The Devil's Own Luck (Once a Spy) (11 page)

Standing in the shadows of a copse of oak trees, Marcel André stared at Bryony Hall. He knew Clarendon was home. He had married only yesterday and no one had left the premises since he and his bride had arrived. It was likely that the marquis was inside making love to his wife at this exact moment. He had a satisfying vision of putting a bullet in the woman’s skull while Clarendon held her in his arms. It would be a fitting retribution for Marguerite’s death. He knew he would lose his own life in this endeavor but it would put an end to his misery and Clarendon would have to live with the memory of his young wife’s murder and know that he was the cause.
    But it wouldn’t happen today. Too many people were about. Too much could go wrong. He wanted his revenge and would not risk any mistakes. He looked down at his hands. He had rubbed them in dirt. His fingernails were jagged and grimy and he was dressed as a common laborer in a rumpled brown jacket and threadbare trousers. His hair was greasy and he hadn’t shaved for several days. The kerchief around his neck was stained with sweat and his felt hat was battered. There was nothing he could do about his French accent, but his English was excellent and enough French citizens had fled to England during the terror to avoid suspicion. He was still trying to decide whether to knock at the back door or visit the stables when a young woman slipped out the back and headed toward the stables. She seemed nervous and he wondered what she was up to.
    “Mademoiselle!” he called out.
    She stopped and looked around. The expression on her face was one of sheer guilt. He stepped into the sunlight and removed his hat. “Mademoiselle, if you might be so kind as to help me?” His voice was soft and non-threatening and even in his disguise he was a fair looking man. There would be no reason to fear him.
    She shaded her eyes against the sun. “What kin I do fer you?”
    He smiled at her. “I hoped to find work.”
    She batted her lashes, and returned his smile. “What kind o’ work, sir?”
    “I’ve a good way with horses.” It was true. Even with a painful shoulder he still handled horseflesh as well as any man.
    “I dunno. You might want to talk to Johnny; ‘e runs the stables. I was on my way to see ‘em.” She shrugged. “Might as well come along.”
    He fell in beside her. “I’m most grateful. I’ve not eaten since yesterday. I’ll be more than happy to work for my supper.”
    “Jessie, luv!” a deep male voice came from the stable. “Who’s this?” A large strapping young man with pale blond hair appeared in the doorway of the stable, a length of straw jutting from his mouth. He leaned against the door frame. “Didn’t know ya wanted extra company. Thought I’d be enough fer ya.”
    She blushed. “Oh go on with ya, Johnny. Ya know it ain’t nothin’ like that. I don’t even know ‘is name.”
    “Ronald Smith,” André offered.
    Johnny let out a deep booming laugh. “Smith? And I’m the bloody king o’ England, though most everyone ‘ere calls me Johnny Murdock. But,” he added, “if ya’ want to be Smith then suit yerself.”
    “He’s looking fer work,” she said.
    Johnny considered this. “Don’t ‘ave anything fer you right at the moment. Maybe tomorrow. Mr…. er. Lord Clarendon’s just got himself leg shackled. Never thought I’d see the day with that one I tell ya. The lord’s a randy young man and I can’t imagine they’ll be leaving their bed chambers fer at least another day or two and then I reckon, they’ll be ‘eaded fer Devon. Be there a while from w’ot I understand. He’s a marquis now.” Johnny chuckled. “Got estates all over England and ‘e ain’t seen a one of ‘em.”
    “The man ‘asn’t eaten since yesterday,” Jessie broke in. “Even if there ain’t nothing fer ‘im to do, we kin at least feed ‘im.”
    “Sure thing,” Johnny said amiably. “Come on in. Allison sent over some fresh bread this morning. White bread,” he added. “The kind that melts in yer mouth. And we’ve got mutton stew, roast chicken an’ apple dumplings”
    “W’ot was Allison doing over ‘ere?” Jesse demanded.
    Johnny grinned at her then pushed away from the doorframe, “Delivering bread.” He nodded at André. “Now, come in Mr. Smith. We’ll get a meal tucked away in yer belly and ya kin tell us how ya came to be in Surrey.”
