Compromised Miss (19 page)

Harriette contemplated the scant outline. A tragic story of a young man dying before his time, infinitely regrettable but always to be expected in times of war, a situation that could be echoed in any number of families the length and breadth of the land.

‘I’m glad I know.’

Then the words poured out, as if Harriette’s interest had loosed a stopper in a bottle. ‘Something’s troubling Luke. I don’t think it’s Marcus, but he won’t say. We’ve been close, he’s had a care for us, with both our parents dead.
Now it’s as if…I don’t know. Luke’s always been reticent, reserved, I suppose, but now he’s distant and preoccupied. He won’t explain. He was never so unapproachable.’

‘I know.’ She touched his arm. ‘I can give you no advice, Adam.’

‘Sorry!’ His voice was gruff. ‘I shouldn’t have burdened you with my problems—not that they are problems. It’s just that I wish he trusted me, you know. I expect he talks to
you
.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you are his wife.’

‘No, Adam, he does not.’ Harriette laughed softly, sadly. ‘I cannot help you.’

Harriette could find no other reply to make to this troubled young man.
I expect he talks to you because you are his wife
. How tragically ironic. Adam could not be further from the truth. What hope was there for her in such a marriage? Staring at the austere painted face of the Earl of Venmore in which she could see neither compassion nor understanding, merely an implacable determination, she knew that she had made a terrible mistake. Love was not enough. Her skin might burn at the thought of his touch, her heart might desire to heal and soothe whatever rode him with such sharp spurs. But only if he would allow it. If he was a traitor without principle or honour—how could love deal with that?

Harriette assessed her next move. It crossed her mind to visit the guest room and force Monsieur Henri by means she could not yet envisage to tell her all he knew. She had made up her mind to do just that when the hammer of the knocker on the front door heralded a visitor, an individual in neat black who had just been ushered into the entrance hall by Graves.

Graves immediately approached, bowed. ‘This is Mr
Harvey, your ladyship. From Hoare’s Bank. To see his lordship. As I have explained, the Earl is away from home.’

‘Thank you, Graves. Can I help you, Mr Harvey?’ A matter of financial affairs between the Earl and his banking establishment could wait until Luke’s return. Harriette’s interest was polite but perfunctory.

‘I have an important delivery for the Earl of Venmore, my lady. It is expected.’Mr Harvey smiled discreetly, indicating the wooden travelling case tucked beneath his arm.

‘Perhaps you would care to place it in my lord’s study for the Earl’s attention, sir.’ She looked around for Graves, but he had vanished in the direction of the servants’ quarters, expecting Harriette to deal with it. ‘If you would come with me, I’ll show you where you might leave it in safety.’

Mr Harvey followed her into the small parlour with its escritoire and rosewood cabinet where Luke stored estate documents. ‘I’m sure I can leave so valuable a box in your care, my lady. And if you would be so willing as to sign this receipt? And here, my lady, is the key into your safe keeping.’

A travelling case and a key. Tension hummed through Harriette, tingling to her fingertips, but she merely smiled and signed the receipt. Mr Harvey bowed himself out. Harriette was left to look at the plain box with its domed lid and the insignia of Hoare’s Bank stamped clearly below the escutcheon and the ornate lock. Although not very large, it was obviously quite heavy. The key suddenly felt hot in her hand.

Would it matter very much if she opened the chest to see the contents? It had been given into her possession in her husband’s name after all. The urge to see the contents grew with every second.

This is not your affair. You should trust him.

‘I do trust him. It’s just that…’ The prisoner of war and the parole town nudged at the doubts that tumbled through her mind.

Without conscience, Harriette acted. The key slid with ease into the lock, turned with well-oiled precision. Harriette lifted the lid. Inside a number of red velvet purses were tucked neatly together. She had to guess no longer, the contents were written clear within their velvet cushioning. Loosening the drawstring, she emptied one of the purses on to the shining wood of the desk. The bright gold of the guineas rolled and fell.

Harriette stood perfectly still before the bright evidence, her heart beating riotously against her ribs. Funds for the Earl of Venmore’s everyday expenditure? She doubted it. A special delivery under lock and key? And so many bags of coin? She could not imagine how much wealth lay before her.

