Elizabeth Thornton (25 page)

He edged the folder toward her. “Read that file and you’ll change your mind. Or are you afraid to face the truth?”

“I’ve told you the truth, but you won’t believe me. Hugh is innocent. He didn’t do anything wrong. Where is he? What have you done with him?”

He laughed unpleasantly. “What do the rich do when they come up to town? They go to parties and balls, or gamble the night away in their exclusive gentlemen’s clubs. That’s where he’ll be.”

“That’s a lie,” she cried out. “Hugh wouldn’t abandon me.”

He placed his hands on the table and leaned toward her. “He has abandoned you, Miss Vayle. Who do you think told us where to find you? He came to us; we didn’t go to him. My God, you saw him with your own eyes. What will it take to convince you?”

Her poise began to show signs of cracking. She said stubbornly, “It wasn’t like that. Hugh wouldn’t abandon me. He wouldn’t.”

“Oh, wouldn’t he? He abandoned his own wife, so why not you? What makes you so special?”

There was a long, eerie silence broken only by a muffled wail from the women’s quadrangle two floors below. When the sound died away, he said softly, “So you didn’t know about Estelle?” When she remained silent, he went on, “He abandoned her too. Shortly after they were married, he sent her back to Ireland where she died of a broken heart.”

No response, but he could see that she was shaken. “Read the file, Miss Vayle,” he said. “Then we’ll talk.”

Long after he left, she remained as she was, her eyes fastened on the leather folder, her arms hugging her sides. She knew her brain was sluggish from lack of sleep and all the questioning she’d been subjected to, and she feared a trap. She’d thought that all she had to worry about was George, but Hugh had come under suspicion too.

Hugh
, she thought despairingly,
Hugh
.

More than once, she’d hovered on the brink of telling her interrogators everything. In fact, when she was first brought here, she’d tried to. If her brother was involved, she’d told Maitland, it was against his will. But Maitland had laughed in her face. “That’s what they all say when they’re captured,” he’d replied. And after that, the conviction had grown that they didn’t care what happened to George. Whether he was guilty or innocent was all the same to them. They were desperate to catch the men who were after the book, and wouldn’t lift a hand to save anyone who got in their way.

But there was more to it than that. She was beginning to have doubts about her own brother. What if Maitland was right? What if George was part of a conspiracy? If that were true, it could only be because he hadn’t known what he was getting into. George had no interest in politics.

She pressed her fingers to her temples in a vain attempt to blot out the doubts Maitland had raised in her mind, not only about George, but about Hugh as well. Maitland was very clever. She supposed she’d had her doubts about Hugh ever since he caught up to her in Dover. And she was haunted by the look on his face when he’d handed her over to Maitland. It was the face of a man she did not know—menacing, frightening in its coldness. She’d blotted out that memory on the drive to London, but Maitland’s words had brought it back to her.

So, you didn’t know about Estelle? He abandoned her, too
.

Her gaze slid to the folder. With a little sob of resignation, she reached for the folder, dragged it toward herself, and slowly opened it.

The first page contained no surprises. It was a short biography of Hugh’s early life. The next part dealt with
his career as a soldier. Almost as soon as he had arrived in Portugal, he’d been recruited as an observing officer. Abbie knew about such men. They were spies in uniform, honorable men who risked their lives by riding into enemy territory to gather information on the deployment of enemy troops. But Hugh hadn’t remained an observing officer for long. His facility with languages had made him a candidate for more dangerous assignments. He’d shed his identity, shed his uniform, and had become a spy behind French lines, working under a string of Spanish and French aliases.

Maitland had not lied. Hugh’s career was spectacular. The victories he chalked up had won him many commendations from his superiors. Wellington had mentioned him in dispatches several times, but always under the code name of El Centurion. No one was more fearless or successful in pursuing his objectives than El Centurion. Certainly, the secretary who had recorded Hugh’s career was very impressed. Major Templar was a hero.

The entry of Hugh’s marriage was terse and to the point. Major Templar, she read, had married Miss Estelle Saunders on December 9, 1812, in Lisbon. There was another entry on the next page. Mrs. Hugh Templar, formerly Miss Estelle Saunders, had died of a fever in Lismore, Ireland, the following year, while her husband was on active duty in Spain.

