The Tide Watchers (50 page)

Jermyn Street, London

May 19, 1803

H
E'D BEEN ALONE FOR
more than a month now.

The streets of London were filled with boys selling newssheets, screaming that they were again at war with France. The screaming and the war suited Duncan's mood. Even the vile smell of the city, the piss and the vomit mixed with cooking smells and befouled rivers six feet beneath his feet, felt appropriate.

Then the rain drizzled over his head. Perfect. London mirrored his life, a dirty shambles.

Then it's time to change it.

The problem was, until Caroline's death, he'd liked his life. Marrying Lisbeth had been the realization of everything he'd ever wanted. He was a successful King's Man, with a home and family, a wife and son—

The first time you put duty above family I'll be gone—and that's my vow to you.

Well, she'd kept her vow. Three months married, and it had been over for more than a month. It hadn't even lasted a month. What was so wrong with him that he couldn't keep her love even for a few months?

Why is she coming to Scotland with us? Look at that
. . .

What did Alec know that he didn't? Why had she gone to Scotland? To Duncan, it was the one place he planned never to go: the embodiment of a life of rejection and ridicule.

No, there was something off in that.

He turned into his building, and he ran up the stairs to his rooms. Letting himself in quietly so his valet, Dobson, wouldn't fuss over him, he picked up his letters and headed for the chair by the fire in the
small sitting room. He'd planned to open up Annersley House in town for them. Now he couldn't be bothered leaving his bachelor's digs.

Scotland. Why had she gone to Scotland? It was something he ought to know. Alec thought so, and Duncan had learned to trust his brother's advice. If he'd listened months ago—

He sighed and sorted through his letters.

One had a Norfolk direction. Though he knew she'd gone, he tore the thing open before reading the sender's address.

Swallowing his disappointment, he read the letter from the Aylsham man of affairs.

Dear Lord Annersley,

I regret to inform you that your father passed two months ago. As you were not in England for the reading of the will, I take leave to inform you that everything passed to you, including the title of Baron Annersley. Mellingham Hall is in urgent need of repair, as are the villages and lands surrounding. The tenants desperately need repairs to their homes. Your father dismissed the steward some years ago, among other servants. If you could find the time to make an inspection, and release some funds, I would be most grateful.

Yours, etc,

Jerome Fairmont

“So I'm Lord Annersley,” he murmured, feeling only emptiness. He'd expected to be grateful the abusive old bastard was dead at last, but what he felt was cheated. God knows it would have been useless, but he'd wanted to see the old man one last time, take Lisbeth and Edmond, show him even a traitor's unwanted bastard could find happiness.

He frowned, thinking about why the thought disturbed him.

Our grandparents pray every day to see you before they die.

Why is she going to Scotland?

I don't know who you are.

His life had been built on more lies than he'd realized. No wonder he'd chosen to be a King's Man. A life of deception was all he'd
known. Annersley gained his heir by killing Broderick Stewart by legal means. Then he'd fed Duncan a steady diet of half-truths and crazy stories that prevented him from wanting to meet his real family or discover the truth. By the time he'd run from Norfolk at fourteen he'd become so comfortable with the sham that was his life, he hadn't considered truth to be an option.

Then Eddie saved him, cared for him, and filled him with ideals of duty to king and country. If Annersley had spun ugly stories to keep an heir, and Julia had made love a lie, it was Eddie who'd made deception noble in Duncan's eyes. Thrusting him into the shadows and telling him it was acceptable, right, even honorable to keep secrets, to maim, kill, or die in the name of king and country. And lying, always lying. It was normal for him to push truth away, apart from factual reports to his superiors. But everyone else was fair game. Being like Eddie had been his holy grail for half his life; emulating Leo and Andrew was his aspiration, gentlemen spies.

Did they even know who they were, if their own daughter and sister didn't know them?

Did
he
know who he was?

