Checkmate, My Lord (5 page)

Catherine stared at the garden’s arched entrance long after her daughter had disappeared around the corner. “She will not be pleasant company at the lake now, thanks to you.”

“Nonsense,” her mother said. “One bite from a fish and her sunny disposition will resurface. You know as well as I do that Sophie does not sulk for long.”

“True.” Catherine’s response ended on a long sigh.

“What’s wrong, daughter?” Warm fingers closed over Catherine’s arm.

The simple touch replenished Catherine’s faltering courage and, at the same time, splayed open her terrified heart. “Lord Somerton has returned.”

Her mother’s hold tightened. “Did you speak with him?”

“Yes. He came upon me at Bellamere while I was admonishing Mr. Blake about the bridge repair.”

“What did he do?”

“He threw the steward out of his study.”

“No.” Her mother’s eyes rounded. “You jest.”

“Not at all,” Catherine said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Blake finds himself searching for employment elsewhere. Quite soon, in fact.”

“I do like a decisive man,” her mother said. “Months of turmoil resolved in a single afternoon. Makes you wonder why wars are fought.”

“Greed causes wars, Mother. Not broken bridges.”

“Enough about that now.” Her mother waved the subject away as one would a pesky insect. “Did he say anything about Ashcroft’s letters?”

“No,” Catherine said. “He did ask to call on me after Sunday services, though.”

“Why not tomorrow?”

Catherine recalled his haggard features, even more pronounced than when she had seen him in London. “He has much to attend to at Bellamere.”

“Indeed,” her mother said. “Given his current coil, I suspect Lord Somerton will want to confirm the contents of your husband’s letters. Probably wants to make sure Ashcroft did not implicate him in any way.”

“Implicate him in what?”

“I have no notion,” her mother said. “This situation has grown so complicated that I wouldn’t be surprised if a French spy were to appear before this was all over.”

“Oh, Mother,” Catherine said. “Do not let that active mind of yours run amok. As much as I hate to consider this, I suspect Jeffrey attached himself to the wrong woman and Mr. Cochran and Lord Somerton are somehow involved.”

“I must say I like my theory better,” her mother said. “Yours is just so… common.”

“Indeed, it is.”

They stared at the garden gate, both steeped in their own musings, then Catherine shattered the silence. “I am thinking of offering Lord Somerton my help.”

“Help with what, dear?”

Swallowing back her apprehension, Catherine said, “He’s been away for a long while. It will take him days to meet with the tenants, hear their grievances, locate the appropriate craftsmen, and monitor their work. All while he searches for a new steward.”

“Don’t you have a list of what needs to be done?”

“Yes,” Catherine said. “I gave what I had to him, but I’m sure he will wish to visit each site.”

“What are you thinking, daughter? Why this?”

Catherine braced herself. “Working with the earl on the repairs will give me an opportunity to observe his activities.”

Her mother’s lips thinned into a firm line. “I do not understand what this Mr. Cochran thinks you will see. It’s not likely that his lordship will reveal anything of value. One does not carry on about one’s treasonous exploits in front of a neighbor.”

“You are no doubt right.” Catherine found herself unable to confess that she had another reason for spending time in the earl’s presence. “However, according to Mr. Cochran, Lord Somerton knew more about Jeffrey’s death than he let on during our conversation. Perhaps I will see or hear something of relevance.”

“I can’t be comfortable with this situation,” her mother said. “Lord Somerton is no fool.”

“Nor am I,” Catherine said. “I will remain vigilant.”

“Promise me, you will cease this charade the moment you detect danger.”

“Promise.” Catherine kissed her mother’s forehead, then sighed. “Even in death, my husband keeps us in a constant state of anticipation. Always waiting for some sign of him—a letter, a gift, a visit. Why did I not put an end to this half-life three years ago after he missed Sophie’s fourth birthday?”

“What would you have done, Catherine?” her mother asked. “Gone to London and dragged your husband home?”

“Why not? It’s what a husband would have done to a wife in similar circumstances.”

“I can think of two reasons.” She anchored the basket around both her forearms. “One, if you had managed to force your husband home—and that’s a rather large if—society would have labeled you a termagant and your husband a gelding.”

“Mother, I don’t think—”

“And two, any man who must be led home by his ear would not have made a happy addition to this household.” Her lips pursed. “I daresay if you had not been moved to stick a knitting needle in his eye, I would have.”

