Realm 06 - A Touch of Love (14 page)

With each of those attempts to recover the emerald, Jamot had acted predictably. The Baloch had used an innocent to coerce information regarding the missing emerald from one of Carter’s associates. The fact none of the Realm held knowledge of the gem had not deterred Jamot’s efforts. During those first three attempts at capturing the Baloch, Carter had learned all he could of the man. He knew Jamot to be cagey and clever and lethal–a man without a conscious.

However, since the Baloch had become more involved in the opium trade, or perhaps, because Jamot had become more knowledgeable of English life, their enemy had softened. Of late, the man who had followed them from the mountains overlooking the Persian-Indian border had acted uncharacteristically, and Carter had known the frustration of their enemy’s unpredictable actions.

The Baloch had assisted Lady Godown from her captivity aboard the Chinese ship, and although he had reportedly informed Mathias Trent of Mercy Nelson’s existence under Lord Lexford’s roof, Jamot had risked knowing the future baronet’s displeasure by protecting the girl until Lexford arrived to rescue his future viscountess.

It took a moment for his scattered thoughts to form a question. “And that would be?” Carter asked cautiously.

Pennington sat his glass upon the desk before lacing his fingers across his abdomen. Although the Realm’s leader was of the age to be Carter’s father, he certainly did not look the part. Aristotle Pennington prided himself on staying fit.

“The Baloch spends his time among a group of smugglers along the Suffolk coast. Jamot has been calling himself ‘Black Bounty.’ It appears he has steered cleared of the illegal drug trade.”

Carter remarked, “Whatever Jamot does is immersed in evil.”

Pennington observed, “The war has driven up the cost of fine lace, artwork, and brandy from the Continent.” He lifted his glass in a silent reminder of how they each contributed to the trade. “With the poor crops on both the European front and at home, men have turned to extreme measures to feed and to clothe their families.”

“Jamot has no family,” Carter argued.

“No. The Baloch lost his family when Shaheed Mir declared Ashmita a whore and then turned the girl into one,” Pennington reasoned.

Carter countered, “Jamot should have fought for the woman he affected. It should never have been Thornhill’s place to save the girl.”

“Mayhap.” Pennington finished his drink. “Yet, we both know Thornhill’s decision to save Ashmita also saved the duke’s life. Without his need to give Sonali a decent life, Thornhill might have known an early death due to his immature impetuousness. That incident provided Thornhill a reason to return to Kent and reclaim his title.”

“What do you wish me to do about Jamot?”

Pennington rose easily and turned toward the door. “Send Clayton Bradwick and Swonton Van Dyke to investigate while you resolve Mrs. Warren’s dilemma.”

Privately alarmed, Carter called after him. “How did you know of Mrs. Warren?”

Pennington paused to level a steady gaze upon Carter, and Carter felt he had been called before the schoolmaster. “I have known from the beginning of your recruitment to our cause you would be an asset to this organization, Lowery. The same as I know James Kerrington will make an excellent diplomat and Crowden a superior future ambassador, I know your place is here in this office. You have the drive to succeed, but you will fall short of your expectations if you do not extend your lines of information. Entertain politicians and the common folks. Learn whom you can trust and whom to watch. Develop a cache of solid informants. Otherwise, the powers at be will deny you what should rightly be yours.” As he turned away, Pennington added, “I know of Mrs. Warren because as your leader, I am expected to be aware of every facet of your life.”

The duke had sent a note of apology for his wife’s actions, citing the duchess’s emotional state with her impending lying in. He then begged Lucinda’s forgiveness for the misunderstanding, as well as her continued permission for the boy to come to Thorn Hall on Friday. Lucinda wished to hide herself away from the potential scandal, but she had weathered her early exit among Sir Carter’s staff by explaining how the duchess had excused her as Lucinda claimed a megrim. Her taking to her room for some thirty hours following the incident had served as proof of her excuses.

“His Grace will send one of his men to escort you to Thorn Hall,” she explained to Simon on Thursday evening. They had been at Huntingborne Abbey since the early afternoon on Monday, but it had seemed much longer. “I found a box of scraps of material in the attic. Mrs. Shelton assured me I could have free use of them so I have made a gift for you to present to the duke’s daughter.” Lucinda produced a small rag doll from her sewing basket. “I am certain Miss Sonali has those which are finer, but it is all I have which you might share with the duke’s daughter.”

The boy fingered the lace and gold buttons Lucinda had added in hopes of pleasing a child she had yet to meet. “I would suppose any girl would think this a fine gift, Ma’am.”

Lucinda had to remind herself the child had not been with her for longer than a half year. He was so wise for one so young, and she had come to admire Simon’s sweet nature. “Mrs. Shelton says she will assist you in wrapping the package.”

“May I be excused?” Simon asked hopefully.

Lucinda smiled easily. The boy had had a disrupted life, and she wished to provide him a taste of normalcy. “Of course. And do not forget to tend carefully to your ablutions. I would not have the duchess think poorly of you.”
Not the way Velvet Fowler disapproves of me
, Lucinda thought. She caressed his cheek. “Now, be off with you. You have an important engagement tomorrow.”

She watched him skip happily from the room. The boy clutched the doll as if it were a pot of gold. She prayed Thornhill’s child knew better manners than did the duchess, and that Miss Sonali would not openly mock Simon’s gift. It made her sad to think of the possibility that someone would rebuke Simon, and the boy would know pain.