No wonder he refused to accept Alec in his life. His brother had thrust an unwanted light on his life from the day they'd met, handing him unpalatable truths, leaving him uncomfortable with who and what he was. And then he'd met Lisbeth, who didn't know how to lie; and Cal, with his bluntness and his pain. Three people who'd risked everything for him, who would do anything for him without agenda or cost.

The three people he could trust with his life, because they'd never deceived him. The people who'd shown up his life for the glass castle it was, a fragile house built on shifting sands.

Why is she going to Scotland? Think about that, lad, and you'll know what to do.

A slow smile spread across his face.

“Where is this underwater craft? We must test it and make replicas.”

Duncan stood facing the long line of desks. “My ship's docked at Brunswick. It takes time to bring such a contraption here, my lords. It will be in the stables by Spring Garden Mews this afternoon.” He waved a hand behind the assembled admirals and rear admirals to the park behind Admiralty House, viewed through wide windows.

“Will Fulton come?” The Admiral Earl St. Vincent demanded, voice eager.

“No, my lord,” Duncan replied without inflection. “Though he donated
Papillon
to our cause when he heard of the invasion fleet, he is of firm republican principles.”

“Then why did he donate
Papillon
to British interests?” Admiral Baron Elphinstone asked in his Scottish accent, heavy white brow knitted. “It seems rank foolishness to me.”

Duncan chose his words with care. “By then Fulton knew of the invasion. One of our team had been taken for questioning right from the house where he was staying, and it terrified him. He left France that night.”

Sir Edward Pellew had sat in silence until this point. He was merely a rear admiral, but a man of famed acumen and heroism. “What's her name, Aylsham?”

Duncan met the sharp gaze. “That's a delicate matter, Sir Edward.”

Pellew's brows lifted. “I will be answered, Commander! Who's the woman you sent to Fulton, what does she know about submersible boats, and why isn't she here?”

Duncan met fire with cool obedience. “You're right, Sir Edward. A woman was sent to Fulton as an assistant and learned enough from him to conceive the manner in which we disabled the French fleet. She came with me on the final mission. Though she'd just recovered from weeks of illness, she saved my life that night, and her courage and brilliance saved Britain from invasion.” As Pellew was about to speak, Duncan lifted a hand. “But whatever her name was, Sir Edward, it is now Aylsham. The
lady did me the great honor of becoming my wife, my baroness. She is currently in Scotland with my family.”

Mutterings greeted this announcement. It was a facer, indeed. British law dictated that no man could force another man's wife into any form of work. Even the king himself couldn't force a peer's wife into the kind of labor needed to create copies of
Papillon
.

Admiral Lord Nelson spoke. “I have met Lady Annersley, my lords. She's a lady of the highest duty and principle—but when I saw her, she was in a state of collapse.”

Throwing Nelson a grateful glance, Duncan said, “My wife is indeed a lady with a high sense of duty, but she is currently in sore need of rest.”

Once again Pellew harrumphed, but his eyes were touched with regretful determination. “You're aware, of course, that neither of your names can be recorded as the authors of this heroic endeavor, especially that of Lady Annersley. It must remain forever secret.”

Duncan fought the urge to growl when all the other men nodded in emphatic agreement. In their eyes, a lady couldn't conceive anything but children, a drawing-room decoration, or a new hat style. Anything else was indelicate and unfeminine in the extreme. He doubted any man here but Nelson or possibly Pellew would like Lisbeth, or admire her strength. Her insight would probably terrify them.

He replied coolly enough, “My wife and I did none of this for public honors.”

Pellew nodded and smiled, as if he'd agreed. “Quite right. She is your baroness, will meet the king, and receive our thanks in private.”

And that's reward enough for risking her life over and over, because she's a woman?
Duncan saw Pellew, a man who lived to shower heroic men with praise and rewards, through new eyes. He truly believed Lisbeth's part in saving England must be kept secret merely because she was a woman. Her footnote in history would only be as the thirty-sixth Lady Annersley.

“I have another appointment. Good day to you, my lords.” He bowed and left the room. As soon as the admirals had
Papillon
in their meaty paws, he'd—

Halfway down the hall, a voice came. “Aylsham, a word if you please.”