    As they walked the length of the stable André noted, with something close to admiration, the immaculate condition of the stalls and the prime quality of the horseflesh. Clarendon was obviously a man who prided himself on his stables. He was also obviously a man of wealth for it would take a great deal of money to acquire and maintain a stable of this quality.
    “A man would ‘ave to go a long ways to find another stable this first-rate,” Johnny said proudly. He stopped to stroke the muzzle of a piebald mare who had stuck her head over the gate when she heard their approach. “Milord loves ‘is cattle and from w’ot I ‘ear, milady does too.” He grinned. “Match made in ‘eaven yer might say.”
    “It seems so. He has fine stables.”
    Johnny pushed open a door at the rear of the stables that led to the small room where the hands took their meals. He lifted the lid on a large copper pot. “Yer in luck,” he announced. “Stew’s still warm.” He ladled some out on a plate, while Jessie poured two tankards of ale.
    André sniffed appreciatively. It smelled delicious. He had actually eaten that morning but the simple fare tasted as good as it smelled and he had no difficulty pretending hunger. Ten minutes later, he soaked up the last of the stew with a chunk of bread. He took a long drink of ale and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Merci,” he murmured as Jessie refilled his tankard. “The stew was very good. You have been most hospitable.”
    Johnny cast him an appraising look. “What happened to your shoulder?”
    The question was not unexpected. He was unable to mask the awkwardness with which he moved his left arm and shoulder and was prepared to explain it. He paused a long moment then said, “It happened during the terror.”
    “Oh, my,” Jessie breathed. “The stories I’ve ‘eard ‘bout it. Quality waiting in line to ‘ave their ‘eads chopped off. Blood ever’where. It sounds ‘orrible.”
    “Jessie, luv,” Johnny said sharply. “The man doesn’t need reminding. Jus’ let ‘im tell ‘is story.”
    Johnny was obviously expecting more information and André launched further into the story he had concocted. “I was groom to a viscount. We were in Paris. Not a safe place for an aristocrat at that time.” He shuddered. “It was terrible. There was so much death. So much anger.” He shook his head grimly. “I am not well born and understood their anger, but my lord was a fair man and there was no reason to put him to the guillotine. I wanted to help. I found old clothes and we dressed as peasants. But the mob came for him before we could leave Paris. Someone had turned him in. A servant, perhaps. I don’t really know.” He shrugged slightly. “Also, he had a way about him. It was hard to disguise. ”
    Johnny nodded his head. “Quality often does.”
    “He was arrested. There was nothing I could do, so I ran. I’m ashamed to admit that my only thought was to save myself. In truth, they had little interest in me. Had they wanted, I would be dead. Still, I was shot in the turmoil. I managed to reach the ship that brought me here. The bullet was later removed, but my shoulder still feels the pain.”
    Jessie’s eyes were as big as saucers. “Oh, my,” she breathed. “It’s enough to give a body nightmares.”
    “It does,” André said soberly.
    “You’ve never gone back?” Johnny asked.
    André shook his head. “Non.”
    Johnny handed his tankard to Jessie to refill. “Must be ‘ard to work with that shoulder. Does it pain you all the time?”
    André shrugged. “I manage.”
    Johnny looked doubtful but he said, “If you want to come back tomorrow, I suppose we could find something fer you to do. Won’t be more’n a few days, though. And I can’t promise more’n yer supper and a tuppence or two. Mr... Damn! I keep forgetting ‘e’s a milord, now. Milord is most particular ‘bout his cattle. Left strict orders on how ‘e wants ‘em fed and exercised and so on, while ‘e’s spending time with ‘is bride. And milady’s mare’ll be ‘ere tomorrow. I ‘ear she’s a beaut. Won’t be need’n any extra help after they go to Devon. Would a few days o’ working in the stables suit ya?”
    André nodded. “Merci. A few days will suit. I often become restless.”
    “You’ve the wanderlust, do you?” Jessie said reproachfully. “My papa did, too. One day he just wandered off an’ never came back. Broke my mama’s heart.”
    Johnny reached over and gave Jessie’s bottom a squeeze. “I’ve got no cause to leave ya Jessie, luv. I know a good thing when I see it.”
