Queen (Regency Refuge 3) (4 page)

A week went by with little change. Owen went out the door after breaking his fast, and Isabel followed him with her eyes. No doubt he'd be passing the day in yet another tavern listening to the chatter about freight, shipping companies, captains, and more. Without intending to, he'd already stumbled across two different smuggling operations and one ship's crew he suspected of involvement in piracy. He'd documented his findings and sent them off to Tobias in London like a good little agent.

"Watch what yer doin', Iola!"

Isabel glanced up in time to realize her woolgathering had almost caused her to push the drinking mugs straight off the table she was wiping down. Owen was a distraction, and if she wasn't careful, he would cost her more than she could afford.

She glanced over into the corner at a hulking man with fading red hair, intent on his mug of ale. Then she stood and carried the soiled dishes back into the kitchen.

The inn's two barmaids had both disappeared the day before
Iola
arrived to seek employment. Hank had hired her on the spot, and she'd been working double-duty ever since. Whenever she wasn't serving food or drink, she spent her time scrubbing dishes and cleaning floors.

Meanwhile, the missing barmaids were enjoying a free trip to America. Isabel hoped they liked what they found once they arrived. The chance to start over and be something more than they'd been in England would be waiting for them. All they'd have to do was take advantage of it.

****

"There's word."

Isabel, who had stepped out of the inn to dump some soiled water, wasn't surprised by the familiar voice. She glanced around and saw the hulking form concealed among the the long shadows cast by the afternoon sun. Once she was certain they were alone, she stepped closer and asked, "What?"

"Another one of Rutherford's ships came in today. They had word the Braying Donkey got delayed because of repairs. It won't be arriving here till late December, maybe early January."

Isabel nodded. "I'm not sure if the delay is good news or bad for us."

He shrugged dismissively. "It's neither."

Isabel dumped the dirty water. "Why do you insist on calling it the Braying Donkey?"

The man spat into the grass. "I've got no use for the French or their language."

His sentiment was shared by many who had battled Napoleon's devastation. She didn't share in the vehemence, but she understood it.

She gave the man a brisk nod before returning to the inn.

****

That night, as Isabel placed a dinner plate in front of Owen, he whispered, "A Rutherford ship came in with news of the
Âne Hurlants
."

Isabel forced her eyes wide in surprise. "We should meet."

"After dark. Follow the trail toward town. I'll be in the same cleft. Do me a favor, and don't let your friend knock me out again."

She gave him a saucy grin, the kind that told the other patrons he'd just propositioned her and she was having her sport with him. "Aye, m'lord, what you say is true. I do think I'd rather bed down with the hogs than the likes of you."

Owen's eyes darkened with irritation. Or was that embarrassment? She could have come up with other ways to justify the length of their conversation, but she'd grabbed on to that one. No man liked his masculine prowess publicly questioned. He would have every right to be angry with her, and she welcomed it. They'd both be better off if he hated her.

Owen was too honorable a man. Her instincts confirmed what she remembered of him from childhood. He was a man she could trust — if she ever trusted anyone completely. Which she rarely did. Even if it meant making him angry, she needed to keep her distance from Owen. She had a history. Letting her guard down led to devastating results.

****

Darkness fell early, and the inn emptied out before the clock said it was time. Hank let her go, and Isabel began her walk down the trail toward town. As she approached the point where Owen had last surprised her, she heard the caw of a crow, and she slipped off the trail. With one hand on the coarse stone, she followed the rock outcropping around until she came to the cleft where Owen hid.

He handed her something, a coarse material. "It's a cloak. Put it on. You stand out with that white cap on your head. We'll be concealed this way. We need to talk, but we should get out of the cold first."

Isabel wasn't sure they had much to talk about, but arguing would serve no purpose other than show Owen she had information she hadn't shared with him. Instead, she did as he asked and put the cloak on. Once she lifted the hood and snugged the cloak around her body, she took Owen's hand and tugged it. He followed her without complaint.

When they reached the small cottage she called home in Bristol, she pushed open the door and reached for a candle. Then she took the small tinderbox and started a fire in the hearth. Small as it was, the room warmed quickly. The glow cast by the fire pushed most of the shadows away.

At Isabel's insistence, Owen took a seat in the room's one chair, at the table. Isabel sat on the sleeping pallet and tucked her feet close. "Tell me what you've learned."

