A Lady of His Own

CHAPTER 18

THEY REACHED THE ABBEY IN MIDAFTERNOON. FILCHETT met them in the front hall and informed them nothing had arrived from London, but that Fothergill had called that morning.

“Very interested in architecture. I took him on the usual tour.”

“Did he ask many questions?” Charles asked.

“Indeed. Quite a knowledgable young man.”

Charles pulled a face at Penny. “Tea in the study?”

Penny nodded.

Charles glanced at Filchett. “Some cakes wouldn’t go amiss.” He returned his dark gaze to her. “We’ve been riding in the fresh air-it’s left me with an appetite.”

Her expression limpidly innocent, she absolutely refused to react.

Cassius and Brutus had come to greet them; they danced around, then circled them, herding them into the study, Charles’s lair. Charles spent five minutes petting the dogs, running his fingers through their shaggy coats and reducing them to ecstasy. When Filchett arrived with the tray, Charles left the hounds stretched at her feet and headed for his desk to sort through the letters and notes piled there while she poured.

Returning to fetch his cup, he filched the plate of cakes. Nibbling the one she’d already selected, she watched as he went back to the desk and settled to deal with all he’d left to pile up while he’d been guarding her.

He steadily demolished the cakes.

Eventually he glanced up, and noticed her smile. “What?”

“It wasn’t that appetite I thought I evoked.”

He held her gaze, took another bite of cake. Swallowed, then said, “It isn’t. This appetite is the consequence of adequately slaking the other.”

“Adequately?”

Looking back at his accounts, he shrugged. “Thoroughly might be more accurate.”

She grinned and left him to his work, content to relax in the chair and let the peace envelop her. The Abbey had always been a contentment-filled house; even his brothers’ unexpected deaths hadn’t changed that. Closing her eyes, she let the quiet claim her; idly stroking the hounds with her boot, she turned her mind to devising some way of learning what the emotion driving Charles to want her was…and found herself dozing.

Sometime later, the hounds got quickly to their feet and shook themselves; she opened her eyes to see Charles push away from the desk. “Done?” she asked.

He nodded. Rounding the desk, he looked at the dogs, amber eyes shining as they patently willed him to take them for a run. He raised his brows at them, hesitated, then looked at her. “Shall we? We’ve time enough for a walk on the ramparts before we ride back.”

She acquiesced with a smile, held out her hands, and let him pull her to her feet. Into his arms. He bent his head and stole a swift kiss, then, closing his hand about one of hers, headed for the door.

The hounds followed, eager and excited. They bolted the instant Charles opened the side door, but returned within a minute to gambol about them before rushing off to follow some scent.

Hand in hand, they walked down the lawns and climbed the steps up to the broad curve of the ramparts. The breeze had turned brisk, plucking at her hair, sending errant wisps curling about her face. Catching them, vainly trying to tuck them back, she glanced at Charles; no matter how strong the wind, his curls merely ruffled, then fell back into place.

She stifled a humph; they strolled on.

They’d reached the middle of the long curve when Charles stopped. He turned to her, looked into her eyes, his face set, his expression serious.

She looked back at him, was about to raise her brows in query when his grip on her hand tightened.

“Marry me.”

Her eyes flew wide; her jaw dropped. “W-what?”

His gaze hardened, the line of his lips thinned; the dominant and domineering Norman lord looked down at her. “You heard me.”

She managed to catch her breath. “That’s not the point!” She tugged and he released her; she put both hands to her head, as if she could hold her whirling wits down.

He was the only person who could throw her so off-balance; it took her a moment to steady her thoughts. She stared at him. “I only realized this afternoon what you were about, what you’ve been leading up to-that you were going to ask-but I thought you’d wait at least until after your investigation is ended and this horrible murderer was caught!”

“So I thought, so I intended, until you favored me with your recent revelations.”

His accents were clipped, his words uninflected. She eyed him, increasingly wary. “What have my recent revelations to say to anything?”

Dark blue eyes bored into hers; he wasn’t amused. “You cannot expect to tell me you’ve fantasized for years about being my lady-and in such an explicit way-and not expect me to suggest that, in the circumstances, marrying me would be a good idea.”