    She brushed his hand away and blushed. “Stop that.”
    It was obviously time to leave them, but André had one last question. “Will you be going to Devon?” he asked casually.
    “Not me,” Johnny said happily. “Someone’s gotta stay an’ tend to the stables ‘ere. Good thing, too.” He grinned and winked at Jessie. “Don’t like goin’ off an’ leaving my girl.”
    André looked at the young man’s face and wondered if he had ever been that lighthearted. He couldn’t remember that he had. “You have been most kind.” He rose from his chair. “Merci. I will see you in the morrow.” It had gone well. He’d found out what he needed to know. There was no need to return.

T
he breakfast room at Bryony Hall was flooded with sunlight and the walnut breakfast table and sideboard had been polished with beeswax until they gleamed. The walls were papered with a faded blue and yellow print. It was a pleasant room, but somewhat dated and shabby and Rand had been insistent that Cecelia redecorate as much as she wanted when they returned from Devon. As she made inroads into a plate of ham and eggs she was debating over ivory lace curtains or a blue tulle when her husband broke into her thoughts.
    “Cecelia.”
    She looked up. He looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “I’ve something to discuss with you. I had planned to wait, but your brother seemed to think it would be best to tell you right away and as it happens, I have a need to make a detour on our journey to Devon.” He cleared his throat. “I have a house in Fritham.”
    She wrinkled her brow as she tried to place the name. “Fritham? I’m not familiar with it.”
    “It’s in Hampshire.”
    “Oh.” She speared a small piece of ham with her fork. “Didn’t you mention you have business there?”
    Rand hesitated a moment, then dismissed the footman and waited until he had left the room before answering. “Of a sort.” He paused as he spread strawberry jam on a scone. “No not business in the normal sense. Family. I have family there.”
    “I didn’t know that,” she said as she cut into another piece of ham. “Are they cousins? Aunts and uncles?”
    “No.”
    She frowned. “Your grandparents are dead. What’s left?”
    “I have younger brothers and sisters who are also my wards. I’d like you to meet them.”
    Confused, she stopped with her fork in midair. “Not Julia?” Then she shook her head. “That was stupid. Of course, not Julia.”
    He gazed at her a moment with an expression she couldn’t quite fathom. “I didn’t know the best way to tell you. Your brother seemed to think you would take it in stride. Not many ladies in your position would. I’m afraid it’s a bit much to take in.”
    He looked at her hesitantly and she nodded her head. “Please, tell me. I’d like to know.”
    He set the scone down on his plate. “I suppose you’ve heard that my father was not a particularly admirable man.”
    She nodded again.
    “He was a drunk and womanizer who took his pleasure whenever and wherever it took his fancy, and sowed his seed with no regard to the consequences. Not surprisingly, his indiscretions produced a number of bastard children. I learned of this when I was twenty, though at the time I didn’t know there were quite so many.” In answer to her questioning look he said, “Eleven to my knowledge, but I suspect there are more. It’s been four years since we’ve found anyone new.”
    He grimaced. “My father wasn’t particularly generous, but he did provide for them financially. Our solicitor took care of it all while my father more or less pretended they didn’t exist. It was intolerable to me that I might have brothers and sisters, I would never meet. Shortly before my father died, I went to see the ones I knew of and began the process of attempting to track down more. I moved them out to the country where the stigma of being a bastard wasn’t quite as harsh, and made arrangements to give them an education. I bought a house. It’s fairly large. We call it Danfield House.”
    She was touched by both his generosity and his commitment to family. “I think that’s wonderful.”
    “Offering them a better life didn’t always make for a happy ending.” He sighed. “Matthew died when he was fifteen. Bryan died at age twelve. Both were sickly for much of their lives. Matthew was blind.” His expression darkened. “Talk about sins of the father being visited upon his sons, I’m fairly certain he suffered from the pox.” He paused a moment. “And there were several who could not make the adjustment. James took a few pieces of silver and ran off about six months after I brought him to Danfield House. Marcy, who was thirteen, also ran away. She had her head filled with grand notions of making her living trodding the boards. I tried to impress upon her she would likely end up on the streets, but she wouldn’t listen. I was determined to save her from herself and the first two times that she ran off, I found her and brought her back. After that...” He waved his hand in the air. “Her mind was made up and there didn’t seem to be much point in trying to change it.”