"One of Rutherford's other ships came into port today." Owen's eyes wandered the room, no doubt seeking clues about her. "They had word on the
Âne Hurlants
. It'll make port sometime in December."

Isabel nodded. "That's good to know. We need to bide our time until then. Unless you've a different idea?"

Owen jumped up and began to pace in the confines of the small room. "We've exchanged little more than occasional words in the past week, and I'm not sure I know you any better now than I did upon first learning your identity."

Isabel gave an impatient and entirely unladylike snort. "What has that to do with anything?"

"I want to trust you, but I don't even know you."

She winked. "You knew me when I was in nappies. That must count for something."

Owen ignored her attempt at humor and ran a hand through his flaxen curls. "More than ten years have passed since you disappeared, and I still have no idea where you went. Or your parents. Are they still living? How are they doing?"

Isabel considered her options. She needed Owen to trust her. He would be more open with her if he did. She needed to give him a morsel, something to keep him satisfied. If he thought he had the whole story, all the better.

"My parents were executed."

Owen rocked back on his feet. Isabel's words crashed over him like an ocean wave roaring in his ears. He had to force the air from his lungs to ask the question burning in his gut. "Why?"

Isabel offered a small, sad smile. "Treason against the Crown. Evidence says they were complicit with the French."

"But that can't be. They were loyal. Our fathers ran a business together. How… How were they found out?"

Another wretched smile, this one apologetic in nature. "Someone delivered them up, of course. How else does one get caught for treason? Well, aside from being discovered by the agency."

Owen did something a gentleman would never do. He turned the chair around and straddled it. In an attempt to keep himself from going to her, he folded his arms and rested them on the chair's back. He wanted to go to her. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to hold her and take away her pain, but he hadn't yet earned the privilege. Not to mention she was so blasted strong and independent, she'd not welcome even a hint of support from him. The strength of his own reaction to her took him by surprise.

"Issy, I'm so sorry." The childhood nickname rolled off his tongue and Isabel — brave, defiant, capable Isabel — transformed before his eyes into the young girl he'd last seen before she and her family had disappeared. All the sharp edges and angles of her face softened until she was almost… inviting.

Then, as if she realized her behavior went against protocol, Isabel sat taller. The softness fell away, and her blue eyes narrowed until Queen sat before him once again.

"If they were truly traitors, they got what they had coming to them."

Owen had a hard time accepting such a callous sentiment. No matter what Isabel said, he didn't believe for a minute she was as cold-hearted as she seemed to want him to believe.

"What happened to you after…?"

Isabel shrugged. "The minister, God rest his soul, took an interest in me. He told me I had a chance to prove I wasn't my parents' daughter, a traitor."

"You were only twelve!" Owen jumped up again and went back to pacing. "He recruited you to the War Department while you weren't even out of the schoolroom yet!"

An indulgent smile this time. It even reached her eyes, lightening the blue until it seemed to glow from within. "Stop your bellowing. I was older than Edward VI was when he became king. Besides, no family would take me. I had a choice between the War Department or selling myself dockside for the occasional crust of bread. He did me a favor."

Owen forced himself back to the chair. "Why not an orphanage?"

Isabel's mouth dipped down at the corners. "You forget what a sheltered miss I'd been up to that point. I didn't even know such places existed. If I had, I might have run away to go there, but… I believe the minister had his reasons for forcing me into service as he did. I'm not sure I could have escaped, even if it had occurred to me to try."

Choking back his abhorrence at the entire situation, Owen fought to keep his voice steady. " What sort of assignment did the War Department give a child?"

"A threat had been made against Queen Charlotte. Suspicion fell to the court. Tobias got me a place as one of her ladies-in-waiting. With her permission, of course. I joined Queen Charlotte's court and remained for over a year before we apprehended the culprit. A more experienced agent would have completed the assignment sooner."

Assassination attempt against the Queen of England…
Owen had to admire the audacity of placing a child to protect a queen, even as the thought horrified him. "Is that how you got your codename?"

Isabel gave a slight nod, a tipping of her chin more than anything else. Almost queenly, in fact. Owen chuckled. "Which did you find more dangerous? Thwarting an assassin or surviving among the ladies at court?"

"There was one assassin. There were dozens of ladies-in-waiting. You figure it out."

