The Secret Life of Miss Anna Marsh (5 page)

H
arry had spent a few days gathering provisions and equipment needed for his long ride to Kent. He was now in possession of additional clothing, a good horse, a pistol, a knife, cheese and bread for lunch, and letters to innkeepers along the way.

He hadn't paid much attention to the draft horses and ponies on the island. When he'd gone with the landlord of the Boot to look at horses, Harry had surprised himself as he went over each horse's points with a knowledge he hadn't known he possessed.

“Are you sure you don't want to take this one?” the stable owner had asked. “I'll take ten shillings off the price.”

Harry had glanced at the showy bay gelding. He was too short in the back and would probably throw a splint. “No, I'll take the black, thanks, and a saddle.”

The stable owner had nodded. “Well, I'll say this for you. You know your horseflesh. I'll have everything you need brought round to the inn.”

Harry had thanked the man and gone to the store that sold guns. Though his eye had been drawn to a fine pair of dueling pistols, he had picked a larger coaching one, checking to ensure all was in order with it. Then his attention had been caught by a dagger. “I'd like to see that as well.”

The shopkeeper had brought it out and handed it to Harry. The weight of the dagger felt comfortable in his hand. “I'll take it.”

He had instinctively hidden it in his boot, and wondered what kind of gentleman he'd been. Knowledge of guns and horses was one thing, but a dagger?

Early the next morning, Harry thanked his host and rode out of town east toward Bournemouth, where he'd spend the night.

Late that afternoon, on the outskirts of town, he came upon a yellow chaise stopped to the side of the road. Two women stood next to the carriage. Harry reined in next to them.

He directed his question to the older woman. “What seems to be the problem?”

The younger woman glanced at him and replied, “Our wheeler has lost a shoe, and we're stuck here until help comes.”

Harry judged her to be in her midtwenties; she was on the tall side, with pale honey curls peeping from beneath her hat. Her nose was small and straight, and she was considering him appraisingly.

“I see.” He tore his gaze away from her mesmerizing turquoise eyes and directed it toward the coach. “Has anyone been sent for help?”

“Yes, one of the outriders.” She looked down the road toward the town as if she could make help appear. “Someone should be here soon.”

“If you're sure.” Harry wasn't happy with what he saw. “I'll tell you what, when I get to my inn, I'll have someone sent to you. Just to be sure.”

The older lady took the younger one's arm. “That is a very nice offer, don't you think?”

The young lady glanced up at him. “Thank you very much, sir. I'm certain we'll be fine, but I won't refuse your help.”

Harry inclined his head. “I'd consider it my pleasure.”

He took off at a trot, then urged the horse faster, and quickly discovered galloping made him feel free. A memory hovered of salt air and cliffs.
Drat
, if it would just come back all at once.

A short time later, Harry arrived at the Admiral, a posting house situated on the edge of Bournemouth. He immediately made arrangements to send an ostler off with a wheeler. That evening, while he was enjoying dinner in the common room, the younger of the two ladies from the carriage came up to him. “I wanted to express my thanks to you for your help today.”

Harry stood and smiled politely. “My pleasure. I'm sure any gentleman would have done the same.”

She stuck out her hand. “I am Miss Emeline Spencer-Jones. I suppose it is appropriate to introduce myself.” She glanced briefly around. “Under the circumstances, that is.”

Harry hid a grin and surveyed the other customers. “I think you're right. There doesn't seem to be anyone to perform a proper introduction.”

He took her hand and shook it.

Miss Spencer-Jones's face fell.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked.

“Well,” she replied, blushing slightly, “I was told that in England a gentleman kisses a lady's hand.”

Harry bent his head so she wouldn't see him grin and kissed her hand. “Is that more what you were expecting?”

She smiled delightedly. “Yes, thank you. That was very well done.”

