Nothing but Trouble (22 page)

Graeme scrubbed a hand over the stubble o
f his beard. “Your Grace, and Monsieur Durand, I cannot thank you enough for trusting me enough to share this with me. I know I have not earned that trust. I am horrified to think of what my wife has been through…let alone what I have unwittingly put her through, since. I am relieved as well, for the sort of madness you describe, if it can even be called madness, is unlikely to be the sort passed from mother to child.”

“Ah
.” Understanding lightened the duke’s features. “You feared having children together.”

“Aye,” Graeme said softly.

“Lord Maxwell, about the remaining spies—”

“Graeme,” he supplied
. “We seem to have moved well past the point of formality.”

“Indeed
. In fact, each and every one of our meetings thus far have proven quite…interesting,” the duke chuckled. “Should we continue this acquaintance, I may never have need of my box at the theater again, for the drama at home quite surpasses the performances on stage. Graeme, then. As for the remaining culprits. The body of André Denis, the most skilled of the remaining informants, was found two weeks ago. Stabbed to death. No indication of the killer’s identity. Denis had more enemies than friends.”

“That’s good, though, is it not
? For Charity’s sake?”

“I believe so
. I’d prefer to know who killed him, and what information the killer may have extracted before committing the foul deed. But it is unlikely I shall ever gain those details. So yes, I believe this is good news for us.”

“What of the other?”

“No sign of him.”

The men were silent a minute, staring into their brandy as though it might offer up answers.

“My sister-in-law’s description of the last spy matched that of a man with a surname of Morton. A small-time crook. His given name seems to change as often as his occupation. If he even is the same man, there is no indication he has had any other dealings in politics or espionage.”

“Is he a threat?”

The duke glanced at Monsieur Durand, who shrugged. “I want to say no. If Morton has any wits at all, he sailed for the Americas months ago. Like as not, we will never hear of him again. But it is a loose end. My Beatrice never saw the man in question, but she too played a role in the downfall of the others. I do not like to think her safety is at risk.”

The duke frowned
. “Charity, to my knowledge, is the only person who can identify Morton by sight, and link him to the incident last summer.”

“Then h
er life is in danger.”

“
That was my original concern in asking your wife’s whereabouts earlier today. We do have men on retainer, who have been instructed to follow any leads that may reveal Morton’s whereabouts—if he is even still alive.”

“Men in London
.” His throat was dry. “Not men who could protect my wife this very moment.”

“
You know and trust your staff?”

“Of course
.” Most of them he’d known since boyhood. But how well did he know Miss Boyd, or the governess he’d just sent to Nathan? They were both women, so clearly they weren’t the criminal in question, but what of their character? A letter of reference could be forged.

“
She is likely as safe as can be,” the duke asserted, alleviating Graeme’s fears only slightly. “Though if I know my sister-in-law, she might be rather put out with you at the moment.”

He almost chuckled
. “I suppose I can see why.”

“
It may well be a fruitless effort, tracking Morton. But I will not stop looking until I know the last man is dead,” Beaufort promised.

Graeme stood, feeling the effects of the brandy but forcing himself to push that aside
. “Gentlemen, I must excuse myself. I am needed at home.”

The duke smiled
. “Indeed, you are. And, Leventhal, If I hadn’t thought you a solid sort from the first night we met, know that I would never have allowed Charity to ‘escape’ to Scotland with you.”

“You could
travel together.” Monsieur Durand suggested. “You share a destination.”

“We do?”

“We had hoped to pay a surprise visit to you and your wife. Help celebrate the nuptials, since we could not be there for the actual wedding,” Beaufort explained.

“I, on the other hand, am itching to return to London,” Monsieur Durand said
. “Horses are not my favorite subject matter.”

“Your favorite subject matter is the woman who made you come here.”

“True enough, the Frenchman chuckled, explaining to Graeme, “My lovely wife blessed me with a daughter six weeks ago. I am quite the proud papa. So much so that Bea and her mother became exasperated with my hovering and sent me off with Beaufort, here.”

