His Sinful Secret (32 page)

“Don’t be too sure of anything,” the man said bluntly. “I’ll get yer drink.”

The game was a familiar one. So he sat back, cast the assembled customers a casual perusal, and waited. Trust was a hard commodity to come by, and he certainly didn’t extend it easily himself.

When the tavern owner returned, he hovered a moment after plunking down the drink on the scarred table. “What is it you want?”

“We have a mutual friend. The name is Everett.”

“I know ’im.” The surly acknowledgment was accompanied by wary assessment.

“And I know what service he provides.” Michael took a sip of his ale, postponing the moment. “I want to know if you saw him meet here with a woman recently. Flame-red hair, I’m told.”

“Now, why would I remember that?” One beefy fist rested on the table.

“Because this is your establishment,” Michael murmured, “and I wager you notice almost everything.”

That won him a grudging nod.

“Everett?”

“More wind than worth.”

“What do you know about the woman? I’ve coin, but it will only end up in your pocket if it is good.” In his career, Michael had dealt with a great deal of different types of interrogations, and this seemed the straightforward kind.

The owner of the Hare and Bottle looked for a moment like he would protest, but then jerked his head to the side. “I’ve a private sitting room empty.”

I don’t wish to concede it, but I have a lot to thank Lawrence for,
Michael thought as he rose, brought his somewhat less than appealing ale with him, and followed the man through a door that led into a back parlor.

A quarter of an hour later he emerged with at least a few tidbits of information that might be helpful. Everett’s rooms had been empty when he had gone there to question him, and really, he’d seen hardened soldiers cringe before Antonia’s particular brand of interrogation before, so he wasn’t sure he blamed the man for decamping. Luckily the tavern keeper had been able to supply a list of suggestions of where the would-be killer might have gone. Finding him again shouldn’t be too difficult.

And now he had a better description of the mysterious woman who wanted him dead. Slender, medium height, and, most interesting of all, a lady. There had been no doubt in the tavern keeper’s voice when he said she was as out of place at the Hare and Bottle as a Whitechapel whore in a nunnery. He’d noticed it when she first inquired about finding someone to employ in a matter of some delicacy. It was in her voice, he’d said, and the fancy words she chose. Once Michael had produced a handful of coins to jog the man’s memory, he had been quite frank in admitting he’d recommended Everett to her, as Everett had done similar tasks effectively in the past. The woman had arranged an appointment.

Michael had learned something else interesting also. The red hair was a wig. The tavern owner said he’d swear to it, but what business was it of his if she didn’t want to be recognized? Michael wasn’t surprised, considering she wanted to hire someone to kill a man.

God bless observant tavern owners,
Michael thought as he walked back to where he’d paid the hackney driver to wait.

Three attempts on his life, all failed. Surely she must be getting frustrated, if she even knew yet that the last effort had not been successful. As he methodically re-tied his cravat and replaced his disreputable coat with a tailored one, he pondered again her identity, and a glimmer of a suspicion came to him.

He
could
think of a woman who might hold a grudge against him.

No, like Antonia speculated, there was no ex-lover he imagined cared enough to go to the trouble to try to have him killed, but upon contemplation of the information that she’d used a disguise, Michael thought of one female who might seek revenge of the deadliest sort.

Not his lover, but Roget’s former paramour. The trouble was, he’d arranged for her to board a ship months ago. As far as he knew, and despite his failure to locate Roget, his sources were usually excellent and she wasn’t even in England.

When the hackney stopped in front of his club he alighted, paid the driver, and went up the steps, all the time his mind working on this current puzzle. Casting back over the possible list of suspects for the three aborted attempts on his life, the evidence did point to someone who was used to intrigue, who would bother to conceal her identity, who would want him irrevocably eliminated just for revenge, because he’d thwarted and banished her.