In this mood, focused and intent on gaining victory, he could be quite devastating; the scent of leashed aggression-leashed at his whim-was strong. Feeling very like his prey, she blinked at him. “I haven’t had time to think-”

“You don’t need to think, just answer.” He stepped toward her.

“No!” She held up a hand, pressed her palm to his chest. “Wait, just wait!” He stopped; she caught a quick breath and stepped back-put enough distance between them so her wits could function-and shifted her gaze from his face. “I have to think.”

His response to that, muttered beneath his breath, wasn’t complimentary. She ignored it, but had to fight to ignore him, to dim the effect of him at close quarters in his present mood. Her senses flickered, acutely alert; she was supremely conscious of the steely purpose in him, and that it was directed, fully, at her.

He was much more forceful, more potent, than he’d been years ago, battle-hardened, but also battle-scarred; to her, the latter only made him more interesting, more compelling, not less. Their attraction now operated on multiple levels, direct and indirect, physical and emotional; refusing to meet his eyes, she drew in a deeper breath and tried to reach past it.

His need of her was real; she didn’t question that. For it, he’d been willing to play the supplicant to seduce and persuade her; he’d asked rather than demanded or, worse, commanded-which, she knew, he could have done. But he’d wanted her to give herself, and been willing to give himself to gain that…was his need for her a symptom of love?

She glanced at him, but could see nothing beyond hard-edged impatience in his face, and an intensity of emotion in his dark eyes that took her breath away…she hurriedly unfocused. Even so, she could feel that emotion focused on her; whatever drove him, whatever compelled him with respect to her, was strong and immensely powerful.

Was it love? If he loved her…did he know? Even if he did, and she asked, would he acknowledge it?

All she had were unanswerable questions, but she needed an answer, now. What was it to be? No?

The instant the word formed in her mind, her inner self rose up and dug in its heels. After all these years, to have all she’d ever desired, the future she’d always wanted and still so desperately yearned for, dangling before her…how could she refuse without knowing if the prospect was real? She wasn’t such a coward; no wasn’t an option, not yet.

Regardless, she wasn’t about to settle for anything less than love; on that, her conviction had never wavered. So she couldn’t say yes either, not unless she was sure…

Drawing in a tight breath, she refocused on his eyes, felt his instant attention, the honing of his senses. “If you give me what I want, then yes, I’ll marry you.” She held his gaze steadily, lifted her chin. “As soon as you like.”

Something leapt in his eyes at her “yes,” but he quickly concealed it, screened it. He didn’t immediately respond, but searched her eyes, then flatly asked, “What you want. Am I to take it that’s the same thing your other suitors didn’t know to give you?”

“Didn’t know, didn’t know how to give, or couldn’t or wouldn’t give.” She nodded. “Precisely.”

Exasperation flared in his eyes as he considered her; she could see him assessing his options. Then he nodded-once, determinedly-and caught her hand. “Agreed.”

She blinked.

Charles raised her hand to his lips, kissed, and searched her eyes again; she hadn’t yet seen the truth, hadn’t yet identified his motive. “Until I discover what this thing you want is, and give it to you, we continue as we are-as lovers.”

His tone made it clear there was no question, not one he would countenance; after a moment, she nodded. “I never was one to slice off my nose to spite my face.”

His lips twitched; he hurriedly straightened them, but the fraught tension that had enveloped them nevertheless eased.

She studied him, puzzled, suspicion dawning in her silver-gray eyes.

“Come.” He closed his hand about hers, whistled for the dogs. “We can leave the dogs in the stables. We’d better head back.”

Frowning, she let him turn her; hand in hand, at his direction, they walked briskly back along the ramparts-too briskly to talk.

He’d got what he wanted; his impulse was to crow and dance, but he reined in all expressions of triumph-time enough for that when this was all over and the murderer caught.

She’d been right about that; it would have been wiser to wait and ask her then, but as usual between her and him, wisdom hadn’t featured-it had flown the instant she’d told him she’d indulged in erotic fantasies about them all those years ago. Even now, with victory assured, although he accepted the impulse, and on one level-a purely male, highly possessive level-understood it, he wasn’t thrilled that it had been strong enough to compel him to seize the moment and ask her to marry him, outright, without any preparation.