“He spent the entire trip here sketching the baby from memory
. He’s soft over her.”

“As though you aren’t soft over your son?” Monsieur Durand retorted
. “The only difference is that I can draw. Besides, Bea won’t say exasperated for long. She’s probably missing me terribly not that she’s had some room to breathe.” He winked.

“
Congratulations, Monsieur. It sounds as though you’ve found true happiness.”

“
Oui
.”

“I hope to do the same. Given the circumstances, Beaufort, I would prefer to travel alone. I need to see my wife. I need to explain. And perhaps—forgive me—she does, too.”

The duke gave him a long, measured look
. “Agreed. Elizabeth and I had planned to stay through the races anyhow. I will grant you two weeks’ head start. It took you less time than that to decide you wanted to marry Charity in the first place, so it ought to be plenty of time to sort out your misunderstandings.”

He hoped so.

“After that, I doubt even I could stall my darling wife much longer. She is terribly anxious to hear all about the elopement. And I am certain Charity will be glad to have her sister present to help celebrate.”

Or commiserate, should I fail
. Graeme shoved the pessimistic thought back down to the dark place from which it had risen. He wasn’t going to fail.

“Agreed
. Two weeks.” He was halfway out the door already as he spoke the words. His mind reeled. The spirited beauty he’d wed had endured more than enough horrors for one lifetime. Whether he’d known it or not, he’d added insult to injury by abandoning her. He prided himself on how well he cared for his people and his lands. Yet he’d endangered the very person most important in his life. He needed to get home. Fast.

Chapter 17
:

“How poor are they that have not patience
! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?” — William Shakespeare

As Jasper Morton saw it, he had two choices. Kill, or run. Killing the yellow-haired wench might or might not solve his problems, though. He’d still be a wanted man. The duke, and now Lord Maxwell, too, would triple their efforts to find him if he harmed her. Without Lady Charity to identify him, would the drawings she’d provided prove a close enough likeness?

His head hurt
. It was too hard to think this through.

Much as he hated the idea of leaving the British Isles,
a peaceful life here was looking less and less likely. America. Or maybe Barbados. Yes, Barbados didn’t sound too bad. He’d heard a man could turn a quick fortune there—if he survived the trip there. He’d need blunt to book his passage, and even more to guarantee good treatment from the crew and captain. He’d heard the tales of food running scarce, ship captains who took bribes, and poor folk who scraped their life savings together to get on a boat, only to discover so many new expenses, that by the time they reached land, they’d indentured themselves as servants. Jasper, being an independent sort of man, did not think he’d take well to servitude.

He
rubbed his ample nose. Spying hadn’t made him wealthy. He hadn’t even gotten the last two installments of pay he’d been promised, what with the whole operation going up in smoke. He could steal the money, but from whom? The only one in these parts likely to have that kind of coin on hand was the earl himself. He’d have to steal it out from under the nose of the lady whose living breath was his biggest threat.

Then
he’d be free, once and for all. Surely they’d never chase him that far. He could forget all of it. He just had to do this one thing.

One last run
. All or nothing. His fingers trembled and itched, fear and gleeful anticipation mixing in equal portions.

He had to plan this
job. Planning was not his strong point. Jasper considered himself more of a creature of opportunity.

Where would the gold be kept
? The earl wouldn’t leave coin just lying about. He’d have some at Leventhal House, though. The banks were too far away for routine trips. Any valuable would do, as long as it wouldn’t be traced right back to the earl. Good old-fashioned coins, even paper money, would make his life easiest, though. Save him the trouble of selling stolen goods, and of answering questions.

The best way to learn how to steal from a man was to work for him first
. Learn his habits, and those of the household.
Bugger
. That was out of the question this time.