Catherine’s lips twitched. Wouldn’t the infamous Isaac Cruikshank have had a jolly time drawing a continuity scene with Catherine dragging her husband home by his oversized ears in one drawing and her mother chasing after her wayward son-in-law with a sharp, gleaming knitting needle in another? She could even see the title of the caricature:
The
Gelding
.

The humorous Cruikshank scene faded to the back of her mind and an image of her daughter’s hopeful, yet guarded expression surfaced. An expression she had seen so many times over the years, one that diminished into disappointment and then resignation.

“A daughter should know the security and strength of her father.”

“Yes,” her mother said. “But so few do when competing with the
ton
’s entertainments or the Crown’s business.”

Catherine’s throat clenched at the note of regret tingeing her mother’s voice. For years, she had resented her mother’s passive attitude toward her father’s long absences while an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Not until she found herself standing in her mother’s shoes had she been able to put aside old resentments—and exchange them for new ones.

“Sophie will survive the void left behind by her father,” her mother said. “She will come out of it stronger, more self-reliant, and more considerate of others’ feelings.” She paused, her determined gaze boring into Catherine’s. “As you did.”

Catherine lifted the older woman’s hands to her mouth and kissed the backs of each. “As
we
did, Mother.”

Her mother’s fingers squeezed Catherine’s. “Yes. As
we
did.”

They stayed that way for several seconds until her mother pulled away, wiping moisture from her cheeks. “We cannot let this business with Lord Somerton and Mr. Cochran carry on too long. Not only is it dangerous, you and Sophie must move on with your lives. No more wallowing around in this senseless guilt.”

“Mother, I—”

Voices from within the garden interrupted Catherine’s rebuttal. A young girl’s high-pitched voice intermingled with a man’s low baritone. Before long, Sophie and their manservant, Edward, passed beneath the arch, toting rods, creel baskets, and a container full of worms.

“I’m ready, Mama.” Sophie ran the short distance, her creel sliding off her shoulder. She displayed none of her earlier ill humors.

Catherine ignored her mother’s gloating look. “Here, let me help you with that, dear.” She lifted the long strap supporting the creel and hooked it around her daughter’s neck, so that it rested diagonally across her small body. Made for adults, the basket still bounced low against the girl’s knee. “Is that better?”

“Oh, yes,” Sophie said. “Now I won’t have to worry about losing my fish.”

Catherine gestured to the rods Edward held. “I’ll take those.”

“You sure, ma’am? I can carry them down to the lake so you don’t soil your fine dress.”

She glanced down at her black merino riding habit. “Thank you, Edward. You’re right, of course.” To Sophie, she said, “Run along to the lake while I change into something more appropriate.”

“Yes, Mama.” Her small frame nearly vibrated with its need to run free.

“Listen to Edward,” Catherine warned. “Do not go into the water and be careful with the hook.”

“Yes, Mama.” Her acknowledgment came faster this time, more impatient.

“Don’t you worry none about us, ma’am,” Edward said. “I’ll take good care of Miss Sophie until you arrive.”

“I know you will, Edward. I’ll see you both in a little while.”

“Come, Miss Sophie,” the manservant said. “Have you ever played Ducks and Drakes?”

“No,” Sophie said, beaming. “But I’m sure I’d like to.”

“Oh, you’ll love this game,” he said. “You take a nice flat rock, you see, and throw it across the lake’s surface…”

While the two gabbled on about the best angle for skipping rocks, Catherine strode to the house, with her mother at her side. “He’s always so patient with her.”

“You probably worry about her antics more than the rest of us,” her mother said. “It’s a mother’s lot, but try not to stifle her exuberance too much, daughter. I always feel much younger when in her presence.”

“This coming from the woman who told my daughter to ‘temper her enthusiasm’ on Saturday?”

Her mother sent her a cross look. “Most of our guests understand the situation here, but I thought she needed a gentle reminder about appearances.”

“You were quite right, as always.” Catherine patted her mother’s arm. “I must go change.”

“Enjoy your time at the lake, dear.”

Catherine climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, but instead of ringing for a maid to assist her with her dress, she went to her writing box, one of the few presents hand-delivered by her husband. He had taken great delight in showing her the box’s hidden compartment, thinking it a clever contraption. She thought back to when she had shown Sophie how the mechanism worked. Her daughter had been spellbound for an entire week, constantly asking Catherine to open the secret compartment. When this business with Cochran and Lord Somerton was behind them, she would present the writing box to Sophie. Her daughter would cherish it far more than Catherine.

