Once an Innocent (18 page)

“That will do, Mr. Price.” Jordan cut a glance at the man. “We’re on a hunt. Please let Lord Gray make the noise for us.”

Price blinked. “Right, sorry.” He drifted back to his center position in the line, leaving Jordan to stew over his observations.

It was true that the band of Foreign Office men lacked any sense of cohesion. In part, Jordan blamed this on the nature of their work. Agents were accustomed to working singly or in pairs, establishing their own networks of contacts and informants. Espionage was quiet, secretive work. Openly discussing a mission with a large group did not sit well with the men. They distrusted one another, because they had learned to trust no one.

Yet Jordan could not exonerate himself of responsibility in this mess. The men didn’t have to become friends; their loathing for one another shouldn’t matter. It was his duty to force them to work together and successfully complete Castlereagh’s assignment.

In the beginning, he had allowed his distaste for Lintern Abbey to color his perception of the task. He simply didn’t care enough to exert the kind of authority the men would respond to. His efforts up to now had been sporadic, at best. The men didn’t know whether they could count on him to lead the operation.

Beyond that, Jordan had become distracted from his work. His ever-intensifying attraction to Naomi Lockwood was more than a trifle inconvenient.

Even now, the yellow light bursting over the horizon and mingling with the pale rose sunrise reminded him of her hair. The strand he’d tucked behind her ear last night had been silk between his fingers, delicate and warm. He couldn’t have
her
, but perhaps she would grant him a lock of hair — as a token of friendship, he would have to say. Although,
drat it all,
he thought with a sharp frown, it wouldn’t be at all the thing for him to request a lock. Only a besotted oaf would pull such a blunder. No, she would have to volunteer the favor, a most unlikely event. But if he gave her something first, he thought, his eyebrows raising at the possibility, she would feel obligated to give him something in return. And, being as she was currently separated from most of her own belongings and familiar surroundings, what would she have available to gift him, other than a lock of hair?

He was congratulating his unassailable reasoning when a dark shape suddenly rose up from the ground off to his left and ran toward them. A fraction of a second later, the mass broke apart, resolving into the forms of several brace of grouse skimming above the heather, their wings flapping madly to lift them into the air.

Without thought, his mind still mostly on Naomi, Jordan raised his fowling piece, tracked the birds for half an instant, and fired.

Directly at Lord Gray.

Birds tumbled to the ground just as Andrew bellowed.

Shock numbed Jordan’s chest as his comrade spun and fell to his knees, his face frozen in a rictus of pain. Jordan dropped the gun and bounded to where Lord Gray had doubled over on himself. “Gray!” he yelled, pulling the man upright.

Jordan sucked air through his teeth when he saw the damage — numerous holes made lace out of the back of Lord Gray’s heretofore immaculate wool coat. Blood welled in the small holes and wept hot tears down the fabric.

Lord Gray groaned. “Goddammit, man! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Jordan swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Andrew. I’m so terribly sorry.”

Guilt made room for humiliation as Bates and Price hurried to join them. Dylan Price took a look at Andrew’s back and let out a low whistle. Then he straightened and walked to where Gray’s hat lay several yards away amongst the felled grouse.

Bates hissed. “I’ll see you strung up for this, Freese. Your incompetence is going to get us all killed.”

“Did you get the grouse, at least?” the wounded Gray asked weakly.

“It was an accident,” Jordan told Bates. “I certainly didn’t mean to harm Gray.”

“But you have,” Bates shot, jabbing a finger toward the injured man. “Castlereagh will know about this as soon as I can get an express to London.”

“How many did you bag?” Gray’s eyes were pleading on Jordan.

“Four or five,” Jordan told him curtly. His lips tightened as he returned his attention to Bates. “Fine. Fire off an express to Castlereagh if it will make you feel better. Tell our superior that there was a hunting accident, just as there are all over Great Britain, numerous times each year.”

Bates’s mouth twisted in a frown.

“Before you can report me, though, we have to get Gray back to the house. Can you walk, Andrew?”

Jordan and Bates helped Andrew to his feet. The young man grimaced. “I’d rather not.” He smiled wanly at Jordan, who was impressed with his attempt at humor at a time like this. Lord Gray took several halting steps forward, braced on each side by Jordan and Bates.