Maybe he should have taken Alice Stewart more seriously. He was fairly sure she had murdered at least two people, and most certainly she was guilty of kidnapping. But he was much more used to dealing with threats in as quiet a manner as possible, and once she’d given him all the information he wanted, he had let her flee England. His superiors tended to want to keep intelligence matters quiet, and putting a woman on trial—especially a female spy—was a tricky matter.

So he’d let her go.

And now he wondered if he’d made a grave error.

“Good afternoon, my lord.” The steward took his greatcoat with a flourish. “It is always nice to see you again.”

“Thank you, Phillip. Is Lord Altea here, by any chance?”

“It happens he is. The usual table.”

Good. It wasn’t often, but now and then Michael needed to verbally muse over an idea, and Luke happened to know this particular story in a personal way. He’d hoped he might find the viscount having a quiet afternoon moment. Sure enough, Luke glanced up from reading the paper as he approached. Luke’s smile was welcoming, but there was also curiosity in his eyes. By way of greeting, he said, “Were you really shot yesterday?”

Hell and damnation.
Michael had forgotten entirely about the solicitous footman that had dashed from Lady Armington’s house. A marquess being shot in a street in Mayfair wouldn’t go unnoticed. He dropped into a chair and said, “Do I look like I was wounded?”

“Actually, no.” Luke folded the paper and pushed it across the table, but his gaze still held a hint of skepticism. “But that doesn’t mean much with you. Not too long ago you were stabbed and I couldn’t tell that either.”

It appeared the sooner he told Julianne what happened, the better. Michael didn’t comment, but instead asked, “What do you think about Alice Stewart?”

Luke’s attention sharpened. He leaned back and nodded, his gray eyes narrowed a fraction. “My wife’s cousin? That’s an interesting question. She did her best to use my stepson as a bargaining tool to escape England after trying to publicly humiliate my wife. Quite naturally, I dislike the spiteful lady.”

The question had been purely rhetorical, as they both recalled the incident all too well. “I always believed she had an association with a certain old friend of mine.”

“Roget?”

“The very one.”

“Care to tell me more?”

“Not about him, but I
am
wondering about Mrs. Stewart.” Michael kept his tone neutral. “I take it your wife hasn’t heard from her.”

“No. Madeline despises her. If she’d contacted her, I would know it immediately.”

“I’m starting to wonder if she might not be behind the attacks I’ve experienced lately.”

The waiter arriving with their drinks precluded any response from Luke. When the claret was poured and they were alone again, his friend said without preamble, “How? I thought she’d left England.”

“Oh, she did. One of my colleagues watched her ship weigh anchor, bound for India. The crossing takes months.” Michael moodily contemplated his glass. “Yet the man who, thankfully, missed his mark yesterday was hired by a woman. I’ve tried to come up with a list of females who might seek revenge upon me, and when I contemplate it she is certainly at the top.”

“But presumably an ocean away.”

“I tend to find presumptions are dangerous.”

Luke rested his forearms on the table. “Alice has no love for Madeline either, so your theory alarms me. How can I help?”

 

Michael had been shot?

As if the day hadn’t been bewildering enough, this was hardly welcome news, nor did it help her already disordered mood. Julianne shook her head and looked at her mother. “It isn’t possible. He carried . . .”

Oh, dear, had she just almost said he’d carried her up the stairs the evening before? That would raise more questions she certainly didn’t want to answer, so she hastily amended, “He seemed perfectly fine last evening. Maybe the paper is incorrect, or they mean someone else.”

Unfortunately, the duchess was an even worse actress than Julianne was herself, though to excuse her, she hadn’t exactly had an uneventful day either. Resplendent in pale blue satin, her chestnut hair piled high, she took a gulp of tea and nodded. “Yes, that’s it. Someone else.”

With open skepticism, her mother looked from one of them to the other. “What other Lord L is a marquess? Besides, apparently Lady Armington’s footman was a witness.”

