getting of an age where everyone I see reminds me of someone I already know.”

“Did anyone leave camp at about the same time I did?”

Robbie rubbed his chin. “No one that I noticed. As you may remember, most of us had gathered in Bertie Freeman’s tent the night before. You were there, too.”

“Lord, yes. I dropped more than I should have at cards that night. Must have been that liberated sherry of Bertie’s. Morning came at an ungodly early hour, and I barely made it out of camp at my appointed time.”

“I do remember that I didn’t see anything of Roger Maltby all that day or the next. When he finally did show up, he said he’d been holed up with that senorita he’d been keeping in the village.”

“Maltby,” said Justin slowly. “Now, there’s a fellow who would send his bowl up twice for soup.”

“Yes,” replied Robbie shortly. “Do you remember the time he won almost a thousand pounds from young Breckenridge? I always suspected he cheated.”