He could wait until the house was empty
. Some kind of holiday, perhaps. Did they all attend church? Or he could plan on the next full moon…sneak in while the household slept. No. Too dangerous when he didn’t know exactly where to find what he was looking for. An empty house was safer than a sleeping one.

First, he had to watch, and learn
. He’d know when the time was right—as long as he didn’t let Lady Charity catch sight of him first.

“He’ll have to return sooner or later,” Charity declared
. Her husband had been gone three weeks. Nearly a month. Not that she’d counted the days. Or even the hours.

She told herself she’d stopped looking down the lane, stopped listening for the sound of hoof beats that would signal his return, but it wasn’t true
. No matter what else she turned her attention to, a part of her was always listening, always waiting. “Lord Maxwell is not the sort of man to ignore his estate.”

“Nay
, my lady,” Ismay Boyd agreed, wisely keeping any private doubts to herself.

They
’d just returned from a walk along the banks of the burn, and at the site of fresh carriage tracks, Charity had nearly started running in anticipation.

The tracks turned out to belong to a deliveryman bringing several of her trunks from London
. And that just left her in a conundrum. Her delight at finally, finally having her things again, being able to change into a gown designed specifically to fit her, was tempered—if not actually eclipsed—by her dejection that the tracks had not belonged to one Graeme Ramsey Maxwell.

“He takes great pride in doing right by his people
,” Charity rationalized as the two women followed the footmen bearing the trunks upstairs. She kept her voice low, though her words gave nothing away that the servants wouldn’t already have speculated upon. “And there is Nathan. And his mother.”

“Aye, my lady.”

The footmen set down the trunks near the foot of Charity’s bed. “Shall I send a maid upstairs to unpack, milady?” one of them asked.

“Not now
. I should like to do it myself. I’ll signal later, should I require assistance.” Charity nodded to the footmen, dismissing them, and closed the door.

Miss Boyd waited expectantly.

“So he’ll have to come back.”

The nurse-turned-companion
cocked her head. “An’ what then, my lady? I see ye have something in mind.”

Charity wet her lips
. As desperately as she longed for Graeme’s return, the idea she flirted with now made her nervous. How would things be, between them? What would he say? What would she say? Could she convince him to hear her out, to give their marriage another chance? She’d never expected him to stay gone so long. What if he came back determined to cast her aside? Even the idea crushed the breath from her body.

“Tell me, Miss Boyd
. Did your brother, the one who went to war, ever find love? Has he married?”

If her companion was confused by the seeming change in topic, she didn’t show it
. “Nay, my lady, but that doesn’t mean he isna’ deserving of love.”

Charity felt deflated
. “But his troubles…”

“Nay,
” Ismay hurried to explain. “My brother’s story is different. ‘Twas not his return from war that left him lonely, but going off to battle in the first place. After he left for war, the lass he was enamored of married another. By the time he returned, she had one baby and another on the way.

“He didn’t blame her, really
. Two years is a long time, an’ without any promise he’d even live to return. My brother just hasn’t met another since then to turn his eye. But I ‘ave hope for him yet. With so many crofter families moving to the port towns, there are a good many unmarried lasses in Inverness now. When the time is right, he’ll find the one that warms his blood.” She paused. “When you asked about my brother, ‘tis because you want to know if there is hope for yourself?”

Charity nodded
. “That sounds selfish, doesn’t it?”

“Nay, my lady
. It sounds normal.”

Normal
. What a lovely sounding word. “I think I’d like to meet your brother someday. I hope he does meet a lass who warms his blood. When I met Lord Maxwell…well, he certainly warms mine.”

Ismay giggled
. “A good thing, since you’ve married him.”

“A
good thing, if he’d stayed. Not so good with him gone. I know I have…problems,” Charity admitted. “But I don’t want my husband to look at me as a woman who needs a nurse. As an invalid. That’s not the whole of me, not at all. I want him to remember the rest. I want him to look at me the way he did on the night we met.”

“Oh
? An’ how was that, my lady?”

