Trapped by Scandal (23 page)

Something to do with his present business for the émigré army, presumably. Maybe there was an émigré family in Knightsbridge whose support he wanted. But why would he go on such an errand at dawn? And in a hired hackney? From what little she knew of Knightsbridge, it was where wealthier tradesmen, men who worked in banking or other such professions, had their residences.
Solid burghers with whom William could have little or nothing in common.

But even as she thought that, Hero knew it sprang from her own world of aristocratic privilege, and William had no time for that world and its prejudices. She hadn't thought she had, either, she reflected ruefully, but upbringing laid deep roots, it seemed.

Once she was sure the carriage had turned off Half Moon Street, Hero abandoned her hiding place and began to walk home. Why had he looked so worried? Was he in danger? And then the obvious question: Could she help him?

But she would be discreet. She would wait for an hour or two before taking her own anonymous hackney to Knightsbridge. Once there, she could take a covert look at Primrose Lane. If William was under threat, then maybe she could do something to help. And if he wasn't, if his business in Knightsbridge was clearly none of hers, then she would retreat, and no one would be any the wiser. A little voice niggled:
Why would he have business in such an out-of-the-way place that was none of my business?

There was so much about him that she didn't know. Great acres of his past life, of his childhood and growing, that he had never confided. In fact, Hero reflected, he had never confided anything personal to her really at all. Just that one thing about the dangers of losing one's reputation, one's place in the world. But even that had simply been issued as a warning without background explanation. It had involved something personal, someone he had loved, but he had closed the subject down, leav
ing her tantalized but none the wiser. Hero knew it had something, if not everything, to do with that wretched rejection at Yarmouth, but their renewed loving still felt so fragile, as if anything could bring it to another awful, senseless ending, that she had not dared to question him again. Somehow she had hoped that as their ties grew stronger, more secure, that story would reveal itself quite naturally as a simple progression of their loving intimacy.

But she knew in the deepest part of her soul that if there was ever to be a future for her in this relationship, then she had to have the answer to that rejection. If that meant pushing the boundaries that William had set so firmly for them, then so be it. And suddenly, Hero realized that the uncertainty, the dreadful anxiety of walking on eggshells around him all the time, was too much. It was no way to conduct a love affair. William
must
trust her with his self, with his past, with the hopes and fears, the joys and terrors that informed the person he was. If he couldn't,
wouldn't
, then there could never be a future for her with him. She could not subdue her own essential self to the narrow confines of physical intimacy with which William seemed comfortable.

TWENTY-TWO

T
he man, Gilles, arrived to take up his position in the square garden soon after dawn. It was boring work, and he huddled into his woolen driving cloak against the dank morning chill. The grand double-fronted house opposite was just coming to life, the curtains in the front of the house opening, smoke from the revived fires gusting from the several chimneys. A maid appeared on the front step and threw a bucket of water down the steps to clear away any debris from the night.

Only one person appeared on the street itself, a cloaked figure walking quickly up to the door. The watcher frowned as he recognized the object of his surveillance, Lady Hermione Fanshawe. Quite apart from the strangeness of her being out in the street at this hour, there was something unusual about her clothing. He was used to seeing her in the most fashionable of dress, but this morning, in a plain wool cloak and half boots, her hair tied back in a simple knot, she could have passed for a parlor maid.

Where had she been all night? No, not all night, he amended. His colleague had watched her return from
her evening's amusement just before one o'clock in the morning. They had no instructions to watch the house all night, and Alain had gone to his own bed after noting the time of her return on the report sheet in the lodging he shared with Gilles. Sometime between then and now, when Gilles took over the surveillance, it seemed the lady had gone out again.

He hesitated, reasoning that if she'd just come back, she wouldn't be leaving again for a while. Not within the hour, at least. Time enough to report her nighttime activities to his master. It was sufficiently unusual to arouse suspicion, and his orders were absolute. Citizen Dubois was to be informed immediately of anything out of the ordinary. He hurried across the square and flagged down a hackney, its driver nodding sleepily on his box, blue smoke from his pipe curling in the early mist.

“Jermyn Street.” The man clambered in as the jarvey cracked his whip.