“Well, then, it certainly
has
to be true,” Julianne said dryly, but inside there was a traitorous doubt as she remembered the swathe of bandages Michael had on their wedding night. He certainly hadn’t shown any sign of being injured during their wedding or the celebration afterward. Yet the scar indicated the wound must have been painful.

With Michael, she was growing to learn, just about any secret was possible.

At least her mother knew when to gracefully retreat. She inclined her head. “I’m just glad it isn’t the truth. You can only imagine my horror when I read this. I had to come over and make sure he wasn’t seriously injured.”

“Not at all. Everything is quite fine.” Julianne’s mother-in-law did not even come close to pulling off a serene smile, though she did try. Aristocratic fortitude, apparently, was compromised by the arrival of a grandchild she never knew she had, a woman impersonating the child’s mother, and then the news that her only son had been shot the day before and failed to mention it.

Julianne really could not blame her for being so rattled. She was fairly rattled herself.

When her mother departed a good half hour later, she and the duchess just looked at each other. “Perhaps,” Julianne’s mother-in-law said as her shoulders sagged and her cup rattled on the saucer, “I should just commit myself to Bedlam and be done with it. What in heaven’s name is going on in this house? For that matter, where is Michael?”

The formal drawing room was suddenly stifling despite the graciousness of the space and the cool afternoon. Julianne admitted, “I don’t know.”

“
Was
he injured yesterday?”

“I don’t think so.” She made a helpless gesture with her hand, and without thinking explained, “Chloe slept with me, so we didn’t . . . that is . . . well, she needed me and . . .”

Her vivid blush at least brought forth a chuckle. Michael’s mother said, “I see. And yes, I agree the child needs you. She needs us all and certainly not that appalling woman who claims to be her mother.”

Julianne wanted desperately to tell Michael of that new development, but once again, he was still out and had been for most of the day. However, in light of her mother’s visit, she now put new significance on the early-morning arrival of Lady Taylor and Captain Lawrence. “I am as confused as you are.”

“The duke is also confounded, and trust me, my dear, that does not happen all that often. He is used to being able to order his world.”

No doubt the Duke of Southbrook could normally command whatever he wished. However, Julianne was learning, life was a little less predictable than she had originally thought. “I admit
my
optimism of the world has been compromised by recent events.”

“Maybe, but mine has been confirmed.” The duchess looked at her intently. “I haven’t yet thanked you for what you did for Harry and his child.”

She didn’t want to be thanked. What Julianne wanted was for Michael to be home, safe and sound. “There’s no need to thank me. I was more afraid you’d be angry with me, one way or the other.”

“I might have been,” the duchess said, resting her arm on the settee, her face thoughtful, “right after my son died so suddenly. It was such a shock. At first I wondered how you could keep my granddaughter’s existence from us, but after some contemplation, I see why you did.”

“As I told Michael, I assumed if Harry didn’t want you to know, I shouldn’t tell you.”

“And what did Michael say to that?”

Were this any other day, she wouldn’t have said it, but Julianne smiled wistfully and answered, “He asked me if I’d loved his brother.”

“Now, that,” the duchess said emphatically, “is a good sign. What was your answer?”

“Am I interrupting?”

At the sound of the masculine voice, Julianne’s head jerked up. Michael walked into the room, looking for all the world like the usual gentleman of the
haut ton
, complete with his perfect cravat and tailored clothing. But she thought he also looked tired, and there was a hint of mud on his boots, and his hair was windblown.

“Michael.”

“Were you expecting someone else?”

To her surprise Julianne had to resist the impulse to get to her feet and run into his arms. Instead she blurted out, “My mother just left.”

“I’m sorry I missed her.” It was a polite answer. He didn’t choose a chair, but remained near the doorway. “I hope all is well.”

How could he look so . . . so blasted normal and banal? “Not precisely,” Julianne said with as much calm as she could muster. “She seemed to think a reference in the paper might be to an accident you had yesterday and yet failed to mention.”

“No.”

“There was no accident?”