He didn't want to have to ask, but Owen needed more answers than what she offered. "What sort of treason?"

Isabel crossed her arms and reclined against the wall behind the pallet. "There were two main plots, I suppose. I see them connected as part of the same plot, but the authorities saw it differently." He nodded his understanding, and she continued. "The first was a plan to blow up the newly opened London Docks. I'm sure there were many such plans for many different reasons. All would be treasonous, I'm sure."

"And the other plot?"

"Are you familiar with the Battle of Trafalgar?"

Owen nodded. "Admiral Nelson died, but the British fleet again proved we have the superior navy."

Isabel pursed her lips, her disapproval evident. Owen was reminded that she'd spent the last four years in America. What he viewed as accepted fact, she might well see as English arrogance.

Instead of arguing the point, however, she explained the connection. "Had the docks been destroyed, and had England lost the Battle of Trafalgar, the world's view of the Royal Navy would be entirely different. I think that's what everything was about. Undermining the Royal Navy. The plot was broken down into different pieces, and then those pieces were parceled out to the people who would carry them out, but the people assigned to carry out the orders had no idea what the other pieces were or what the overall plot was."

"I can see how it would seem that way. Can I ask you something?"

A single brisk dip of the chin was as close as he could get to acquiescence from her.

"Do you believe your parents committed treason?"

Isabel bit her lip then stared down at her hands, wrapped as they now were around her raised knees. "I never heard them say anything against England or the Crown. They were good, honest, hardworking people, and I can't reconcile the people in the written reports with the parents who raised me. In my heart there will always be doubt, but my doubt changes nothing. My parents are dead, and nobody can know my real name. There are still people left who remember my parents and how they died, and because of that, my name can't ever be uttered. If my identity is discovered, I would lose my ability to hide in plain sight, or to live any kind of life resembling ordinary."

"Iola it is, then. Your secret is safe with me. I'm sorry you had to go through any of that. I tried to find your family. Their execution must have been a well-hidden secret. Nobody I spoke to knew anything."

"What?" The corner of Isabel's mouth tilted up in a way both haughty and seductive. "You never thought to look in the Queen's court?"

Owen's deep chuckle echoed in the small room before quiet once again settled around them, a comfortable shroud in the darkness. "Thank you for telling me the truth. I don't take lightly the trust you've placed in me this night."

Isabel's mouth dipped down at the corners, and Owen longed for her smile once again. She deserved a life full of wide-mouthed, bright-eyed, worry-free smiles.

He stood from his chair and held out a hand to help her up off the ground. "It's time you show me back to my cleft in the rock. I need to find my bed sometime before the sun rises, and you've got a long day of work ahead of you."

"Aye, that I have."

"I think I got the easier of our two assignments."

She pushed him playfully out the door. "A woman's work is never done. Even God talks about how painful her labor will be."

Owen was about to correct her when the hint of humor in her voice penetrated his mind. He decided to play along. "You speak truth. God himself says women must work from before sunup till after sundown. They shan't ever have rest, and misery is to be heaped up on their heads daily. It's a shameful thing, being a woman."

Owen's foot, with perfect timing, caught on a rock. He lost his balance and tumbled face-first into the fragrant loamy dirt.

Isabel's chuckle reached him before he regained his feet. Rubbing his shin, he asked, "You saw that rock, didn't you?"

"I'm sorry, kind sir. I was so busy toiling away, I forgot to mention it."

Owen tugged on a strand of the faux red hair she'd put back into place. He unsettled her cap enough to gain him a light rap on the arm. She had to know, but he needed to make sure. "That part about a woman's labor is talking about birthing pains."

"Of course it is, you addlepated ninny. I learned more about childbearing as a lady-in-waiting than I ever wanted to know. One thing's for sure."

"Oh, what's that?"

"I'll never find myself with child."

The image of Isabel holding a babe of her own filled Owen's mind and warmed him. He couldn't let the picture go. "Why not?"

"You learn a few things at court. For example, women who aren't supposed to be with child end up with child all the time. Sometimes of their own doing, and sometimes against their will. Women who are desperate will do anything, no matter how foolish or dangerous. Some women would take a holiday or claim poor health and retire to the country for an extended stay. Others would try to conceal their pregnancy. Those who succeeded in keeping their condition hidden usually tried to smuggle the baby out to a nunnery or orphanage. A few women tried to end their pregnancy. I held the hand of one such woman as she slipped from this earth. The amount of blood should have been terrifying to a child, but by then I don't think I was much of a child anymore."