Her companion entered the room and glanced around before saying, “Oh, my dear Miss Spencer-Jones, there you are. I've been looking all over for you. You really should not be wandering around the inn by yourself, even if it is very respectable. And the common room, no, no, no. It is not at all the thing. You must remember you're in England now.”

A pained expression passed briefly over Miss Spencer-Jones's face, before she turned to greet the older woman. “Mrs. Wickham, I was merely thanking the gentleman for helping us today.”

Mrs. Wickham smiled distractedly. “Oh, I see, very proper I'm sure, but not in the common room.” She bobbed a curtsey to him. “Most kind of you.”

Harry bowed. “As I was telling Miss Spencer-Jones, it was my pleasure.”

Miss Spencer-Jones looked down at his half-eaten meal. “We mustn't keep you. Come along, Mrs. Wickham. We mustn't keep the gentleman from his dinner. Sir, perhaps we shall meet again.”

Harry bowed. “If our paths cross.”

The ladies left, and he resumed eating, barely noticing his now tepid food. She was pretty and seemed nice, but it was much too soon. He closed his eyes and saw his dead wife's smiling face. His heart contracted. The food now tasted like ash. Harry finished his meal and remained in the bar for a while longer. He ordered a pint of the inn's own ale and watched the other customers come and go. After a while, it occurred to him that he made a point of studying people.

Harry was on his way to the stairs when he heard Miss Spencer-Jones's voice. “Mr. Reynolds, you may not join us. I have no wish for your company.”

“But Emma . . .”

“I have
not
given you leave to use my name, sir. Please go.”

Harry sighed. He had enough problems without inserting himself into something that was no bread and butter of his. Still, he couldn't allow this Reynolds fellow, whoever he was, to accost Miss Spencer-Jones. “Excuse me, might I be of help?”

She smiled gratefully. “Oh, thank you. I was just telling this
gentleman
that we do not wish his company.”

Harry met the man's gaze and raised a brow. “If the lady says she doesn't want your company, you should leave.”

“Look here now,” Reynolds said. “I don't know you, and you've no business sticking your nose in where it ain't wanted. Just leave us be.”

Harry fixed the man's swarthy face with a hard look. “The lady has asked for my assistance. Take yourself off, or I'll have the landlord remove you.”

He'd not used that tone of command before, but it felt comfortable.

“I have a room here.” Mr. Reynolds stiffened.

“Not for long, you won't,” Harry said firmly. “I can't think the landlord would want a man in his house who threatens ladies. The choice is yours. You can either leave Miss Spencer-Jones alone, or you'll leave this inn. Which is it to be?”

Reynolds clenched his fists.

“I wouldn't if I were you. I'm quite handy with my fives.” Where that knowledge came from, Harry didn't know. Only that it was true.

Reynolds made a low guttural sound. “Very well, I'll leave. I'd better not see you around again.” He stalked off.

Harry asked Miss Spencer-Jones, “Where did you meet him?”

She'd been watching Reynolds depart and turned to Harry. “He was on the ship on which we journeyed from the West Indies. I tried to keep my distance, but he kept pressing his attentions. I thought once we landed, I'd be free of him.”

“It's unfortunate he doesn't seem to be able to take a hint,” Harry said. “I suggest you arrange to leave early in the morning and keep as good a pace as possible to your destination.”

She worried her full lower lip for a moment. “That's a good idea. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. I'll bid you a good night.” Harry started back toward the stairs, heaved a sigh, then went to talk to the innkeeper. Once he was satisfied arrangements were in place to protect the ladies, he found his own bed. With any luck, Miss Spencer-Jones would be traveling in a different direction from him, and he wouldn't see her again. The last thing he needed was her distracting him.

Florian sat at the corner table of a seedy tavern in Spittlefield. He pretended not to notice as Georges entered and raised a brow as he surveyed the room. If Georges saw the small dark-haired man seated with his back to Florian's table, he gave no indication.

Georges got a tankard from the bar and joined Florian, sitting with his back to the wall.