She would never wish the boy to think upon himself as less than desirable. There was so much more for Simon to learn than the crucial boundaries in
which Society defined a soul. Family, whether immediate or extended, should never turn its back upon a child. Should never suffocate a child’s hopes and dreams. It was fair for a child not to know approval of his every thought and action, but never fair for a child not to know love.

Since the day the boy had arrived in her life, Lucinda had questioned every decision she had made in his behalf. Some days she would just be satisfied to hear the boy laugh. Like her, the child had suffered a devastating loss. From what little the boy had revealed, Simon had last seen his father when he was two. Lucinda wondered if the boy’s memory was a true one or one borrowed from the adults in his life. She suspected it a ‘”borrowed” one, the same as the child meant to borrow the duke’s remembrances and adopt them as his own.

The boy had reminded Lucinda of her own upbringing. When she was younger, she had thought of her life as one like most in the English countryside. Her parents were minor aristocrats, each with strong pedigrees, and although they were not, obviously, in love, she knew her parents had held the highest respect for each other. She had noted a decided expression of longing on her father’s countenance when he looked upon his wife. As a young girl full of fanciful dreams, she had thought it the look of love. However, after her many years of following first her father and then Matthew, she had learned it the look of lust. She knew herself excruciatingly proper at times, but if someone would simply look upon her–to see the real Lucinda Elaine Rightnour Warren... If someone would look, he would find beneath the quiet reserve, she hid a ready smile, an insatiable curiosity, and unregulated dreams–enough so to find her fascinating–something Matthew Warren had never bothered doing.

“Mrs. Warren?” she looked up to see Sir Carter’s housekeeper. Mrs. Shelton had held her position for less than a month, but from what Lucinda had observed the woman had taken the staff well in hand. “Might I presume upon your time, Ma’am?”

Lucinda hated being referred to as “Ma’am.” She thought it made her sound terribly old. “Certainly, Mrs. Shelton.” She offered the woman a welcoming smile. “How may I serve you?”

The woman, a lady of forty plus years, stepped further into the room. The housekeeper’s strict posture and well-rehearsed facial expressions hid an attractive woman who likely had experienced the world’s sour side. “Sir Carter, Ma’am. The baronet asked that I oversee the renovations of the rooms in the
east wing. The men have completed the changes Baroness Blakehell left with her son, but the décor is lacking something, which I possess no experience in defining. I wondered if you might have a look.” The woman appeared nervous, and Lucinda realized the impropriety Mrs. Shelton ventured. “It is just that Sir Carter speaks so highly of you, and I thought a fresh set of eyes might recognize what is missing.”

Lucinda thought to refuse. What right did she have to offer an opinion in Sir Carter’s house? After all, she was a mere guest, but the housekeeper’s words of the baronet’s praise had warmed her after three days of desolation. “I am not certain I shall have much to add. My life has been one of military tents and small cottages,” she confessed. “But I would be pleased to view the progress in the east wing. Do you mean to do so now, Mrs. Shelton?”

“If you can spare the time, Ma’am.”

There was that detestable word again, the one which labeled her as a widow, as a woman who had known her husband’s every thought. Such a foul word! Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, Lucinda said evenly, “Certainly. Please lead the way, Mrs. Shelton.”

Carter had received the initial reports on Jamot’s presence in Suffolk and on the largest of the Jewish populations spread throughout England. Since meeting Mrs. Warren, he had spent more than a few hours immersing himself in the history of the Jews in England since the accession of George III to the throne. He was convinced Simon Warren’s mother had dwelt with one of the pockets of Jews congregating in England.

He had made several calculated assumptions. First, despite Captain Warren having met, wooed, and married Simon’s mother in Spain, or possibly Portugal, no one could say whether he had sent the woman and the boy to England. Warren’s military records showed from the time of his joining the service, the man had made but one journey to his home in Devon, the one where he had exchanged vows with Lucinda Rightnour.

Carter had assigned a man to search ship records to learn whether Warren had traveled alone. Perhaps, Matthew Warren had settled his “wife” before claiming Miss Rightnour. He shook his head in disbelief. It was against Carter’s
nature to permit a woman to know the evils of war. In contrast to what Mrs. Warren believed, he was of the persuasion to think Simon the product of an illicit love encounter, rather than to be Captain Warren’s heir for he doubted any man of a right mind could ignore Lucinda Warren’s charms.

Although Carter worked daily with people of the Jewish persuasion, he had never really thought about the impact of the Jewish religion on the daily life of those in London and the English countryside. From his governmental studies, he was aware that with King George’s rise to the throne, two standing committees had formed to address urgent political developments, which might affect the Ashkenazi and the Sephardic sects. The appointed
Deputados
would approach the government on their behalves. The two “Nations” had been forced to communicate and to meet jointly and to receive a degree of statutory recognition.

Numbering in the thousands, there were distinct economic differences between the two assemblages. The more anglicized and wealthier of the two were those from Spain and Portugal; the lower social strata were those from Eastern Europe, predominantly from Germany. Carter prayed progress had been made between the “Nations.” He was ashamed to admit he knew little of the Jewish faith and had few social contacts of a Jewish affiliation.

“Perhaps you know more of the people than you think,” John Swenton had declared when they met over a drink at White’s. The baron had arrived in London to conduct estate business and to call upon Pennington before retreating to York for the summer months. “After all, there has been a steady, though narrow, stream of reformation. Conversionistic hopes were not stymied by Lord George Gordon’s switch from Protestantism to Judaism.” Swenton smiled wryly.