Angel Rogue (54 page)

"I'll get you a key to the house. More dignified than having you pick the lock if you return late," Margot said. "I'll keep an eye on Maxie's room and try to ensure that she doesn't do anything foolish. Let me know if I can do anything else."

"Thank you." He smiled a little. "Actually, I know where I can get exactly the kind of assistance I need."

* * *

The door was open, so Robin rapped it with his knuckles as he walked through. Lord Strathmore looked up from his desk, his expression distracted until he saw who had arrived. With a smile, he got to his feet. "I'm glad you came back to Whitehall, Robin. Last night was enjoyable, but we really didn't have much chance to talk."

'Today won't be any better." After shaking hands, Robin took the chair his cousin indicated. "This is only a quick visit to ask for your help."

"Anything," Lucien said simply. "What's the problem?"

"I want to investigate a suicide that took place in an inn near Covent Garden two—no, closer to three months ago."

Lucien frowned. "Your friend Maxie's father?"

Robin nodded; his cousin was also a master at putting fragmentary facts together. "I'm afraid so. She's distraught—they were very close. I want to learn as much I can about any extenuating circumstances that might make his death easier for her to accept. I want to talk to the maid who found his body, the physician who certified his death, and everyone he visited in London. And I want to do it all today."

Lucien's brows rose. "Shall I come with you? Two of us may be able to cover more ground."

Robin glanced at the files on the desk. "Aren't you busy?"

"Not anything that can't wait."

"Good. Since London isn't my turf, I'll need all the help I can get." Robin frowned. "I should have thought of this earlier, but being personally involved plays havoc with the judgment. There's a Bow Street Runner, Ned Simmons, who was hired by the Collins family to hush the business up. If I can find him, he might already know much of what I want, to learn."

Lucien nodded. "I know Simmons, and he's very thorough. He frequents a tavern near Covent Garden. With luck, we'll find him there now."

Robin got to his feet, thinking that this was going to be easier than he expected.

Lucien also rose and collected a cane from the corner of the room, but he hesitated before coming around the desk. "Robin, there's something I want to say."

"Yes?"

His cousin fiddled with the polished brass head of the cane. "Strange," he said humorlessly. "My tattered conscience has been nagging me on and off about you for years. Yet I don't know quite how to put this into words." He glanced up, his green gold eyes somber. "I guess I want to know how much you resent me for talking you into a career in espionage."

Surprised, Robin said, "You didn't hold a knife to my throat, Luce. I made the decision myself."

"Yes, but I didn't realize what I was asking." Lucien sighed. "It seemed like almost a lark at the time. You were clever and had a genius for languages. Of course you could stay on the Continent and coordinate the British spying network for half of Europe. Between us, we would break Bonaparte. Who would have guessed the wars would continue for another dozen years?"

"Don't blame yourself for encouraging me in my folly," Robin said mildly. "You're only two years older than I—of course you couldn't know what was involved. My life was my own to risk as I chose."

"Giles didn't think so," Lucien said dryly. "I don't think he's ever forgiven me for my part in your career. But risking one's life is relatively straightforward. The worst part of being a spy is the high spiritual price of fighting a shadow war."

Lucien slid the polished shaft of the cane back and forth between his hands restlessly. "I've learned quite a bit about that myself, but at least I spent most of my time in the relatively civilized confines of England. My wicked deeds were usually done at long range and involved faceless people. What you did had to be far more difficult. As time passed, you began to look as drawn as blown glass, and as likely to shatter."

Touched by his cousin's concern, Robin asked, "Are you sorry that you asked me to work for the Foreign Office, or that I agreed?"

"That's the hell of it." Lucien smiled selfmockingly. "Ruthless spymaster that I am, I can't regret what you did—your contributions were truly vital. I guess my real wish is that I didn't feel so damned guilty about what the work did to you."

Robin laughed. Guilt he understood very well. "If it's absolution you want, Luce, you've got it. I'll admit that I came too close to the breaking point for comfort, but in the last few weeks, I've come to terms with my reprehensible past. I'll never be proud of some of the things I've done, but I'm not going to crucify myself any longer." As he spoke, he heard Maxie's words echoing in his own voice.

Lucien studied Robin's face shrewdly. "I've found that the right woman can do wonders for one's peace of mind."

"Indeed. And now it's time for me to repay a debt to this particular right woman. Shall we be off?"

With Lucien's help, it shouldn't be difficult to learn about the last days of Max Collins. Robin hoped to God that the information would make a difference.

