Blackstone's Bride (8 page)

“Violet, my job is to keep you and your father from harm. Other members of our . . . organization are looking for Frank.”

“Did they find him today? Are you in communication with them?”

“Today someone questioned customs officials and everyone who was on board that ship. One of the
Madagascar
’s crew overheard a suspicious conversation and observed the countess in a part of the ship where he was surprised to see her. We have an idea that a distraction, created by the unloading of the prince’s horses, allowed them to remove your brother before the inspectors came aboard.”

“You think Frank was on the ship.”

“Yes.”

The plain certainty of the answer stopped her a moment, but then she looked at him, at the way he leaned an elbow on the mantel, his shirt open at the throat, his face a mask of indifference. She drew in a breath and began again. “The prince thinks—”

“The prince ‘thinks’ may be putting it too strongly.”

“The prince thinks Frank took off in Spain in pursuit of a woman, and the countess implied that he went seeking a gypsy woman.”

She thought some reaction registered in Blackstone’s eyes, but he only gave a brief dry laugh. “Not like your brother to mix banking duties and women.”

“It comes back to the countess then. Blackstone, you cannot think that peahen is in charge of some conspiracy.”

“No, but you can see that the prince is not in charge.”

She had to admit that she could.

“I’d say he’s being managed, or he’s having his strings pulled like a puppet or one of those French automata. He moves his limbs and speaks, but his head is empty.” Again he looked at the fire, not at her, absorbed in some train of thought he did not wish to share.

“So, we go shopping?” She knew her voice sounded hollow.

“Not tomorrow. What did the prince say to you?”

“He wants to ride in the morning. He wants to show off his stallion, Oberon.”

“Good, the park is a public place. You should come to no harm there.” He pushed away from the mantelpiece and was gone. He didn’t even offer her a bow.

He did leave the fire going, and she went to bank it. As she reviewed their conversation in her head, she realized how entirely professional he had been, an agent of the government, looking out for the interests of his majesty’s loyal subjects. That was as it should be. It was Frank’s situation, not Blackstone’s professionalism, that weighed on her spirits.

* * *

Blackstone had to question his sanity as he settled himself for another watchful night in Hammersley House. He had spent the day in the company of two women, both with claims to beauty, one who hung on his arm, flattered him, and did everything in her power to suggest an absolute reliance on his manly strength, and the other who refused his assistance and questioned his character and competence at every turn. And the second woman, the one who doubted him, was a woman who had betrayed him, cast him off, and used him ill when he had most counted on her love.

When all of London believed him to be a shocking profligate with no sense of duty or honor, he had counted on Violet to know him better, to know who he was no matter what was said of him, or what that painting might suggest. His own lips had been sealed by a promise.

Five years had not changed Violet’s opinion of him. She still believed the worst reports about his character.

Naturally, his mind fixed on the glow of her pale skin against her dark hair, the lively flash of her eyes, and the sweet pursing of her mouth, a preface to some barb of her wit.

Naturally he wanted to remove her clothes and expose the spare, elegant female architecture, chaste as marble, smooth and curved and unadorned, that was a naked Violet Hammersley.

Chapter Eight

“Do you suppose them to be in London?”

“Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?”

—Jane Austen,
Pride and Prejudice

Over coffee and the club’s excellent rolls, supplied by Wilde, Blackstone made another report to Goldsworthy. The situation was puzzling and irritating at once. Either the facts didn’t add up or his brain didn’t work in the face of Violet Hammersley. Yesterday he had touched her twoscore times. Whatever he told himself about her coldness, her betrayal, it was impossible for his body not to seek hers. In the clear light of day he tried to remember his Newton and the hours of university lessons about planets, suns, and moons, and the forces that spun them together and apart. There must be some law to explain his attraction to Violet. In the past, every touch between them had held the possibility of a conflagration, but that fire should have died. They should be no more to each other than a pair of lifeless rocks, circling each other in the vast reaches of the heavens, all that radiant energy of the past, spent.