He was also not thrilled over the way she’d replied-yes would have been much neater-but at least she hadn’t said “No.” “No” hadn’t been an option; he was mildly relieved not to have been forced to point that out.

But he’d achieved what his conqueror’s soul, that part of him she’d so efficiently stirred to action, had demanded-her agreement to marry him. To be his countess, to be always by his side, his anchor in this world, the mother of his children; his list of the facets of her role was extensive. He’d already decided he’d give whatever it took to make her his-she already had his soul, even if she didn’t know it-and he had a very good notion of what the “thing” she wanted was.

If he’d wished, he could have given her the words there and then, and convinced her of their truth, but they did still have a murderer to catch, and until they did, he’d keep the news of his surrender secret.

Too much knowledge could be a bad thing. He didn’t know how the game would play out, what the next days would bring, but if she knew he loved her with all his heart and would give her anything, he could foresee scenarios where doing what he knew to be right and necessary to protect her would only be more difficult. Even more nightmarish were those imagined scenarios where the murderer realized just how much she meant to him and thought to use her as a hostage.

A mental shudder racked him. For one instant, the vulnerability of loving her shone bright as crystal and pierced him to the heart. Yet he couldn’t stop; all he could do was grit his teeth and bear the consequences.

He’d involuntarily tightened his grip; he felt her hand, delicate bones, feminine warmth and softness, enclosed in his, let his senses reach farther and registered her supple, svelte form beside him, her long legs keeping pace, and felt the momentary apprehension fade.

He smiled, nearly laughed, then remembered and abruptly sobered. He glanced at her, and caught her now openly suspicious scowl. He met it with blank innocence and looked ahead.

They reached the stable. Their horses were waiting; he lifted her up and held her stirrup, then crossed to where Domino stood and threw himself into the saddle. The triumph buoying him was almost too great to hide. Across the stable yard, he met her eyes, and waved to the entrance. “Let’s ride.”

Side by side, they thundered up to the escarpment. Then they flew.

Nicholas, exceedingly pale, wan yet transparently determined, joined them in the dining room for dinner. By unspoken accord no mention was made during the meal of the revelations he’d promised to make, but when they were finished, they all rose and repaired to the library.

Penny led the way to the armchairs grouped before the fireplace. She sank into one; Nicholas went to the other. Charles picked up a straight-backed chair, set it beside her armchair, and subsided in his usual graceful sprawl.

He looked at Nicholas, and raised one black brow. “So-where do you propose to start?”

Nicholas met his gaze, hesitated, then said, “At the beginning. But before I say anything, you need to know that no real secrets were ever sold, traded or in any other way given to the French, at least not by any Selbornes.”

Charles studied him for an instant, then quietly said, “You aren’t going to tell me that this whole business-my involvement, my ex-commander’s, even the murderer’s-is, for want of a better phrase, wide of the mark?”

“Oh, no.” Nicholas’s lips twisted. “The murderer certainly knows the right score. Even you and your ex-commander-everything you’ve been investigating is perfectly real, not any conjuror’s trick. But you and he have throughout been ignorant of one vital element.”

Charles grunted. “That much I’d guessed.”

Nicholas nodded. “So…” He leaned back in the chair, rested his head against the padded back and fixed his gaze on them both. “It started in the 1770s. My father was a junior aide at our embassy in Paris. Paris in those days was the city of civilization; everyone who was anyone lived there much of the time. Howard, your father”-he looked at Penny-“like mine, was as yet unmarried. He came to visit my father and stayed for some years. During that time, my father was approached, oh, at a very friendly level, to, I believe they termed it advise the French on a minor matter of English-French diplomacy.

“At first our fathers were shocked, but that was soon overtaken by excitement.” Nicholas looked at Charles, wearily said, “To understand what happened next, you have to understand the Selborne wild streak.”

Charles raised his brows, fought not to glance at Penny. “Wild streak?”

Nicholas nodded. “I don’t have it, thank God. My father does. You haven’t met him, but he’s…I think the most apt adjective is ‘incorrigible.’ You knew Granville-suffice to say he and my father were kindred spirits. If anything, my sire was-still is-the more outrageous. Howard, Penny’s father, had the streak, too, but a milder version. He wasn’t so likely to instigate outrageous schemes, but he responded to the lure nonetheless.”