Charity lowered her gaze, fidgeting with the latch on the first trunk
containing her belongings from London. She pressed on. Modesty wasn’t going to help her now. “Like he wanted to ravish me.” She snuck a glance at her companion.

A wide smile spread across Ismay Boyd’s careworn
face. “Like that, eh?”

“Like that,” she confirmed, smiling back
. The latch released, and she pushed up the trunk lid to see a colorful array of fabric. Her dresses. The smile grew wider. “And also,” Charity added, “I think, he looked like he wanted to protect me—so that no one else could do the ravishing.”

“An’ that be the perfect way for a man to look at the lass he plans to marry.”

Charity lifted out a day dress of daffodil yellow, which she laid on the bed. “So how do I get that look back?” She returned to the trunk. The next gown she reached for had been designed for her first official ball last summer, when she’d made her bow to Society. Made of delicate ivory silk, it was modest yet deceivingly alluring. Cut in a long column, the dress clung to every curve. The low cut of the bosom was modified by an inset of gold ribbon. Matching gold accents set into the tiny cap sleeves and along the single flounce at the bottom gave the gown a certain symmetry that made it hard to look away.

She heard Ismay’s soft gasp
. “Oh, my lady, how lovely. ‘Tis fit for royalty.”

“From my first ball,” she said
. “I only wore it the one time.”

“Oh, but why?”

Charity shrugged. Unmarried young ladies were expected to wear pale colors representative of their virginal state. She’d always pushed the edge of that, however, preferring cheerier shades like the yellow dress. This particular gown
was
lovely, though. Fit for a wedding gown—if she’d had a more traditional wedding.

Her companion was eyeing it thoughtfully
. “If you moved that gold ribbon to beneath your bust, my lady, would the gown stay in place?”

Charity considered
. She’d had lower-cut gowns and, as long as the fit was proper, her breasts had never come popping out. The placement of the gold ribbon on this particular gown had been a nod to her status as an innocent. As a married woman, there were fewer restrictions on the cut and color of what she could wear. “Yes, I think so.”

“Have you others like that?”

Charity continued pulling out clothing. Whoever had packed her trunks had included mostly her day gowns and warmer items, perhaps thinking them more practical for her new home. There were a few evening pieces, though, appropriate for theater, balls, and what she was starting to think of as “city venues.” She set those aside. To that pile, she added the lacy night shift the innkeeper’s wife at The Dog and Anvil had thought to purchase on her wedding day.

Ismay Boyd fingered the pieces reverently
. “If I may speak boldly, my lady, I think you and your fine lord will have a better time of it if you tell him the things you told me.”

“I know,” Charity agreed softly
. “At first, I was too afraid. I couldn’t bear the thought he might reject me. Of course he found out anyway—and then he was too upset for me to say much of anything.”

“What’s done is done
. You canna’ change that. You can only be honest with him when he returns.”

“I will,” she vowed.

Ismay held up the lacy night shift. “Aside from that, if it’s a good ravishing you’re after, I believe you will have little trouble holding your husband’s eye.”

She knew she was blushing
. “The night we met, we were both attending a very…decadent…event. My costume covered my face, which allowed me to bare other areas without fear of judgment. I want to remind my husband of the sensual, mysterious woman he saw in me that night.” Graeme had pursued her relentlessly. Deep down, she knew this wasn’t a case of the old proverb about the hottest flames burning out the fastest. She just had to make him forget the image of a madwoman tucked away in the countryside, and remind him that, in spite of her troubles, she was the passionate creature he could not resist.

“
Perhaps if we summoned a seamstress for a few modifications…”

Charity
smiled. “Yes, let’s do that.” Clearly, Miss Boyd was not in a position to offer specific advice about seducing one’s husband. The wild abandon and hedonistic pleasures Charity had witnessed the night she’d met Graeme were far, far outside the other woman’s experiences. The harem dancers, the shadow play… If the seamstress in question had any skill, Charity imagined she could take care of the rest.