Abbie read that short entry several times, but couldn’t see anything scandalous about it. Nothing to explain why Hugh had never mentioned his marriage—not to her, not to all their friends.

She noticed other names interspersed throughout the file. Desdemona, Mercedes, Catalina—all vaguely described as “collaborators.” It didn’t take her long to work out that these were the names of Hugh’s mistresses. It
seemed that spies were not entitled to a private life. In the interest of security, their mistresses must be investigated as well. Her eyes dwelled on the last entry in the file. In Paris, on April 30, 1814, the major had resigned his commission and returned to England accompanied by the actress Miss Barbara Munro.

Abbie sat back in her chair and stared at the candle in the center of the table. Maitland had left the candle so that she could read Hugh’s file. Inmates weren’t supposed to be left alone with candles in case they set fire to themselves. She had no need of a candle. She was already on fire.

She glared down at the folder in her hands as though Hugh’s face were stamped upon it. Without a shadow of a doubt, she knew that everything in the file was true. Her instincts, her intuition, her powers of reasoning, at long last, were perfectly in tune.

El Centurion, the centurion. The first time she’d seen him, the picture of a Roman centurion had flashed into her mind. But Hugh had dispelled that impression by showing her a different Hugh, the quiet, unassuming scholar who was interested in the same things as she.

But why had he wanted to be her lover? That’s what she couldn’t understand, unless he’d found it amusing to make her, a confirmed spinster, his next trophy. Daniel had warned her about such men. They’d done everything, seen everything, and life had become one long bore. They were always looking for the next challenge, the next novelty.

He’d deliberately misled her, pretending to be one kind of man when he was really another. At one time she’d even thought he was too tame for her. And he’d mocked her unmercifully, pretending to be a dull clod who was only interested in ancient civilizations. How he
must have laughed at her. If she’d known what he was really like, she would have kept far away from him.

Instead, she’d seduced him.

She moaned. She had totally humiliated herself. She was beyond lying to herself now. He hadn’t wanted her. That sleazy, immoral, unscrupulous libertine who had left a trail of mistresses all the way from Lisbon to Paris had not wanted her. It was
she
who had forced herself on
him
. And now that she’d seen the list of women he’d bedded, she understood his reluctance only too well. Desdemona, Mercedes, Catalina—there wasn’t a plain Abbie among the lot of them. She was obviously not in their class. He’d even told her he’d changed his mind, and he’d meant it.

He’d been married and never mentioned it. Barbara Munro had been his mistress, and while she was raving about the beautiful actress and her performance at Drury Lane, Hugh had pretended to be bored. The cad had actually yawned behind his hand several times! How could she have been so naive? So trusting? So stupidly, stupidly gullible? So stupid?

When she felt the sting of scalding tears, she angrily dashed them away. She wasn’t going to mope over a man who had deceived her, a man who wouldn’t lift a finger to help her. It was all there in his file. He was the hero and she was the enemy. She and George would only be two more names to add to his illustrious war record. Maybe Wellington would commend him for that, too.

Every moment of their acquaintance was now examined in minute detail; every kindness on his part became suspect. She went over the last few days, sifting every conversation, every incident, to determine why he’d come after her. Not from the goodness of his heart, as he’d led her to believe, because she knew now that Hugh Templar
didn’t have a heart. A man with a heart wouldn’t have abandoned her to this chamber of horrors, no matter what she’d done.

If their positions were reversed, she’d be moving heaven and earth to get him out of this place. She wouldn’t care whether he was innocent or guilty. She would go to her brother-in-law and beg him to help; she would ask him to speak to the prime minister if need be. She would appeal to the king. She would do anything to get Hugh off. She would …

The emotions she’d held in check suddenly swallowed her, and a great gasping cry tore from her throat. Without knowing what she was doing, she stumbled to her feet, groped her way to the bed and flung herself down on the mattress. Many minutes passed before there were no more tears to shed.