Nothing he knew about carnal relations or physics explained why he had not left Hammersley House until he was sure she and her father were in no danger. He’d mocked himself for staying so long, but he’d done it anyway. Time, distance, other impressions should have dimmed the betrayal of the past. Desire should not wake with such fire, like a sleeping dragon.

Before dawn he’d returned to his room at the club. Now he accepted a cup of Wilde’s excellent coffee, and under its influence he gathered his wits. The usual hammering and muffled voices of workmen sounded from behind the canvas curtain in Goldsworthy’s office.

“Put an announcement of your engagement in the paper, lad,” Goldsworthy announced, settling behind his enormous desk.

Blackstone narrowly avoided burning his tongue. He had yet another reason to distrust Goldsworthy’s amiable façade. “Why did you? It’s the usual custom for the parties involved to announce their betrothal.”

“No need to thank me, lad. I saw that you would be too busy to make things official.”

Goldsworthy’s hands lay flat on his paper-covered desk again, thick fingers spread. It was a sharper’s trick, a sleight of hand, the appearance of openness that concealed the big man’s grand scheme. Blackstone met the man’s gaze and watched a gleam of appreciation light there as if Goldsworthy were pleased with an apt pupil. “What do we know?”

“Frank Hammersley should be dead. If he had or has information that led to the deaths of two British agents, someone wants him stopped.”

“But he’s not dead.”

“Whoever has him certainly wants his family to think he’s neither dead nor in danger, merely delayed.”

Blackstone waited to see whether Goldsworthy would volunteer any information. He knew both Goldsworthy and Wilde had been to the docklands, but the big man merely nodded for him to continue.

“The prince arrived with a letter for Hammersley’s sister. She says the handwriting is Frank’s, but the words aren’t. He wouldn’t address her in those terms or close the letter in the way he did. I had his valet make a copy.” He handed Preston’s work to Goldsworthy.

Goldsworthy looked over the note. “The prince gave it to her, you say. Where’d the prince get it? And when?”

“He claims it was left for him in Gibraltar.” Blackstone had puzzled over those details as well. He couldn’t picture the prince standing over Frank dictating that message.

“Convenient that note, from a man who went off to do his business without his luggage.”

“It’s safe to say that Frank and his luggage have been separated for days. His trunk has been thoroughly searched, linings slit, and his valise and satchel have been emptied.”

“What’s missing?”

“We don’t know what was in the satchel. His valet says the valise had a gentleman’s personal items, and that two coats, one blue, one green, a pair of gray trousers, and two waistcoats, burgundy and cream, are not in the trunk.”

“Hammersley must be wearing one set of clothes, but not two.”

Blackstone nodded grimly. He, too, had seen something amiss in the extra missing clothes. Kidnappers rarely provided their victims a change of attire.

“Did you note that, Wilde?”

“Got it, sir. Two coats, gray trousers, two waistcoats.”

“So someone looked for Hammersley’s report. The question is—did they find it?”

Blackstone could think of a half dozen other questions about the missing report. “Wouldn’t Hammersley be dead, if they had?”

Again he waited for Goldsworthy to volunteer information. The big man tapped his fingers together. “Hammersley had arranged to get a copy to our agent.”

“But the agent, two agents, ended up dead. Why kill the agents? Why not kill Frank and take his report?” He watched Goldsworthy’s face and got the clue he was looking for. “You think that if Frank Hammersley is alive, he’s on the wrong side in this matter?”

“Frank Hammersley was empowered to provide Moldova with another hundred thousand pounds.”

Blackstone’s brain was not so sluggish that he didn’t recognize that Goldsworthy had just altered the game substantially. “Where’s the money?”

“Exactly the question that disturbs Lord Chartwell.”

“The government thinks Hammersley took the funds? I beg your pardon.” Blackstone shook his head and set his coffee on the edge of Goldsworthy’s enormous desk. The government didn’t know Frank. It was through Frank that he met Violet, and through Violet that he lost Frank’s friendship. He hadn’t thought of that piece of his loss in awhile. “Hammersley is a partner in his father’s bank. He’s worth forty thousand pounds a year. He doesn’t need the government’s money.”