Isabel shuddered as she said, "One woman delivered her baby in silence. How she held back the screams I'll never know. Most of the women made enough noise to ensure their secret could not be kept. None of us were aware of this one, however, which is how she wanted it. She killed the babe, but the guilt tore away at her soul until she went mad."

It was no secret that ugliness existed in the world and people were often the source of it. Nevertheless, anger bubbled up inside him at the minister who'd recruited Isabel into such a life.
If he weren't already dead, I'd be visiting him.
She should have been protected and sheltered, no matter what her parents had done.

The irony of it struck Owen, and he stopped walking. Isabel paused a few paces ahead of him. "Is everything all right?"

He wished he could see her face, gauge her reaction. "This entire evening, I've been nursing anger at the minister for putting you in a position to be so closely touched by the darker side of life. Something's occurred to me, though. He exploited your parents' treason to put you into that position, and…"

His words trailed off, but she anticipated what he'd intended to say. "And his son was later killed as a traitor to the Crown. I can't pretend to understand why things happen the way they do, and I'll always be sad the minister saw no way out and took his own life. Sometimes I wonder if he gave me any thought after he discovered Lysander's treachery, but it's of no import. He's dead. Lysander's dead. My parents are dead. And as far as I can tell, the world is no better off without them."

"I disagree."

Isabel's sharp intake of breath sounded in the brisk night air.

Owen ignored her reaction and continued speaking. "I had more experience with Lysander than I wish. I had to clean up some of the horrors he left in his wake. This world
is
better off without him. The fact that people don't realize it means we've done our job well enough that everyone gets to sleep at night without worry for their safety."

They began walking again and reached the cleft in the rocks a short time later.

Isabel dawdled, an action he'd not associated with her. Owen remained silent and waited for her to speak. She sighed. He wanted to reach out and tell her she need not carry the weight of the world's sadness on her shoulders, but even though she'd shared a part of her story with him that night and had even shared a joke, she remained distant, aloof.

Breaking through Isabel's barriers wouldn't be easy and would need to be handled with care, but Owen knew one thing for certain. He would find a way to get through. The compulsion was too great, his attraction too powerful.

"I didn't know about Lysander. I didn't mean what I said as a criticism."

"I didn't take it that way," he replied.

"No matter how much we work to rid the world of evil, more is always waiting to take its place."

The weight of her words settled in his chest. The struggle was familiar to him. He'd battled those same doubts before. "God's job is to fight evil. Ours is to protect the citizens of England."

"You can do that? Separate your duty from God's?"

"Yes, I can, but not because it was an easy lesson to learn."

Isabel started to walk away. "G'night, Mr. Lanford. I'll be seein' you on the morrow." Though her voice was quiet in the night, the screech had returned. Isabel was gone, and the barmaid stood in her place.

"Goodnight, Iola." The name was bitter on Owen's tongue, for he knew now who she was underneath that disguise, not to mention the pain and loss she'd had to endure.

With a shake of his head, Owen continued his trek toward the inn. Anyone overhearing would think they'd had a tryst… as long as they hadn't heard the earlier part of the conversation. Their private words should never have left the cottage. Owen chastised himself for his haphazard actions, hoping any additional risk was minimal. He wanted to protect her, not bring greater danger into her life. Spending time with Isabel had made him forget himself.

Pictures began flitting through Owen's mind, and he made no attempt to stop them. Isabel as a young girl. Again at her tenth birthday. Then the way she'd looked as Isadore, and again as Iola. The next pictures rooted him to the spot. He imagined how Isabel would look ripe with child, then again holding a babe with her blond hair and blue eyes.

The words chased Owen on the wind as he knocked to gain entrance to the inn:
I want to raise a family with her.

He shook his head.
Where did that come from?

Owen ran a hand over his face.
Where, indeed?

Hank opened the door in time to see Owen shaking his head again. The innkeeper raised an eyebrow but said only, "It's a mite late, don't you think?"

Owen trudged down to his room, his memories of Isabel as a child fighting to reconcile with what he knew of Queen.