“Gentlemen!” Price’s voice rang clear for once.

Jordan turned awkwardly, his left arm still around Andrew’s waist and the injured man’s right arm around his shoulders. “What is it?”

Mr. Price trotted to his side. The length of twine he’d used to string the grouse together was wrapped around his hand, leaving his fingers free. In them, he held Lord Gray’s hat. Jordan winced when he saw two holes in it. Thank goodness he’d missed the man’s scalp. How could he have made such an idiotic mistake?

The answer held no comfort. Shooting a man because he was distracted thinking about a woman’s hair had to rank as one of the most horrifyingly negligent errors he could imagine.

“You should see this.” Price extended his other hand, which held a half-burned and soggy piece of paper.

Jordan took the scrap in his free hand. He turned slightly to allow the sunlight to fall across the ruined page. The paper’s straight left side had remained intact. Jordan made out the following:

Les age

Free

Sidn

Woo

Herr

Elto

Rich

Gray

Pric

Youn

Below the last item, the paper had been torn, but Jordan had no doubt it originally continued on with five more entries. “
Les age
… agents. It’s us,” he whispered harshly. “They have our names.
They have all our names.”

Panting, Lord Gray lifted his head to see the paper. His face blanched further; his eyes wildly wheeled around the moor. “Are we safe? For God’s sake, Freese, get us out of here.”

Jordan nodded grimly. “Let’s move,” he ordered. Dylan Price took Lord Gray’s legs, and together, the three carried him to the waiting grooms and horses. Halfway there, the man passed out from pain. Jordan couldn’t help but envy him. He suddenly wished very much he could escape from the terrible truth they’d just discovered. The French knew their names — which meant there was a traitor in their midst.

The clock had not yet chimed eight when Naomi quickly donned a morning dress. She left her hair in its nighttime braid, coiled it at her nape, and pinned it in place. There was nothing to be done for the wisps near her scalp making a bid for freedom, so she covered them up with a bandeau. Finally, she selected a favorite cashmere shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders.

With a deep breath and a wipe of cold palms against her skirt, Naomi tiptoed to her door. Frowning, she realized the pointlessness of doing so. “You’ll never make it down the hall, acting this way,” she scolded herself.

She opened the door a crack and glanced into the corridor. As she suspected, the long row of female guestrooms lay silent, their occupants still abed. Holding her breath, she drew handfuls of muslin into tight fists and raised the hem to her ankles. She darted to the end of the corridor and peeked around the corner. Two housemaids dusted mirrors and sconces. Not wishing to be seen, even by servants, she waited until they moved out of her line of sight, then dashed to the central stairwell.

Her back felt exposed as she quietly jogged up the stairs. The tension between her shoulders eased a bit as she rounded the landing.

“Lady Naomi?”

Naomi choked on a gasp as she came face-to-face with the housekeeper coming down the stairs. She hoped she betrayed none of the anxiety hammering her ribs. Behind her shawl, damp fingers twisted together in knots. “Good morning … Mrs. Walker, is it not?”

The upper servant glided down the stairs, her eyes never once leaving Naomi’s. She was swathed from chin to toes in austere, charcoal bombazine, her graying hair neatly styled in a knot. The large, brass key ring hanging conspicuously from a loop at her right hip marked her position in the household.

Mrs. Walker’s shoulders squared, blocking Naomi’s progress. “May I help you, my lady?” Her tone was harassed, as though she had somewhere else to be.

Naomi’s mind whirled. She detested lying and had never been any good at it, but the truth would see her marched straight back to her own room.

“I — I — ” she stammered. Her face flushed under the housekeeper’s intense scrutiny. “I’m looking for some …
cloths
,” she finally whispered.

At once, Mrs. Walker’s demeanor changed from exasperation to understanding. “Oh,” she breathed. Then she frowned. “Why isn’t your maid on this errand?” she asked softly.

Agony washed over Naomi and her eyes squeezed shut.
Please don’t make me lie any more,
she silently pleaded. She could think of no good reason to give Mrs. Walker and knew her scheme was about to fall apart.