“Is the bank sound?”

“As any bank, I’d wager.” Blackstone had been out of the country a year, but since his return, he’d heard nothing to indicate another bank crisis loomed. Goldsworthy’s mild manner did not deceive him. Frank’s situation was worse than he’d imagined. The government was Frank’s only hope, and the government suspected Frank of murder and treason.

“Well, it’s too soon to tell, lad, but two agents are dead and Hammersley may have been the last person to see either of them alive.” Goldsworthy’s face wore its most cordial aspect. The canvas behind him bellied slightly with some shift of the air in the concealed room. Another uncomfortable realization struck Blackstone. The government expected Frank to contact his family. Goldsworthy had put Blackstone in place to catch any communication Frank might attempt. It was his job to betray Violet Hammersley. No wonder he’d been chosen for it. He had an unreasonable urge to slam his fist into Goldsworthy’s solid, substantial person, but it would be exactly like taking a swing at an old oak. Instead he found himself defending Frank.

“If Hammersley arrived to find bodies, he might have prudently exited.”

Goldsworthy rose to his imposing height and came round the desk to give Blackstone a hearty clap to his shoulder. “You’ve a fine grasp of the situation, lad. Stick with it. Where do you go today?”

“Riding. In the park.”

Goldsworthy nodded and turned to Wilde. “You, my boy, must do some more scouting for us in the docklands. I’ll have another chat with the customs official assigned to the prince’s ship. Off with you both then.”

Blackstone passed through the coffee room on his way out of the club, drawing the inevitable notice of Hazelwood and Clare.

“Where are you off to this morning?” Hazelwood seemed permanently molded to his sofa, but he never missed the others’ movements or let anyone leave without an inquisition. Whatever plans Goldsworthy had for Blackstone’s fellow spies had not developed. They were at the moment a pair of lucky sods.

“A ride in the park.”

“Don’t you have adventures! Let’s see you off then. Clubmen must stick together, right, Clare?” Hazelwood rolled to his feet, his wild hair and stained and rumpled clothing at odds with the sharp intelligence in his eyes.

Clare grinned. “Never let your fellow clubman down, I say.”

Hazelwood and Clare followed Blackwood down the stairs to the club entrance. They stood in the portico under the scaffolding. A pair of workmen passed overhead on board pathways. It occurred to Blackstone that the scaffolding concealed the club’s entrance and public rooms from view. A carriage could pull up to the entrance and a man could arrive or leave without being observed by passersby. As long as the scaffolding remained in place, the building would seem unoccupied.

The next moment Wilde appeared dressed in rough clothes, holding the reins of a pathetic creature that might once have passed for a horse. Blackstone took one look at the animal, and knew he was doomed to his fellows’ abuse. He had not thought he missed having his own stables, till now. He couldn’t make himself move forward to take the reins that Wilde held out.

Hazelwood shook his head slowly. “By the way, Wilde, never choose an animal for me. My reputation as a gentleman wouldn’t be able to take it.”

Wilde cast Blackstone an abashed look. “Sorry, sir. Not my area. A fellow named Isaiah Tongue usually supplies our horses. Had no time to reach him this morning.”

“Don’t worry, Wilde. I’ll survive. Just get yourself to Wapping.” Blackstone took a deep breath, stepped out of the concealment of the portico, and mounted the old plug in front of him. He stroked the animal’s neck, wondering if he could rouse a pulse in the beast.

“Well, Blackstone, if you’re lucky, the nag will expire before you reach the park.”

* * *

As the prince and his party turned, making their way back through the park, Violet began to calculate how much longer they would be exposed to public view. There was no sign of Blackstone yet. She had not told him the hour at which the prince intended to ride, but had let him assume.