They reached his destination in ten minutes on the still-quiet residential streets, and Gilles knocked a rapid rhythm on the blue-painted front door. It swung open as if of its own accord, and he stepped into a narrow hallway. The door closed behind him, and Everard Dubois emerged from the shadow, sheathing his knife. It was a simple precaution and one the Lizard maintained with utter dedication. One could never be absolutely certain who was on the other side of a street door, even when the correct signal had been given.

“You've left your post . . . why?” he demanded of his visitor, stepping into a cramped parlor to the left of the door.

“She just came back,” was the succinct response.

“Back . . . from where?”

“I don't know,
citoyen
. I'd just gone on duty, and she came walking down the street. Let herself into the house just after six.”

Dubois frowned and kicked at a falling log in the small hearth. “She left Almack's with her aunt just before one. When did she go out again?”

It was a question to which his agent had no answer and didn't offer one. Dubois swore vigorously, and Gilles took an instinctive step back, but the Lizard's wrath was directed at himself. He had neglected to keep watch on the house overnight. Somehow he had not considered that Lady Hermione Fanshawe might be roaming the streets of London during the dark of the moon. But then, until that moment at Almack's when he realized the lady and the lad on the fishing boat in the Channel were one and the same, he had underestimated her. He had still foolishly thought her bound by the conventions of her upbringing while she was living the life that upbringing dictated. Her brother had been in Paris, but that was no reason to suspect his sister of being part of that deadly operation. Now he knew better.

He thought rapidly, then instructed in crisp tones, “Very well, she's clearly unpredictable. We need to step up our surveillance so we're prepared for anything. We'll bring the hackney into play in case she decides to use one the next time she leaves. You'll be in charge there, and I'll send Alain back to watch the house.”

The agent nodded. “
Oui, citoyen.
” He left at once, and
Everard Dubois stood before the fire, gazing sightlessly into the flames, wondering where this path was going to take him next.

The house was up and about when Hero let herself in. A startled parlor maid scurried past her with a scuttle of coals for the drawing room fire as she headed for the stairs to the bedchamber floor, and another young girl, on her knees brushing the staircase, pressed herself against the banister with a little yelp of surprise.

Hero offered her apologies as she stepped carefully to the side of the stair. In her own chamber, she rang for Maisie and discarded her cloak and gloves.

“Lord love us, Lady Hero, what have you been doing, up and about at this hour, all dressed like, and not even ringing for me?” Maisie exclaimed as she took in Hero's outdoor garments.

“I woke early and was feeling restless, so I went for a walk in the square,” Hero responded, sitting down to unlace her boots. “Would you be a dear and bring me some breakfast? A boiled egg, some toast, and hot chocolate would do. I have to go out again within the hour.”

Maisie clucked a little with the license of a confidential retainer. “And will you be changing your clothes, my lady?” she asked rather pointedly.

Hero had not considered her outfit when she'd dressed in such haste earlier, wishing merely to look as inconspicuous as possible. Beneath her wool cloak, she was wearing a plain serge gown that she would have worn at the estate in
Hampshire for roaming around the countryside or fishing in the Beaulieu River. It was quite unsuited to the streets of fashionable London. But then, her errand wasn't taking her out and about in fashionable London. She needed to be as discreet as possible, and if she could pass as an upper servant, so much the better.

“No, I'll stay just as I am, Maisie. I'm going on a private errand.”

Maisie said nothing more but went off to see about breakfast. Hero laced up her boots again. She should let Aunt Emily know she was going to be out for the rest of the day, but if she showed herself in this garb at the lady's bedchamber, there would have to be explanations. She went to the secretaire to write a note, explaining that as it was early in the day and she knew dear Aunt Emily wished to keep to her room after the excitements of Almack's the previous evening, she thought it best not to disturb her. She would be home in the early afternoon. Hero signed the note with a flourish, sanded it, and folded it just as Maisie returned with the breakfast tray.

“Will you be wanting me to accompany you, Lady Hero?”

Hero shook her head and cracked the top of her egg with a tiny silver spoon. “No, there's no need, Maisie. Why don't you take the morning to yourself? I doubt I'll be back before this afternoon.”

Maisie looked gratified. Free time was a rare commodity. “Well, thank you, Lady Hero. I own I'd be glad of a chance to visit my sister. She's housemaid at Lady Denizon's in Brooke Street.”