    His lips curved in a slight smile. “Fortunately, it isn’t all bleak. Samuel, the oldest boy is very bright. He lives in East Sussex and is working for Danfield Shipping. He’s on the docks now but he’ll move up as he masters the trade. Alexander, Michael, and Richard, are away at school. The rest are at Danfield house. I visit five or six times a year.”
    “Who takes care of them?”
    “I have employed a large staff. Miss Peters, who is the mother of Alexander and Richard, is the housekeeper. There are also two nursemaids and three governesses who live on the premises, plus an assortment of tutors who come in several times a week. And of course, a cook and several maids. Though, I’ve tried to keep that to a minimum. Miss Peters seemed to think it would be best if the children learned to do chores rather than be catered to. I suppose she’s right.”
    Cecelia worked out the math in her head. Puzzled, she asked, “All for three children?”
    “There are actually nine living in the house at present ranging in age from five to fourteen. Elizabeth is the oldest. Her sister Rosie is the youngest.”
    Cecelia frowned. “But your father died eleven years ago. How could he have a five year old daughter?”
    He smiled at her confused expression. “Several had brothers or sisters who were not my father’s offspring. I couldn’t split them apart by taking one child and leaving another behind. Sometimes all they really had was each other. As a result, we’ve had a full house for quite some time. The most we’ve had at one time is twelve. Altogether there have been seventeen.”
    “You’ve taken responsibility for seventeen children?”
    “My father’s legacy,” he said with a touch of bitterness in his voice. “Was indifference. I had to make up for that.”
    “I don’t remember ever meeting your father.”
    “That’s not surprising. He’s been dead for close to twelve years and he had been banned from polite society three or four years before that. He spent his last years at Bryony Hall. Only your father, your brother and Mansfield, my solicitor, know the full story of my household. Your father helped me find the house I bought.
    "There have been rumors, but most of them died down years ago. They may resurface with my title, as well as our marriage.” He looked chagrined. “I want you know that these children are my brothers and sisters, not my offspring. Even so, we should be prepared for gossip.”
    She nodded. “Does your mother know?”
    “My mother and I don’t discuss it, but she knows. I think she approves of what I’ve done. She knows the children aren’t at fault for the situation.”
    “Your mother is a wonderful, generous person and she’s beautiful. If your father was so awful, why did she marry him? Was she forced?”
    He smiled grimly. “Hardly. Her parents were most unhappy about it.” He paused. “In his youth, my father was handsome and charming and she fancied herself in love with him. It was all an illusion. By the time she found out he wasn’t who she thought he was, it was too late.”
    Cecelia stared at him a long moment while the reasoning behind his jaded view of love and marriage fell into place. In his mind, love was an illusion that led to heartache. Friendship and sexual desire were much safer. She knew he was fond of her and after three days shut away in their chambers making love in ways she hadn’t dreamed possible, there was little doubt that he desired her. But he wouldn’t risk falling in love. Exactly how this moment of clarity was able to penetrate her mind at the tender age of eighteen, she didn’t know. But there it was, hitting her squarely in the face. He was afraid to let himself fall in love with her. He was afraid to let himself fall in love with anyone. At least, she understood the dragon she was fighting. And fight it she would, because she realized that she did love him. Not just as a friend but as a lover and husband. And she vowed that he would come to love her, too.
    “Cecelia?”
    She looked up. He was frowning.
    “Did you go somewhere? I seem to have lost you.”`
    “No. I was just thinking that I would very much like to go to Danfield House with you and meet the rest of your family.”
    “Excellent.” He made no effort to conceal his relief. “We shouldn’t be there more than five or six days, but we’ve lost a nursemaid and I need to conduct interviews to take her place.”
    “I don’t mind at all. I can’t imagine why you think I would object.”
    He broke into a smile. “Sometimes, I forget that you’re different from most women. I’m thankful that you are.”