Harriette slowly scooped the coins into her hand and restored them to their tidy nest. Beside the chest a pile of unopened letters had been left by Graves for the Earl’s attention. Harriette’s hand strayed towards them, halted, her conscience suddenly returning. Was she really going to riffle through her husband’s correspondence in his absence?

Yes, I am
. Then stared at the letter on the top of the pile. Quite obviously it was from France.
Yes, I definitely am
! She opened it with trembling fingers.

It was a brief letter with the simple inscription to the Earl of Venmore.

Our business is not yet complete. I will set time and place when this can be remedied and inform you of them. It will be on French soil. You already know the terms.

The pain you experienced at my hands was through your own intransigence in attempting to trick me. Next time I shall not be so conciliatory in my dealings.

Don’t disappoint me. You know the price. The outcome will be to the benefit of both of us. And to the third party whose name you know.

I know I do not need to warn you to speak of this to no one.

Jean-Jacques Noir

Harriette did not understand the references, but then she did not need to. The signature confirmed all the fears in her troubled mind.

‘What is he doing?’ she demanded of the silent room. ‘How can I love a man who appears to be wading through so much murky water?’

You can love him simply because you do. Illogical and regrettable it may be, but you lost your heart to him the moment he fell at your feet, broken and bloody. And you can love him because you are hoping that you have misjudged him. Praying that his connection with France and the creature Jean-Jacques Noir is perfectly innocent.
The voice whispered in her ear. Harriette shook her head to dislodge it.

‘Of course I pray that my suspicions are unfounded. Just as I’m praying that I’ve misread the reason for a box of gold and a letter from a French rogue,’ she replied tartly, refolding the incriminating letter. ‘Just as I’m praying that I’ve misread his deliberate retreat from me. But I haven’t.’ Head bent, she surveyed the unpleasant missive, letting it fall back on to the pile as if it soiled her fingers. ‘Something has changed between us since the day we stood in Old Wincomlee church together. Since he took me to bed with such care and yet such fire in his blood. I have not imagined that! Nor am I imagining all
of this…’ she swept her hand over the items on Luke’s desk ‘…nor that the Frenchman is still under my roof!’

Harriette brushed a wayward tear from her cheeks.

L
uke returned home from Bishop’s Waltham and shut himself into his study, letting the silence of the house settle around him. It had been a hectic few days, but the necessary papers and a passage to France for Captain Henri, in disguise, had been arranged. Harriette fortunately was not at home. At this moment he had no wish to face her, no wish to face anyone. Trivial words of greeting, enquiries about how she went on in his absence, simple, sensible words, or even smooth excuses for his absence, would not seem to form in his mind. As for taking her to bed…She would rightly condemn him if she knew he had returned to her from arranging the escape of one of England’s enemies.

Captain Henri, at this moment hidden in one of the guest bedrooms, an officer and a prisoner of war on parole, billeted with a local family on the strength of his oath that he would make no move to escape, had found his honour compromised in a need to return to France. It was not Luke’s place to discover the man’s reasons. Honour was a costly commodity, as he had discovered.
And if Captain Henri would not afford to consider every nuance of the word
honour
, neither to his shame could he. Luke was trapped in a web of intrigue and dishonour running contrary to every tenet of his upbringing. But he banished the desperate line of thought to the deepest recesses of his mind, even though he knew it would return to haunt him in the dark hours of the night. Marcus dead. Jean-Jacques Noir manipulating events. Luke had been so used to determining the direction of his own life, now he appeared to be pulled in every direction by invisible strings. And like a fly in a spider’s web, he could see no way out without some measure of pain and distress for those he loved. How could it all have happened?

Trusting people had becoming a major issue in his life.

And then, of course, there was Harriette. Harriette…Luke rubbed his hands roughly over his face. She haunted his mind in an insoluble tension of admiration straining against a fear that she had lied to him, respect coupled with a lurking dread that she was not what she seemed. All overlaid by a strong physical desire. There was no doubt that he felt an unquenchable need for her, nor that she responded to him with equal passion.