Once his cousin sat, Florian leaned forward, and in a low voice said, “I've set up a meeting with the only gang that appears to be at all discreet. I've had a devil of a time getting an appointment with their head man.”

“Are you telling me that you do or do not have an appointment?”

“Oh, no, I've got one for two days hence. In the middle of the damned night. I'll have to take a room in one of the large towns nearby.”

“What have you told them?” Georges asked.

“That I was a merchant looking to ship wool to France,” Florian responded. “Time enough to tell them I want to bring packages in when I meet the head of the gang.”

“Good, we'll meet when you return.
Au revoir, mon ami
.” Georges stood to leave.

Florian stayed where he was for a few minutes more, waiting for the small dark-haired man to follow Georges before quitting the tavern. Once Florian was outside, he strode quickly toward the more salubrious parts of Town, before slowing to a stroll.

When he turned on to St. James Street, the dark-haired man, calling himself Scully, joined him.

“Did you find where he's living?” Florian asked.

He felt little remorse for what he was about to do. Georges had blackmailed him into helping him during the war. Afraid of being discovered, Florian had tried to give him old intelligence reports for the most part, but occasionally, he had to give Georges something new. Mostly, Florian had used the excuse that he wasn't senior enough to have new information. Until, that is, his new position was announced in the
Gazette
. After that, he'd been required to be much more creative. Still, it was better to give in to Georges's demands than to have his proclivities brought to light. He'd lose everything.

“Yup, got him nice and boxed in,” Scully replied. “A couple of me lads is watchin' him. If he leaves, he'll be followed like a tantony pig. When do you want him done for?”

“As soon as we can do it safely,” Florian said. “I don't want anyone caught.”

He
didn't want to be caught. His father would cut him off if he found out about any of this, and Florian couldn't afford to be without family funds. Not much longer now, and he'd be free. Georges would be dead, and no one would know his secret. He continued on to Brook's.

 

Scully waited until the swell was out of sight and then glanced around to make sure no one was following him. Ducking down an alley, he came up against a large man and stopped short. “Didn't see you there, Guv'nor.”

“That was rather the point,” the man said. “What did you find out?”

Scully backed up a little. The man was not the friendly type. “We're to do away with the Frenchie as soon as it's safe.”

The man frowned. “Hmm, were you given a reason?”

Scully shrugged. “Said the Frenchie was a spy.”

“Well, that's true enough.” The man seemed to consider what Scully had told him and then asked, “Did you discover anything about what they're doing?”

“I got good hearin' cheats, like. I did hear someat.” Scully scratched his head and his face. “But I needs some help to r'member it.”

The large man dumped some coins into Scully's hand. “There's a pony for you. Tell me what you heard.”

Scully quickly pocketed the money. “Clever cove, said he's going to some port, near Sandwich. Someat to do with smugglers.” He held out his hand again.

“Anything else?” the man asked. “Names?”

“No names. There's a meetin' in two days. Late at night. They'll have another after that, if the Frenchie's still alive.” Scully once more stretched out his hand. The coins hit his palm. “You want me to keep the Frenchie alive?”

“No, I can't see a need,” the man replied conversationally. “But, I do want to know when you do it. In the event we must make it all tidy.”

Scully nodded. “I'll be sure to contact you.”

“You know where to leave a message.”

Scully turned to answer him, and the man was gone.

Lord Jamison removed the old frieze coat he'd worn over his evening dress, walked up another alley, and emerged on to St. James Street, appearing as if he'd spent the night in more frivolous pursuits. Climbing the stairs to Brook's, he was greeted by the club's major domo. Jamison strolled casually through the rooms. There was no trace of the gentleman.

Jamison hoped this was the same man who Harry Marsh had been sent after. If only Harry had not died, they would have had their spy long before now. Jamison had narrowed the possible suspects down to someone in the Foreign Office. Aggravating, they'd been so close before losing track of the man. At least Jamison now knew where the French spies might come in. He'd have to write Rutherford, warning him.