“Then you must certainly do that.” Hero dipped a fin
ger of toast into her egg and carried the dripping morsel to her lips. “Could you ask Jackson to send a footman to fetch a hackney for me?”

“I'll tell him to bring it in five minutes, ma'am. So you can finish your breakfast.”

Hero controlled her irritation at Maisie's well-meant solicitude and finished her egg with a little less haste. But after a few minutes, she drained her chocolate even as she stood up, impatient now to be on her way. She hurried down to the hall, where Jackson stood at the front door waiting for her.

“Your carriage is outside, Lady Hero,” he declared in customary stately tones. “What direction should the footman give the driver?”

“Oh, just to Piccadilly, Jackson,” Hero responded with a careless smile. Keeping her destination a secret was a simple precaution but a necessary one. William could with good reason accuse her of prying into his private business, but she was determined he would have no further justification for accusing her of carelessly endangering him or his business.

She ran down the steps to where the cab waited in the street. It promised to be a beautiful autumn morning, with crisp air and copper leaves sharp against a bright blue sky. “Thank you, Fred,” she said cheefully to the footman who stood at the door of the cab. She stepped into the hackney, giving the driver on his box barely a glance, and the vehicle started off. Once they were safely around the far side of the square, she moved aside the leather curtain at the window and leaned out. “Driver?”

The man slowed his horse and peered down and around from the box. “Aye?”

“I've changed my mind. I want you to take me to Knightsbridge . . . Primrose Lane.” Hero had expected a protest at such an out-of-the-way destination and was surprised when the jarvey merely withdrew his head and snapped the reins, setting his horse into a brisk trot.

She sat back against the unusually clean leather squabs of the cab, reflecting idly that it felt almost like a new vehicle, unlike the majority of the hackneys plying the streets of London, which for the most part smelled of sweat, tobacco smoke, and frequently, for some unknown reason, boiled onions.

She knitted her gloved fingers together in her lap, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Whatever business was occupying William at the moment, it was imperative that he know about her reckless indiscretion with the Lizard. It would affect every plan he had made. And behind that grim knowledge lay the image of his worried, tense expression. Something lay on Primrose Lane that concerned him so deeply it broke through his normally calm, controlled exterior. She loved him, and it was so hard to accept that he still withheld so much of his essential self from her.

Hero pushed aside the curtain again and watched the streets slide past. It was still quite early, and few of the fashionable set were out and about, one or two energetic riders on the tan in Hyde Park and the occasional drunken young buck swaying down the street in search of his bed after a night's debauchery in the brothels and deep gambling dens under the arches of Covent Garden.

The streetscape began to change, the streets becoming wider, the paving less even, and Hero glimpsed the occasional green field in the distance. Some of the houses were large and solid, set around leafy squares with neat front gardens. It was curiously peaceful after the smoky bustle of London. Private barouches bowled past her on their way into the city, presumably carrying the businessmen and substantial tradesmen who lived in the large solid houses. Children played in the squares under the watchful eyes of nursemaids, and servants carrying laden shopping baskets hurried down the streets.

The hackney slowed and came to a stop at a crossroads. Hero leaned out. “Are we there?”

“This is Knightsbridge, ma'am. No idea where Primrose Lane is. Which way?” The driver's voice was muffled by his thick woolen scarf as he gestured from side to side with his whip.

“I don't know, either.” She looked up the street. A woman was tending a garden a few houses down. “I'll go and ask.” She opened the door and jumped down to the lane. “Excuse me, ma'am, but we're looking for Primrose Lane.”

The woman straightened up from her cabbages and wiped her hands on her apron. She looked curiously at Hero. “Don't see many strangers around here.” She pushed a straggle of gray hair back under her kerchief. “Primrose Lane's that-a-way. Take the next turn on the left.” She gestured ahead down the lane.

“My thanks, ma'am.” Hero hurried back to the hackney. There was no need for the driver to know her final
destination. “Go back to the inn we saw on the village green. I'll find you there when I'm ready to go back.”

The driver merely raised a hand in acknowledgment and turned the hackney on the narrow puddled lane.

Hero didn't give him another thought. She followed the woman's directions and found Primrose Lane. She walked carefully down its length, looking at the cottages. They all looked the same to her, but presumably everyone knew their neighbors.