Mrs. Walker, however, seemed to take her silence for embarrassment. “Never you mind, dear,” she said in a maternal tone. “There’s been an injury I must see to, but I’ll have one of the maids fetch some to your room.”

Relieved, Naomi smiled gratefully. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Walker. You’re too good.” The older woman gave her a brisk nod, then bustled off.

When she’d gone out of sight, Naomi’s smile fell, and she raced up the stairs, slowing to catch her breath only when she’d reached the very top. Dreading to stop for fear of being caught again, she continued until she came to the nursery door. It stood slightly ajar. Biting her lip at the gross breach of etiquette, Naomi pushed open the door.

The “nursery” was a marvel to behold. Her lips parted in amazement as she took in the finely furnished front room of the suite. A stylish sofa and chairs made up a seating area on one end, while an elegant round table occupied the other side of the room.

Enrique sat alone at the table — in a chair as delicately carved and expensively upholstered as those in Jordan’s dining room — partaking in a generous breakfast spread. The young man looked up at her entrance. His shoulders stiffened and his eyes widened in alarm.

Naomi closed the door softly. “Hello, Enrique.”

He held his peace, his lips drawing back into his mouth. The boy looked quite the young gentleman in a green coat and white cravat, with his hair neatly queued at his nape. The silver fork in his right hand trembled and clinked against the china plate. Enrique set down the utensil and placed his hands in his lap, his eyes following them.

“I’m glad to have caught you before you’re busy with your day.” Naomi approached slowly and sat at the table, leaving an empty chair between Enrique and herself. A long moment of awkward silence hung between them. Glancing at the boy, Naomi thought he looked sad. Frown lines furrowed his brow, and his lips seemed naturally inclined to droop. There was no sound anywhere in the apartment. Behind the door leading to the next room, she heard the muffled sound of a clock chiming the hour.

The chime faded, once again leaving a heavy silence in the nursery.
How lonely he must be,
she suddenly thought. Enrique had no one but his tutors and Jordan’s uncle, Sir Randell, for company. The young man had no companions his own age, and Lord Freese didn’t seem to pay any attention to his ward.
He might’ve been happier on the streets in Spain.

Sighing, Naomi felt her relentless curiosity about the young man drain away. It didn’t matter if he was French or Spanish or Basque — or Mongolian, for that matter. What he
was
was a lonely boy starved for company.

“Would you like to take a walk with me tomorrow?” she asked.

Enrique’s eyes lit. A small smile brightened his face, but the frown lines returned. “I don’t … ” His eyes pinched closed, and his face screwed up in concentration.
“Yo no entiendo,”
he blurted.

Lord, but Jordan was taking this “Spanish orphan” charade to great lengths, wasn’t he? Not that there was any objection to the child learning Spanish — indeed, Naomi approved of multiple linguistic fluencies — but the reason behind this particular education was mystifying.

“Enrique,” she said patiently, “I know you speak English. I heard you talking with Sir Randell.” His dark eyes widened again. She shook her head and shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know why you must pretend you can’t speak English, but you can trust me with your secret. I only want to be your friend. I think you could use one.” Tilting her head slightly, she smiled. “Am I right?”

The boy of ambiguous nationality exhaled audibly. His shoulders relaxed a bit as he regarded her. “Yes,” he finally said. “I would like to ’ave a friend.”

Her smile deepened. “So would I,” she said. “So, that walk tomorrow?”

He nodded his happy agreement. They arranged to meet at the moon pond at eight o’clock the following morning. Though the words weren’t spoken, they both understood the need for circumspection.

Naomi slipped out to return to her own room, only to encounter someone topping the stairs — Jordan, this time.

At once, his eyes cut to the nursery door. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Oh, well … ” Naomi cleared her throat. “I had a thought about bonnet trimmings,” she said, gesturing near her temple with her left hand. “Did Kate tell you about the new bonnets we ordered?” At Jordan’s puzzled expression, she continued, the lies coming a little more easily. “Anyway, I came looking for Kate, to discuss trimmings. I thought she’d be in the schoolroom, but she wasn’t.” When Jordan quirked a brow, she added, “I didn’t see anyone. Actually.”