She tapped the edge of one panel and another clicked open. Lifting the panel wider, she retrieved a stack of five letters. Although no one else knew of her hiding spot, she wanted to make sure the letters were where she left them, knowing she would have to deliver them to the earl on Sunday.

The moment she had returned home from London, she had sifted through her final stash of missives for any mention of a Mr. Cochran. She didn’t come across his name until she had reached the final letter. Even though she knew it would be fruitless, she pulled the folded missive from the beribboned packet and attempted to decipher Jeffrey’s words. But like the last hundred times, chunks of legible phrases were broken up by a series of meaningless words.

With impatient fingers, she refolded the note and jammed it on top of the others. She tossed the packet into the secret compartment and moved to close it.

“Mama, are you ready?”

Catherine pivoted to find Sophie standing in her bedchamber’s doorway, flushed and unkempt.

“Not yet, dear,” she said. “I thought you were headed down to the lake with Edward.”

“I wanted to bring my little wooden boat.” She held up one of the first figures Jeffrey had carved for Castle Dragonthorpe.

“Be careful not to lose it.”

“Yes, Mama.” Sophie’s blue eyes settled on the writing box briefly. “I’ll see you at the lake.”

“I won’t be but ten minutes behind you.”

Sophie smiled. “Enough time for me to catch the biggest fish.” Then she was gone.

Catherine laughed and turned to close the secret compartment on the writing desk. She smoothed her fingers over the fine grain, contemplating her meeting with the earl after Sunday services. Once she handed the letters over to Lord Somerton, she hoped he would soon be able to answer all of her questions.

An exhilarating trepidation coursed through her blood. And God help her, she looked forward to seeing the earl again. She became
aware
while near him. Aware of her heartbeat, aware of her flushed cheeks. And aware of the ache between her legs. All of these sensations had been denied her for so long, she had nearly forgotten they existed.

Her fingers found the buttons on her riding jacket, and she began unfastening them. Jeffrey might not have desired her, but she hadn’t mistaken the glimmer of interest in the earl’s eyes.

Remembrance alone was enough to send a pulse of heat through her body. She would hold onto the heat and the memory of the earl’s silvery eyes until Sunday, the day she would become a spy.

August 10

Sebastian Danvers tipped back the last of his brandy, his mood blacker than the cheerless moon outside his library window. Alone with his own thoughts, his mind had inevitably focused on Lord Latymer’s scheme with the French to have him assassinated. From the moment he’d learned of his friend’s treachery, Sebastian’s well-crafted plans to put an end to Napoleon’s dictatorship had splintered into a thousand useless fragments.

Latymer’s deception had come close to crippling the Nexus beyond redemption. Had the French succeeded in killing him a fortnight ago, his agents would have been operating blind, placing them and England in jeopardy. The safeguards he’d put in place long ago would have bought them all a little time, but not much.

All his attention to detail had still not protected his wards, and as a result, both had come close to losing their lives in a recent skirmish with a depraved Frenchman. Sebastian had never married and had no intention of doing so; therefore, Cora and Ethan were the closest he would ever come to being a father. Even with them, his role was more mentor than parent.

Unfortunately, Latymer’s treachery was not the worst complication of Sebastian’s last mission. The former under-superintendent’s subsequent, and rather convenient, escape forced the Alien Office to turn its suspicious eye on Sebastian. He was officially
unofficially
placed on leave. Relegated to the country like some recalcitrant child while the new Superintendent of Aliens sifted through his confidential files for signs of sedition.

Gritting his teeth, he strolled back to the brandy decanter and poured another healthy measure into his glass. A man in his position did not surrender over a decade’s worth of clandestine operation files without experiencing a degree of gut-churning dread.

Sebastian turned to stare at the single sheet of paper resting on the small writing desk. The damned thing had kept him pacing long into the night. Before he’d left London, Superintendent Reeves had demanded a list of names, precious names. His agents’ names. Sebastian had protected his operatives for years by never revealing their identities. Not to his superiors, nor to other operatives. Everyone used code names to protect them and their families.

Thank God for his foresight. Had he shared their identities and current locations with Latymer, they would all likely be dead now. But the combination of Reeves’s request and Sebastian’s brush with death gnawed at his conscience. For the first time, he began to question his decision to not share his agents’ information with a select few at the Alien Office.

What if his safeguards failed? What would become of those he had protected with his silence? Who would take command of the Nexus and lead his agents safely through their next mission?