Nicholas sighed. “So there my father was, a young, titled, wealthy nobleman with connections to everyone, in Paris, then the shining capital of the world, with his closest friend and stalwart supporter by his side-with an opportunity to play a grand game with the French being laid before him.”

“A game?” Charles said.

“That’s how they saw it, the three of them-my father, Howard, then Granville. It was always a game, a great, glorious, outrageous game, with them always the victors.”

Charles exchanged a quick glance with Penny, then asked, “What were the elements of this game?”

“My father more or less drew up the rules. He agreed to advise the French, but because of his position within the embassy, they needed an intermediary they could trust, namely Howard and later Granville. Payment was to be a pillbox for Howard for successfully passing on the advice, and a snuffbox for my father for the advice itself. They’d both been toying with starting collections; this seemed to them god-sent. At that time in France, all things aristocratic were already being devalued, so those dealing with our benighted parents were ready enough to promise them items of a certain value, drawn from various private, often royal, estates, in exchange for said advice.

“That was the basis of the agreement. What the French didn’t know was that my father was truly brilliant-still is-at anything to do with Eurpoean diplomacy and foreign affairs. He sees into things, picks up nuances”-Nicholas shook his head-“I still go in awe of him, as does everyone in his section at the F.O.”

After a moment, Nicholas met Charles’s gaze. “The critical thing the French didn’t know was that my father fashioned his ‘advice’ from whole cloth.”

Charles blinked. “He made it up?”

Nicholas smiled wryly. “Therein lay the challenge of the game.”

Charles stared at him, then slumped back in the chair and looked at the ceiling. A full minute passed, then he looked at Nicholas. “I’ve seen the pillbox collection. We’re talking of one or two pieces of concocted advice passed every year for fortysomething years.”

Nicholas nodded.

“And the French never found out?”

“Not until after Waterloo. I told you my father’s brilliant, but not about military affairs. Initially, he avoided anything military in his ‘advice.’ The French didn’t care-back in the seventies they were more interested in politics, treaties, and bureaucratic secrets. They were so impressed by my father’s ‘advice,’ which always seemed so accurate, over the years they came to regard him as an unimpeachable source.”

“How,” Penny asked, “could his advice have appeared accurate if it was made up?”

“The French were asking about real situations-there was always a framework of real events.” Nicholas shifted, easing his bandaged shoulders. “In politics and diplomacy, when you’re studying events in another country, what you see is essentially puppets on a stage. You see what’s played out on the stage-but you can’t see what’s going on behind the curtain, what’s being done, what strings pulled and by whom, to cause the actions on the stage. With his insight, my father created alternate behind-the-curtain scenarios to the real ones, scenarios that nevertheless accounted for the actions the French could see.”

Charles nodded. “I’ve come across that sort of thing-misinformation of the highest caliber, almost certain to be believed.”

“Exactly.”

Charles shook his head, not in disbelief but in amazement. “I still can’t believe he managed it for so long.”

“Part of that was due to his success within the F.O. The higher he went, the more he knew, the more he understood, the more his ‘advice’ fitted the observed outcomes-and the more the French believed him.”

“What brought the game undone?”

“In a way, it was Napoleon. When the Peninsula Wars started, the French unsurprisingly wanted information on military matters. Initially, that wasn’t hard to refuse on the grounds it wasn’t something my father would be privy to, but then came Corunna, and the early losses, and, of course, Selbornes have always been patriotic to our toes.

“M’father knew whatever he told the French stood a good chance of being believed. He considered telling the appropriate authorities of his ‘game,’ but decided they would probably not approve, and quite possibly not understand. So, essentially on his own, he decided to embark on military misinformation by including in his otherwise diplomatic advice snippets about military affairs. To do so, he cultivated a friend in the War Office. Given his high status, that was easy enough. He didn’t need to know much, just enough to, with a minor comment, steer the French in the wrong direction, or misadvise them of the timing of events-that sort of thing. Nothing the French actually wanted to know about, just low-level events, very hard to check, very much open to change at the last minute.”

“And they continued to be taken in?”