With emotions spent, she turned on her side and scrubbed her face with the hem of her gown. By slow degrees, she forced herself to think calmly. There was more to consider here than her broken heart. She had to think of George.

She fell asleep on the comforting thought that she would offer Maitland Hugh Templar’s head if he would only help her save her brother.

T
he first rays of dawn were filtering through the bars of the double grated window when she awoke. She knew at once where she was and what had awakened her. Heart pounding, she hauled herself up and stared at the door as it swung open on its rusty hinges. One of the female wardens, a sour-faced woman with a candle in her hand, entered. Behind her was a gentleman.

He took a few steps into the cell and said uncertainly, “Abbie?”

She expected Maitland and stared at him without recognition until he approached the bed.

“Abbie! Good God! What have they done to you?”

“Giles,” she said faintly, “have they arrested you too?”

“No,” he said, “I’ve come to take you home.”

Her brother-in-law wasn’t particularly handsome, he wasn’t particularly tall or fashionable, but he was one of the nicest men she knew, and the look of concern on his face—in marked contrast to the looks she had received in the last little while—shattered what was left of her control. With a little cry, she flung herself from the bed and catapulted herself into his arms.

“It’s all right, Abbie,” he soothed. “It’s all right. I’m here now. You’re safe. I won’t leave without you. It’s all right. We’ll have you home in no time.”

He tried to hold her at arm’s length, but she wouldn’t allow it. She buried her nose in his broad, comfortable chest and clung to him with the tenacity of a monkey. He patted her awkwardly and made the same soothing sounds he might have made to his own infant daughters, Lizzie and Vicki, when they were hurt.

At length, when she went limp in his arms, he said, “I’ll have someone’s head for this.”

Those fierce words, coming from her mild-mannered brother-in-law, startled a laugh out of her, but it verged on the hysterical and she quickly cut it off. Blinking back tears, she took a step back and looked up at him.

His brown wavy hair was receding at the temples, making him look older than his years. His brows were pulled in a frown, and his eyes were deeply troubled.

This was the man she had once loved, or thought she had—the man who had chosen her sister over her. Giles was a good husband and father. He was a good man. If he were her husband, she would cherish him.

“Harriet,” she said with feeling, “doesn’t know how lucky she is.”

“What?” He frowned, puzzled.

She passed a hand over her eyes. “I’m babbling, Giles. Put it down to nerves. Is it true? Am I really free to go?”

“Yes, it’s true.”

“But how can that be? They caught me red-handed. They know I’m guilty.”

“All I know,” said Giles, “is that you and George have been given amnesty.”

“But how? Why?” Hugh had mentioned amnesty, but that was before he’d become her enemy, and after
what had happened, she knew he wouldn’t lift a hand to save her.

Aware of the warden nearby, Giles said, “We’ll talk later in private.”

He began to bark out orders. From the warden he wanted water and soap and towels for Miss Vayle, and a comb for her hair. And if his orders weren’t carried out at once, he threatened to bring a regiment of militia to Newgate and have them all arrested for wrongful confinement.

Abbie didn’t care about cleaning herself up. She just wanted to go home. But Giles insisted. Harriet was waiting in the carriage right outside the prison, he said, and he knew she wouldn’t want her sister to see her with a grimy face and her hair like a bird’s nest. And they weren’t going home straight away. They had to make a small detour first. She wouldn’t want strangers to see her like this either.

“A detour?” she repeated, alarm suddenly coursing through her.

“We’ll talk in the carriage,” he said. “Now hurry. I’ll be waiting for you right outside that door.”

When she was ready, she looked around for the green folder, but it was gone. It didn’t matter. Every word was indelibly branded in her brain.

She was even more alarmed when she came out of her cell to find two red-coated soldiers waiting to escort her. She began to tremble. Giles saw it and threw his cloak over her shoulders.

“This place is like an icehouse. This should keep you warm,” he said.

It all seemed too easy, and she half expected that someone would try to stop them before they could get away. But the turnkeys unlocked every door when one of the soldiers showed his pass.

Outside, she breathed deeply of the cool morning air, unpolluted by the misery of Newgate. She’d been incarcerated for forty-eight hours. It felt like an eternity.