Maxie felt as if she were wandering in a shadow land of evil dreams, but knew that there would be no awakening. Her father had taken his own life, and the knowledge was a pain more devastating than she could have imagined.

Burrowed into her pillows like a woodland creature seeking refuge, she lost track of the hours. The pattern of sunlight slowly shifted across the floor, then disappeared as clouds obscured the sky. Someone entered and left a tray of food, then left without speaking. The room darkened, and eventually the sounds of the household faded as night deepened.

When a distant clock struck midnight, Maxie forced herself to sit up and take stock. She couldn't spend the rest of her life hiding in a bedchamber. How much time would have to pass before her hosts would feel compelled to coax her out—twentyfour hours? Three days? A week? Or would Margot's superb hospitality allow Maxie to stay here forever, a mad mourner served by silent maids?

Even if the duchess would allow that, Robin wouldn't. Maxie buried her head in her hands, wondering dully what would happen next. Finally it was clear why she had been unable to sense her path beyond London. The unthinkable had happened, and now she felt suspended, unable to go forward, unable to retreat, too numb to imagine anything resembling normal life.

Wearily she slid from the bed and found her dressing gown, one of the garments that had magically appeared in her wardrobe the day before. She stopped and thought. Had she really been in London only two days? It seemed a century since she had arrived, met Margot and her aunt, and seriously misbehaved in the garden.

Even that last memory was not enough to warm her.

She belted the robe around her narrow waist, then lit a candle and used it .to light her way down to the library. Books had never failed to make her feel better. Perhaps being surrounded by them would help clear her dazed mind.

There was a desk at the far end of the library. She settled into the leather upholstered chair behind it. The room was cool, and occasional raindrops spatted against the windows. Myriad volumes lined the room in friendly ranks, their titles reflecting dull gold in the candlelight. As she inhaled the pleasant scents of leather bindings and furniture polish, mingled with a faded tang of smoke, the knot in her chest eased a little.

A walnut box of pipe tobacco stood on one side of the desk. Moved by dim memory, she opened the box and put a large pinch of tobacco in a shallow china bowl intended for ashes. Then she used the candle to set the shredded leaf afire.

The pungent scent carried her back to ceremonies she had attended in her childhood. Among her mother's people, tobacco was considered sacred, and it was burned to carry prayers to the spirit world.

But as she watched the smoke twist and dissolve into blackness, Maxie was not even sure what to pray for.

It had been a long day, and Candover House was completely dark when Robin returned. Still, with the considerable help of Lucien and a startled but cooperative Simmons, he had found the information he wanted. Perhaps tomorrow Maxie would be willing to listen.

He let himself in with the key Maggie had given him. He had just relocked the massive front door when his instincts sounded a warning note. After a moment of intense stillness, reaching out with his senses, he recognized what was amiss. Though the household slept, there was a fresh scent of burning tobacco here on a floor that had no bedchambers.

Probably it meant no more than that a servant had smoked while checking that the doors were locked, or that Rafe was working late. Nonetheless, Robin followed the scent to the library, where a sliver of light showed beneath the door.

He entered quietly. Maxie was sitting at the far end of the room, her straight ebony hair cascading over her shoulders and her gaze fixed absently on a spiral of fragrant smoke. Though he was glad she had risen from her bed, her expression was bleak and infinitely distant. It hurt to see the dimming of her spirit. Perhaps what he had learned might rekindle her essential flame.

She looked up without surprise. "Good evening. Have you been skulking about London?"

"Exactly." He walked the length of the room and took a chair near her. Since she was barefoot and wore only a light robe over her shift, he took off his coat, removed several folded sheets of paper from an inside pocket, then offered it to her. "You must be freezing. Put this on."

She accepted the garment mechanically and draped it over her shoulders. She looked very small in the folds of dark fabric.

"I've learned some things I think you'll find interesting," Robin said. "Can you bear to listen now, or should I wait?"

She made a vague gesture with her hand. "It doesn't matter. Now will do if that's what you wish."

Wondering what it would take to break through her lethargy, he said, "Lord Collingwood called here today. His judgment might have been doubtful, but his intentions were good when he hired Simmons to prevent you from reaching London and investigating your father's death. Simmons is a Bow Street Runner."

She dropped another pinch of tobacco on the smoldering pile. "What is a Bow Street Runner?"

"A thief taker. Mostly they work for the chief magistrate of Westminister, whose office is in Bow Street, hence the name," Robin explained. "However, Runners can be hired by private citizens for special tasks, which is what your uncle did."