He had only to recall Cora’s captivity in an enemy dungeon for that particular point to be driven home. If the madman who had kidnapped her hadn’t carried a distorted version of love for her, Sebastian suspected she would have left the dungeon in pieces, rather than sustaining horrid bruises, cuts, and burn marks.

Still, he hesitated. If the request had come from his previous superintendent, William Wickham, Sebastian would have had fewer qualms about handing over such deadly information to a man he knew and trusted.

In the year since Reeves’s appointment, he had allowed Sebastian to run the Nexus as he saw fit. Sebastian was certain a gentleman with Reeves’s credentials—Oxford education, learned lawyer, King’s Printer—would look into the backgrounds of those closest to him. The same as Sebastian had done when Reeves accepted the appointment. If Latymer had whispered lies into Reeves’s ear, Sebastian would have to trust that the superintendent would use that clever mind of his to untangle the lies from the truth.

Tearing his gaze away from the blank sheet of paper, he strode to the window and pressed his forehead against a cool pane, savoring the contrast to his heated skin. He looked to the east, toward the widow’s estate. From this vantage point, he could just make out… nothing. With a new moon riding high in the sky, he could barely see the large urn-shaped flowerpots marking the entrance to the sunken garden.

Thoughts of the widow brought him back to his blunder on the terrace earlier in the day. Unobtrusively scanning an area for potential threats was one of the first tasks he’d mastered after joining the Alien Office. So, how was it that a widow from the country noticed his preoccupation, but skilled international spies could not?

From what little he had gleaned from his butler, Mrs. Ashcroft made a habit of detecting people’s failures. His steward’s in particular, and now his. Her keen observation skills weren’t the only reason for him to remain vigilant in her presence. While speaking with her earlier in the day, he’d had an annoying tendency to compare her honey-colored hair to that of a soft winter’s sun and her petite, yet perfectly proportioned figure to sculptures he’d seen of the Roman goddess Venus.

With Superintendent Reeves searching his private files and the widow distracting his thoughts, it was no wonder he’d bungled his surveillance of the garden and the shadowed tree line beyond. Sebastian closed his eyes and forced the tension from his neck, shoulders, and arms. He worked his way down his body until his knees unlocked, and he leaned his weight fully against the windowsill.

Damnation, he was tired. Intrigue had ruled his thoughts for so long that he could not recall a time when the Realm’s safety hadn’t commanded his daily schedule. Long hours, sleepless nights, and extended trips away from home. Add in a liberal dose of lies, deceptions, and countermeasures, and one had a recipe for growing older far faster than the body was designed to handle. His three and a half decades suddenly held the weight of a man twenty years his senior.

Pushing away from the window, he liberated his glass of its amber contents. The expensive liquor slid down his throat with practiced ease but refused to dull his disquieting thoughts. He grabbed the decanter and sat down at his desk with an uncharacteristic
plop
.

A glass in one hand and the decanter in the other, he rested his forearms on his desk, framing the sheet of paper. The emptiness mocked him. Burned his eyes with its challenging glare. Why hadn’t he thrown the bothersome thing back in the drawer and said to hell with Reeves and his debilitating demands? Because he couldn’t answer one simple question:
Should
he?

His heart began the familiar, painful tattoo while he watched ghostly vowels and consonants weave together to create forbidden links. Links that could one day force a power-driven ruler to his conquering knees.

Sebastian had sworn never to write down such valuable intelligence. If the information fell into the wrong hands, dozens of lives he was responsible for would be forfeited, and by extension, hundreds would perish.
Should
he?

Dear God, he didn’t know. Never in his life had he been so indecisive. But this decision could have ramifications far beyond his comprehension. And yet, if he did not give Reeves the list of secret service agents and something happened to him
and
his safeguards collapsed, the Nexus would suffer. England would suffer.

He tipped the heavy crystal decanter toward his glass again, not stopping until the liquid threatened to spill over the side. He stared at the trembling contents for a long contemplative moment before raising the drink to his lips and indulging in an uncivilized gulp, and waited.

Ah, there it was. Finally.

The first stirrings of numbness penetrated the deep recesses of his mind like a slow, thick fog pushing through the streets of London. Sebastian inhaled a cooling breath, silently encouraging the numbness to greater depths. He took another sip for good measure before exchanging his half-empty tumbler for an ink-dipped quill and then steeled himself against the inevitable bout of sickness. Because no matter how potent the spirit, Sebastian would never feel at ease with what he was about to do.