Strolling into the library, Jamison made himself comfortable at a desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. Once he was done, he handed it to one of the servants. “See that goes out immediately.”

The waiter bowed. “Right away, my lord.”

Now, what was he going to do about the Frenchman? Jamison really couldn't allow him to be murdered.

 

Georges stood at the darkened cellar window of an elegant town house in Mayfair, watching.

“Are they still there?” the woman asked.

One of the two men ducked back into the shadows of the small square across the street. “Yes.”

Fear laced her tone. “What do you think it means?”

“It means my dear cousin has tired of me.” Georges stepped back from the window. “I need to leave soon. London is no longer safe for me.”

“Georges, how do you know?”

“I feel it. How,
ma chérie
, do you think I've stayed alive this long? First the rabble, then Napoleon. I am one of the few true
aristos
left in France.”

He ran the pad of his thumb over her jaw line, up to her bottom lip. “I cannot go back to my lodgings. I must find a new place to stay until I can arrange passage.” His hand cupped the back of her head and held it while he kissed her ruthlessly. Her arms slid up to his shoulders and around his neck.

He broke the kiss. “
Chérie
, I must leave here now.”

She pressed against him, rubbing like a wanton cat. “But where will you go?”

“I have a place no one knows of.” Her mouth opened to ask another question. “No, it is better you have no information. Will you help me leave?”

She sighed. “Yes, I'll check the alley. Perhaps they have forgotten to watch it. At the worst, you can leave with a carter tomorrow.”

Georges reached out to stroke her face. “Thank you.”

She gave him a sultry smile. “You will, later.”

The woman left his side, followed by the faint sound of a door opening. Georges glanced back to the man watching the house. How stupid of his masters to try to use Florian again. He'd lived under threat for five years. Georges could imagine the relief his cousin had felt when the Corsican was captured and exiled. He'd almost felt the same. Almost returned to court to demand his lands back. Then he'd heard the whispers and received the summons.

At the soft padding of slippered feet, he faced the door.

“It's safe,” she said. “Here, I took one of the servants' cloaks. Until we meet again, my dear.”

“
Oui,
until then.” Georges kissed her swiftly. Once through the door, he turned his mind to his need to gather his few belongings and escape.

He walked quickly down the alley, toward the fringes of Polite Society and to another woman who would house him. He knocked twice at the servants' entrance, waited, then knocked three more times. The door opened, and he was pulled in by a girl.

“You want me to get the mistress?” she asked. “She's entertainin'.”

“No, I do not wish to disturb her. Show me to a room, and I will speak with her in the morning.”

The girl nodded and led him up the back stairs to a room on the second floor. “Best you stay here. Ain't no one going to be up this way. Should be water in the pitcher.”

“Thank you. What is your name?”

“Meg.” She gave what she obviously thought was a sultry smile as she eyed him up and down. “If you want, I can do for you. Won't cost you nothin'.”

Georges shuddered inwardly. She couldn't be more than fifteen or sixteen, but had clearly been well used. He gave her his most charming smile and bowed. “I would love to take you up on your proposition.” He dropped his voice to a seductive purr. “
Mais,
if your mistress wanted to visit, and I was unable to . . .”

Meg's lips turned down. “Guess you're right,” she said, resigned. “Wouldn't do getting her upset with me. She said I ain't ready to do swells yet. Says I need to be more refined.”

Georges smiled. “Then perhaps the next time you will be trained, and I will be available.”

Meg smiled back. “I'll look forward to that.”

She lit the candles in the room and left.

Slumping back against the door, he went to turn the key, but it wasn't there. He gazed around the chamber at the shabby elegance. Ruby red bedcover and hangings. This room was clearly not used by their more important
clientèle
. Throwing back the duvet, he inspected the sheets. He'd slept in worse. At least there were no bugs. A decanter of brandy stood on a table. Walking over to it, he poured a large glass and tossed off half of it. By tomorrow he'd be out of London.