“Yes. At that time, he’d been their ‘advisor’ for decades and had, as far as they knew, never let them down. He’d also encouraged them to think he was addicted to his collecting.” Nicholas shrugged. “I’m not sure that he’s attached to the snuffboxes themselves so much as that they represent each ‘triumph’ he’s had in misleading the French.”

“I take it,” Charles said, jumping ahead, “that the murderer has been sent here to, in effect, render punishment?”

Nicholas’s expression turned grim. “That seems to be the case.”

“You said they found out after Waterloo.” Penny’s head was reeling. “How? What happened?”

“Remember what it was like then,” Nicholas said, “just a year ago? The near frenzy, tales of the ‘Corsican Monster,’ and so on. My father was tired of it-he wanted an end. Especially when Granville insisted on enlisting.”

Penny straightened in her chair. “Your father came here, just before Granville left. He tried to talk Granville out of going-I heard him.”

Nicholas nodded. “He didn’t want Granville to go. He tried to convince him by sending a last message to the French, tried to get Granville to believe that that was enough for him to do. Granville ran the message, of course, but he wasn’t about to stop there. He still rode off the next day.”

“What was that last message?” Charles asked.

Nicholas met Charles’s eyes. He was patently exhausted, but gamely went on, “My father knew very little of Wellington’s plans. No one did. But through the years of the Peninsula campaigns, my father had, through misdirecting the French, learned a great deal of Wellington’s strategies. When it comes to predicting how people will react when faced with given situations, my sire possesses an innate flair. So he tried to predict Wellington.

“He had access to excellent maps. He studied the terrain, and accurately picked the battlefield. He wanted a snippet, something to divert French attention, just a tiny push in the wrong direction. And this time he didn’t care if they found him out, because he knew this time the dice were being rolled for the last time.”

“What did he tell them?” Charles was leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

Nicholas smiled. “He told them precious little, but he dropped one place name.”

Charles stared at him, simply stared. “Don’t tell me. It begins with an ‘H.’ ”

Penny glanced at Charles, surprised by the sheer awe in his voice. She looked back at Nicholas.

Who nodded. “He told them Hougoumont.”

Charles swore softly, at length, in French.

“Indeed.” Nicholas shook his head. “For all that I think he’s a madman-” He broke off, gestured. “What can you say?”

Charles swore again and surged to his feet. He paced back and forth, then halted and looked at Nicholas. “I was on the field, not near Hougoumont, but none of us could understand why Reille was so obsessed with taking what was simply a protective outpost.”

“Precisely. He thought it was more than an outpost, because he’d been led to think so. My father is a past master at planting ideas without ever actually stating them.”

“Hell!” Charles raked a hand through his hair. “The French will never forgive him for that.”

“No. And I don’t think it’s only that, either.”

Charles looked at Nicholas; after a moment, he nodded. “Once they had reason to suspect, they looked back, and realized…”

“With the passage of years there would now be enough information available-diplomats have a terrible tendency to write memoirs-to expose at least some of his early ‘advice’ as completely bogus.”

“And once they started looking…good God! Talk about rubbing salt into an open wound.” Charles slumped back in his chair; his expression grew distant and progressively stony. “That’s why,” he said softly, “they’ve sent an executioner.”

Nicholas studied his face, then asked, “Are you using that term figuratively, or literally?”

Charles met his gaze. “Literally.” He glanced at Penny, verified that although she was pale, she was her usual composed self. “In the world of informers and ‘advisors,’ there are such people.”

After a moment, he frowned at Nicholas. “Why didn’t you tell me this as soon as I informed you why I was here?”

Nicholas looked back at him. “Would you have believed it?”

When Charles didn’t immediately answer, Nicholas continued, “Think back to what you said last night. You had most of the information, and from it you deduced we, the Selbornes, had been passing secrets for decades. The evidence is the boxes-the pillboxes here and the snuffboxes my father has. Who would believe they’d all been paid for essentially by one man’s imagination? You know more than most about the business, yet you admitted you found it difficult to believe.”

Nicholas paused, then said, “There is no evidence my father passed concoctions and not the truth. It’s much easier to believe, given the boxes and their value, that he passed real information for decades, and for some reason has now fallen out with his ex-masters.”