Hell and the devil! Luke did not know where to step next in this lethal morass of contradictions.

The clatter of horses’ hooves outside in the square brought him back to the present. Luke pushed himself upright, focusing on the strongbox with its hoard of guineas, the pile of letters with the familiar black script of Jean-Jacques Noir on the top—so unlikely a pseudonym, damn him! Would there ever be an end to this nightmare? The visit to Bishop’s Waltham had achieved everything he could have desired, but whether it would bring him any
closer to ending this horror, he was not prepared to wager. Luke scowled at his inability to order events to his liking.

Luke’s thoughts re-focused. Marcus. Who would have thought that Marcus’s death at Salamanca would have cast him into this maelstrom? Even now Luke could remember the exact day they had finally heard that Marcus was dead, the intensity of the grief and loss that had still not loosed its grip.

But that loss of a loved brother was not to be the end of it.

Restless now, Luke pulled open a drawer in the little writing desk and lifted out an official sheet of paper, roughed folded, and a miniature. Pushing aside the travelstained document whose content he knew by heart, he studied the pretty face. Expertly painted, beautifully framed, the woman who looked out at him was very young when the likeness had been taken, hardly more than a girl. Limpid blue eyes, fair curls held with ribbons to fall from her crown to her shoulders. A delicate lace edging to her dress emphasised the youthfulness of her almost flat bosom. She looked little more than a girl still in the schoolroom, but even at this tender age there was a decisiveness about the chin and mouth. A sharpness to the eye. Here was a girl who knew her mind and would act upon it. And there was a joyful, mischievous humour there.

Marie-Claude de la Roche
, inscribed on the back of the portrait.

For a long moment Luke tapped the document on the edge of the desk, then slammed the drawer closed on both paper and pretty miniature. What could he do, more than the shady negotiations that he had already instigated? He would arrange for Captain Henri to return to France. It appalled him that he would willingly hand over the box of gold to a man so devoid of honour as Noir, but he would
do it if he had to. He had risked his life once in Port St Martin and he would do it again. What a mess it all was.

As for Harriette, she was already knee-deep in suspicions that he was a spy in the pay of Napoleon. His mouth curled in what was not a smile. The thought of Harriette brought him up short with a sudden urge to lay it all before her. Dare he do that? He was in desperate need of someone to whom he could unburden his fears, who would give him an unbiased opinion. Luke feared he could no longer be objective in something that touched his family so closely. Harriette would give him cold, clear advice. If he told Harriette…

His heart, leaping with a sudden, outrageous hope, plummeted once more. It was far too dangerous to tell Harriette of his predicament, smuggler as she was and perhaps even a Wrecker, too. If she told her cousin of what she knew, and there was no guarantee that she would not allow a chance word to fall in the ear of Alexander Ellerdine…Luke scowled. He would not trust Ellerdine to keep his mouth shut. And then it would be so easy for that knowledge to spread through the smuggling fraternity, and then all the world would know. What would Noir do then? Luke knew exactly what he would do—had he not been warned? He dare not contemplate the monstrousness of Noir’s vicious threat.

So now he sat with the obscure letter from a French criminal, a chest of gold and a French enemy in his house, waiting for the next set of instructions, which he knew he would not like, but would have no choice but to obey. Selfcontempt roiled in his gut that he should be so quick to question Harriette’s honour. Where had his own code of honour gone?

Dead and buried under the weight of family loyalties!

Was there no way out of this impossible entanglement? There was a light tap on the door. Harriette stood on the threshold as if his thoughts had conjured her there.

‘Luke. I didn’t know you had returned.’

‘An hour ago—no more.’

Desire took him full in the chest, a vicious blow, a caress of delight. It speared through him, stroked over him. His heart, his loins. He wanted her, to hold her and kiss her, to strip her and pleasure her into mindless surrender beneath him. Was she unaware of how pretty a picture she made? So far removed from the windswept, salt-encrusted young man in boots and breeches, in this delicate muslin gown, her hair arranged into feathery ringlets that drew his eye to the intoxicating column of her neck, rather than stuffed under a woollen cap. He smiled at her because he had no choice. And after the smallest hesitation—was it even there?—she smiled back.