Unsurprised, Duncan turned to face the haughty, thin face of his spymaster. “It's Annersley, if you please,” he said coolly. “Did you withhold my wife's letters to her mother?”

Zephyr's brows lifted. For the first time, it left Duncan unmoved. He waited.

Eventually Zephyr snapped, “You don't need to create a fuss about it, Annersley. It was a necessary precaution. She'd talked about being in Ambleteuse and Jersey. It's about time you returned from Norfolk. I have a mission—” He stopped when Duncan shoved a sealed envelope into his hand. “What's this?”

“My resignation from the Alien Office, effective immediately.”

Zephyr looked at him coldly. Again, Duncan felt nothing, but waited. “So you would desert us on the commencement of war?”

Words that had always moved him before now left him cold. “There will always be a war, a cause, an assassination, or a sacrifice. I've made mine willingly. My wife, however, did not, and neither did her mother. My resignation is effective immediately, sir.”

“Do I not have the right to an explanation?” Zephyr demanded as Duncan turned away.

“You do not.”

“Damn it, Annersley, I will have an explanation!”

Knowing the veiled threat meant something against Lisbeth, he turned back. “The former Lord Annersley left the land and villages in bad heart. My first duty is now there. Take that as my reason, if you like. I assure you, you wouldn't like the other. By the way, if young Mark Henshaw returns from Boulogne—”

“He hasn't as yet, and if he does, it is no longer your concern,” Zephyr said coldly.

“True.” Duncan nodded. “I recommend thorough training for him. He has a stellar future in the Alien Office, if you can look past his birth. I sent in a complete report this morning.”

“I demand your word you'll be available for future missions, should they be vital!”

“Then you'll be disappointed, sir. You can't force a peer into service.” Unmoved by the disapproving growl of his commanding officer, Duncan sketched a final bow, turned, and walked out, feeling lighter.

He knew what he had to do. An arrow landing on a hayrick, maybe; perhaps she'd kick him out. Either way he was heading to Scotland, to meet his true family, to become a Stewart. To become the man Lisbeth wanted him to be.

“I'm afraid you won't see Campbell for some time, sir. Seems he's disappeared.”

In his Spartan office in the Whitehall buildings, William Windham stared at the sturdy, pleasant face of Captain Wright. He'd newly arrived in London with vital papers—and information. “Campbell was taken? Lord John Campbell?”

“We can't confirm it, sir, but more than fourteen hundred British nationals have been captured and taken to detainment camps across France. He could very well be one of them.”

What a damn day it had been. Bloody women ruined everything. The best team of alibis he could have, done with; Calum Stewart was useless without his brothers. Furious, Windham put his hands to his hair, only to growl in pain when he encountered his wig. “Damn it, he's son and heir to the Duke of Argyll! He ought to have been released!”

Poker-faced, Wright replied, “Perhaps we counted on that a little too much when we entrusted him with this mission, sir.”

How the hell was he to explain the disappearance of his son and heir to the fiery Duke of Argyll? Or to the king, when English-Scottish politics were in a delicate state with the Irish insurrection coming closer by the hour? He caught sight of his hair in the beveled mirror, standing on end like a Bedlamite, and began smoothing it. “Well? You told me you had other matters to report.”

“Yes, sir, I do.” A short hesitation that wasn't in Wright's style. “There was—an incident—on Boulogne Beach a few days ago, sir.”

“Well? Don't make me wait!”

“As you know, Talbot and Mandeville were left to bring certain items of value with them when the embassy in Paris closed.” A quick, delicate glance at the trunk at his feet, then around the room. A trained agent never said more than he needed to, even here, because if the British had hundreds of agents in France, Boney had thousands here, many of them English born and bred. “Unfortunately they were refused permission to board the packet at Calais. Diverted to Boulogne, they endured questioning by the
sous-préfet
who told them that Boney was ready to detain them and confiscate the items. So they decided to burn the ones that have their counterparts in this office.”