    She decided that since he seemed to be in an appreciative mood, she would ask a favor. “Could we take Ashley in the carriage with us when we go?”
    It appeared he wasn’t appreciative enough to grant her this favor. “No,” he said flatly as he set his coffee cup down. “It’s bad enough that the damn thing has been sleeping on my bed, but I refuse to travel with it, too.”
    “As I’ve yet to even lie down on the bed in my chambers,” she retorted. “She believes she’s sleeping on my bed. She knows my scent and that’s where she’s the most comfortable.”
    He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows at her. “I know your scent and understand the attraction.”
    There was no mistaking his meaning and her cheeks grew warm.
    He chuckled. “I’ve actually made my little hoyden blush. I didn’t know it was possible.”
    Impulsively, she picked up a roll and bounced it neatly off his head; then burst into laughter at the look of shock on his face. But when a slow smile stole across his face, she knew she was in trouble.
    “Now you’ve done it, my dear.” He picked up the dish of jam and rose from his chair.
    She desperately looked around for something else to throw. There was nothing within reach that wouldn’t either break or cause injury.
    “With the exception of fishing, you can’t best me. I’m taller, I’m stronger and I’m quicker. Now take your punishment, like a good girl.”
    Cecelia only had a few seconds to wonder at his intent before he hauled her to her feet and smeared strawberry jam from her cheek to her chin.
    Her body was shaking with laughter as she cried out, “What did you do that for?”
    “So, I can do this.” He swung her up on the table and proceeded to lick the jam off her cheek.
    A sticky glop of jam fell onto the edge of her ivory embroidered bodice. She really wanted to be angry with him, but the feel of his lips and tongue on her face made her shiver with delight. It was too late to pretend she was vexed. She pointed to her chin. “I believe you missed a spot.”
    He obliged her with another flick of his tongue.
    “And here.” She tapped a finger against her lower lip.
    He tilted her face up and scrutinized it carefully. “There isn’t any jam on your lip.” He took his forefinger, dipped it in the jam pot and spread it on her lower lip. “Oh, wait. There is a bit.”
    She slowly licked it off and the tone of their play changed. “You spilled it on my gown.”
    He looked down to where the jam stained the narrow muslin bodice. “So I did,” he murmured. “How fortunate.”
    “It’s ruined. It’s one of my favorite gowns, too.”
    “I’ll buy you another.” He placed his hands on her waist then lowered his head and licked the jam off the muslin. She closed her eyes and left out a soft sigh as he ran his tongue along the bare skin next to her bodice. “Oh, my,” he murmured against her breast. “I seem to have run out of jam.”
    Grinning, his hands fell to his side, he straightened up and headed toward bell pull.
    “Rand!” she shrieked. “What are you doing? You can’t call a servant in here. Look at me!”
    “I only thought to ring for more jam.” He creased his brow as if he were deep in thought. “But I can’t decide between blueberry jam and orange marmalade. Blueberry stains terribly, but as you say your frock is already ruined so I needn’t take that into consideration.”
    “But the servants!” she protested. “If they see me like this, they’ll be gossiping for weeks.”
    “My dear, considering the state we’ve left the bed chamber in, the gossiping has already begun. This will only add a drop of fuel to a raging inferno.”
    “Please don’t.”
    “You started it,” he murmured smoothly. “But I suppose I can live without orange marmalade.” Sighing, he crossed the room and turned the key in the lock. He leaned back against the door. “Now, what was I doing?”
    Cecelia clicked her tongue. “Has your memory left you, my lord? Though, it isn’t terribly surprising. You are quite old.”
    He narrowed his eyes. “Not too old to handle an eighteen year old chit who has yet to be taught how to show proper respect to her older, wiser, yet exceedingly virile husband.”
    “How boastful of you.”
    “’Tis only the truth.”
    Cecelia bit down on her lower lip then she slowly smiled. “I challenge you to prove it.”
    He closed the distance between them and with one sweep, shoved their breakfast dishes to the side.
    Twenty minutes later, Cecelia propped herself up on her elbows and surveyed the damage. “Your virility is quite intact,” she murmured, “which is far more than I can say for the dishes.”