Naturally the prince’s glittering braid and his matching black horses had drawn stares but only from early morning walkers and grooms exercising their employers’ mounts. The prince led the way, accompanied by his grim bodyguard, Cahul, a formidable figure in a blue uniform with a tall bearskin hat. Violet heard a pair of passing horse guards remark on his fanciful uniform.

“French? The King’s Guard?”

“No, must be Russian. See the insignia. The Emperor’s Marine Guard.”

Behind the prince, the count and countess made a pair. Again Violet was struck by the apparent age difference between them. Blackstone believed the countess had some role in Frank’s disappearance, and Violet meant to study the woman closely without Blackstone’s distracting presence. This morning the countess hardly seemed helpless. Her horse was as spirited as any of the others, and she managed the animal easily. She never touched her husband or asked for his help as she did with Blackstone.

The prince’s secretary, General Gustav Dubusari, and Violet brought up the rear of the party. The prince looked about, hoping for more notice. At intervals he liked to have Oberon perform a
pesade
with his front legs neatly tucked, as if the horse were a circus animal.

Violet had ignored his antics and set herself to question General Dubusari. The old man had a gentle look. He wore his coat loose on his wiry frame. His quaint powdered wig and his habit of steepling his fingers together suggested both the scholar and connoisseur. He had needed assistance to mount, but once on horseback he seemed to have no trouble controlling his horse. Like the prince he wore a jacket with a distinct military cut and the endless gold braid. Violet thought that perhaps making the braid might be the chief industry of Moldova. She tried to imagine the old general kidnapping Frank and failed. Frank was too smart, too strong.

“The prince designed our uniforms himself,” General Dubusari told her. “Young as he is, he has genuine taste. He is a great patron of the arts. Perhaps you and Lord Blackstone can direct us to the studios of the principal artists in London. The prince will want to add to his collection.”

They had nearly completed a circuit of the bridal path under the budding plane trees when Blackstone approached. Violet pulled thoughtlessly at her horse’s head and had to soothe the animal, a bright bay mare with black mane and legs. She had turned to riding in the past few years. Neither her father nor her brother rode, but she had sought instruction and bettered her skills so that now she could handle her playful mare no matter what offenses London offered a horse’s sensibilities. It was Blackstone whose mount stuck out. She wondered how he came to be riding a pathetic slug with a shuffle one would expect of an invalid taking the waters at Bath.

She could not imagine what had happened to his stable to reduce him to riding such an animal. Perhaps he had lost a wager. The prince brought the shocking contrast between horse and rider to everyone’s attention.

“Lord Blackstone is the perfect English gentleman, but his horse is no worthy of him. Miss Hammersley, I think, has a finer horse, and she is what you call a commoner.” He emphasized his point with a wide sweep of his arm between the two horses.

“There is nothing common about my betrothed, prince,” Blackstone’s tight smile, directed at Violet, might fool others but not her. “I’m sorry I’m late, my love.”

“Yes, Lord Blackstone. It is too bad of you to be late. We could have raced.” The prince turned to Violet. “Miss Hammersley, you will enjoy a race with me.”

“Ladies do not gallop in the park, Prince,” Blackstone pointed out, just as if he were in charge of her.

“I would not spoil your pleasure, Prince. Were my brother here to lend me countenance, I should like a gallop, but without him my spirits are not equal to it.”

“Ah, Miss Hammersley, forgive me. I forget the brother’s absence makes this difficulty. Lord Blackstone will oblige me.”

Blackstone stroked the neck of his deplorable nag. “You can see, Prince, that I cannot offer you a challenge this morning.”

“But my poor horse, my Oberon, he must show that he is a worthy opponent of the English horse.”

“We can see that he is, Prince,” Violet said. She caught the grim look on Blackstone’s face. She did not know how he came to be riding such a slug, but she could see it did not suit him to be backed into a corner by the idiot prince. She tried to dissuade the prince. “You will spoil your magnificent uniform, Prince. The muddy track will throw up clods and splatter.”