Dabbing the pen’s nib against the inkwell, Sebastian considered his first entry. None of them would be easy, but the first—the first name would start an unpredictable series of events that frankly scared the hell out of him. He tightened his hold on the pen. Who would be his first sacrifice?

Images flashed before his eyes with blinding speed, making his head spin and his world tilt to the left. That’s when he saw it.

A missive propped against the table lamp. He recalled Grayson handing it to him hours ago, but he had paid it no mind for he had already crossed the threshold into the darkness that engulfed him more and more these days. Why he noticed it now, he couldn’t be sure. But he welcomed the distraction.

Replacing the quill, Sebastian picked up the missive and regarded the neat script. Beautifully formed letters made by a confident hand. He lifted the parchment to his nose and detected a faint feminine scent that managed to calm his raging imagination in a way the alcohol hadn’t.

Breaking the seal, he pressed open the folds and skimmed the contents. Warmth flooded his chest.

Dear Lord Somerton,

I do hope you are settling in at Bellamere Park. After giving your situation additional consideration, I would like to extend an offer of my services. I have come to know the craftsmen in the area quite well and can make recommendations based on that knowledge.

Should you wish to go it alone; however, I have taken the top three pressing issues from my previous list and indicated an appropriate craftsman for the task. Grayson will know how to contact them. This abbreviated list will get you started while you are sorting through the circumstances at Bellamere.

Please let me know if I can be of further assistance.

Your faithful neighbor,

Catherine Ashcroft

Catherine
. His thumb traced over the widow’s signature. Like her handwriting, her name exuded quiet confidence, warmth, and invitation. The room shifted again, righting itself, and the darkness surrounding him began to ebb away.

She wanted to help him.

Sebastian could not recall the last time someone wanted to be of service to him without an outstretched hand in return or, in less favorable circumstances, using the service as a mask for something a great deal more diabolical. He supposed the widow could be pandering to him in the hopes of snagging a new husband.

But that scheme did not ring true. With a difficult marriage behind her, she would not be keen on taking vows again. Unlike the aristocracy, Ashcroft had no qualms about investing his money in the Stock Exchange. As a result, his widow and daughter were set for the foreseeable future. However, she was nothing if not practical and would want what was best for her daughter. Which meant she might be father-shopping rather than husband-hunting.

He pressed the tips of his fingers into the flesh covering his pounding temple. Agents shackled with families could be compromised by the enemy and distracted from their purpose. He had known this when recruiting Ashcroft. But the young man had shown such promise that Sebastian had ignored the greatest—and last—lesson his murdered mentor had ever taught: Families don’t survive the spy business.

And Sebastian would have to live with the knowledge that, given the same situation, he would have recruited Ashcroft all over again. Because England had needed the clever young man as much as, if not more than, his family did.

Sebastian blew out a harsh breath. The sight of Jeffrey Ashcroft slouched against the side of a soot-covered building, blood spreading across his filched peasant’s shirt, surfaced with aching clarity. Slamming his eyes shut, he squeezed the bridge of his nose in a feeble attempt to block the memories of that disastrous night. When pressure failed to provide the desired results, he retrieved his glass and belted back the last dregs of his drink.

Once he retrieved the rest of Ashcroft’s letters, and Helsford deciphered them, Sebastian would come up with a believable story for the widow. One that would identify a murderer and provide Catherine and her daughter with a measure of justice.

From the tone of Ashcroft’s previous correspondence, Sebastian suspected the agent had stumbled across something significant. Something he hadn’t wanted to reveal through their normal channels of communication. Which meant they could be dealing with one or more prominent figures in the government or the
ton
.

Again.

They were still trying to assess the damage done by Latymer’s scheming. If the Foreign Office was housing another high-level double spy, the repercussions could be disastrous. Sebastian prayed Ashcroft’s last batch of correspondence held the vital clue they needed in order to circumvent another threat.

Sebastian stared hard at Catherine’s signature. All thoughts of Ashcroft, danger, and missives faded to the background. The widow, with her generous heart, staunch support, and perfect English body, sliced through his troubled musings.

What would it be like to share the company of an attractive woman who wished him no ill will? Just a few stolen hours. Hours in which he debated nothing more complicated than overseeing a series of repairs. And where he might steal a kiss or deliver a caress.

Could he spend time with Catherine and keep the details of her husband’s death a secret? Could he watch over his agent’s family and plot ways to entice the widow into his bed? He released a cynical half-snort. Of course he could. It was what he did best.

Deception, lies, and secrets.