Charles held his gaze, then straightened in his chair. “You’re right except for one piece of information, and that you don’t know.”

“What?”

“There’s evidence by default that whatever your father passed, it wasn’t real. My ex-commander, Dalziel, is very good as his job, and he never could find evidence of any F.O. secrets actually turning up on the other side.” Charles stood, and stretched; at long last, the whole jigsaw was in place, barring only the executioner’s identity. He looked at Nicholas. “If it comes to it, and I don’t believe it ever will, not now, I’m sure Dalziel will be able to trace, and prove, instances of your father’s misdirection.”

“Oh.” Nicholas blinked up at him, then asked, “So what do we do next?” He grimaced. “I hope you’re reading your ex-commander correctly because you haven’t seen the snuffboxes.”

“Knowing Dalziel, he’ll be more interested in talking with your father.”

“In that, I wish him joy. The old man drives me insane.”

Charles grinned. “He’ll probably take to Dalziel.” He studied Nicholas’s careworn face, and sobered. “When did you learn of”-he gestured-“your father’s wild game?”

Nicholas snorted and closed his eyes. “He never told me. He, Howard, and Granville all knew I wouldn’t approve, that I’d force them to stop, so they kept it their secret.”

“They didn’t tell me, or anyone else, either,” Penny said.

Nicholas nodded. “I found out last December when by chance I came upon him in the priest hole here. He was examining the pillboxes. Once I’d seen them, they had to be explained. That was the first I’d heard of it.”

Charles hesitated, then said, “Your father retired from the F.O. in ’08.”

Without opening his eyes, Nicholas nodded again. “But I was there by then, and senior enough to have dispatch boxes frequently with me at home, preparing them for the secretary or the minister, or analyzing the latest developments.” He sighed. “My father was always a night owl. He knew how to handle the boxes. It was easy to take a peek when everyone else was abed. I never guessed…”

“Why would you?” Charles paced. “When the murderer killed Gimby, you must have suspected what he was after. Why didn’t you leave?”

Eyes still closed, Nicholas’s lips twisted. “Granville was gone, and so was Howard. The French didn’t know me specifically, but I assumed whoever they’d sent would believe that, as my father’s son, I’d been a player in the game. Then when Mary was killed, I realized he must have been sent to get some of the boxes, too…” He shrugged, winced, and caught his breath as his wounds pulled. “It seemed wiser to stay, and give him a target here…and you were here, too.”

“Better here than at Amberly, or in London?”

Nicholas’s lips quirked, but he didn’t reply.

Charles looked at Penny, read her concern; Nicholas was wilting fast. “The next thing we need do is to lay the whole before Dalziel-we can work on that tomorrow. There’s nothing more to do tonight-we may as well retire.”

Nicholas nodded, opened his eyes, and struggled to sit up.

Sliding a hand beneath Nicholas’s arm, Charles helped him to his feet. Nicholas stood, almost swaying, then he gathered himself. “Thank you.”

Penny rose. She and Charles walked with Nicholas, one on either side, up the stairs. When they reached the top, Nicholas smiled, tired but faintly amused, and saluted them. “I can manage by myself from here.”

Impulsively, Penny put a hand on his arm, stretched up, and kissed his cheek. “Take care. Ring if you need help. Charles has guards doing the rounds all night, so don’t be surprised at the footsteps. We’ll see you at breakfast.”

Nicholas nodded and turned away. They watched him walk slowly to his room, open the door, and go inside.

Together, they turned. She slipped her hand in Charles’s arm, and they headed for her room.

Ten minutes later, she slipped under the covers, and snuggled up against Charles. He was lying on his back, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. One hand on his chest, she pushed back enough to look into his face. “What are you thinking?”

His gaze flicked down to meet hers. “That strange though it seems, having disliked him and having him dislike me on first sight, I now have a certain sympathy for old Nicholas.” His lips curved. Drawing his hands from under his head, he closed his arms about her and lifted her so she lay atop him. “He’s had to deal with the Selborne wild streak, and he’s really not up to it.”

She arched a brow. “And you are, I suppose.”

He smiled, devilishly, and shifted beneath her. “Oh, yes.”