England's Perfect Hero (38 page)

"But the papers would make him a traitor," his brother protested, topping the stairs behind him and striding down the hallway toward Geoffrey's private rooms. "Isn't keeping them with his uniform a bit odd?"

"Not if you're him. They're his way to a promotion. How does that make him a traitor?"

Wycliffe gave a low whistle. "You're turning me into a believer, and we haven't even found anything yet."

"I've been thinking about it quite a bit." Robert shoved open the bedchamber door.

Considering what he'd deduced to be a modest income, the number of wardrobes in the large double suite bedchamber was startling. Obviously this was where the majority of Lord Geoffrey's money went.

"And I thought Georgiana had too many clothes," Tristan muttered, heading for the wardrobe farthest to the right.

Robert flung open the one next to it, rifling through jackets and waistcoats, trousers, and breeches. Apparently shirts were located in a different section of the room altogether. Kneeling, he yanked open the bottom drawers to find stockings and neckcloths, but no uniform.

Quiet as the house was, the sound of the front door opening sounded as loud as a pistol shot. He jerked to his feet, striding for the hallway. Bradshaw's suggestion of beating the truth out of Lord Geoffrey was beginning to seem like a good idea.

"Any housebreakers here?" Bradshaw's voice came, a loud, whispered yell.

Robert leaned over the balcony railing. "Upstairs."

"He's left Tattersall's," Bradshaw panted. "And he didn't look happy."

"What about Lucinda?"

"He left her there," Shaw returned, climbing the stairs as he explained. "It looked as though they were arguing, and then he rode off. He was heading straight for his carriage. He can't be more than five minutes behind me."

"I found something!" Wycliffe called.

Robert sprinted back for the bedchamber. The duke dragged a small oak trunk from beneath the raised bed.

"It's locked," Wycliffe said, pulling it further into the open. "And I don't suppose we'll find the key anywhere in the house."

"No, if that's his uniform, he'll have the key with him," Robert said, squatting down to examine the mechanism. By the time he'd made his accidental escape from Chateau Pagnon, all he had left of his uniform were torn mud- and bloodstained shreds of his trousers and a ripped undershirt. If he had somehow returned with a wearable jacket or boots, he would have burned them.

Geoffrey, though, was proud of his uniform, proud of the prestige it gave him, and the money it would eventually earn him. The lock was good quality, better than the chest demanded. "This is it." It had to be.

"Can you pick it?" Bradshaw asked, joining them.

"I'm a recluse, not a burglar," Robert returned with a half smile. In truth, he probably
could
have picked it, but with Geoffrey on the way, he didn't want to take the time. Instead he pulled a pistol from his pocket.

"Robert," Tristan said, his expression startled. "What did you bring that for?"

"Unforeseen circumstances," he answered, pulling back the hammer. At least his hand wasn't shaking; it had been when he'd retrieved the thing from Bradshaw's room and loaded it.

"Fire in the hole," he muttered, and pulled the trigger.

In the closed room the roar and spit was louder than he remembered, and he couldn't help flinching from the explosion. He hadn't fired a weapon in just under four years, but at least his aim hadn't faltered. The front of the trunk had splintered, and the lock had been obliterated.

"I don't think anyone outside heard that, do you?" Bradshaw said sarcastically, scowling. "For the devil's sake, Bit."

"We're in a hurry." Robert shoved open the lid. Inside, marred only by a bullet hole through the left side of the jacket, lay a neatly folded, perfectly pressed, captain's uniform.

"Good shot," Wycliffe noted, grabbing the jacket and shaking it. "Right through the heart."

A flutter of folded papers thunked to the floor. For a brief moment, Robert closed his eyes. Thank Lucifer.

He'd been right. "Check them," he barked, digging deeper into the trunk. Maps were supposed to be missing as well, and they needed to find everything—not just to convict Geoffrey, but to ensure that England didn't end up having to go to war against Bonaparte again.

"I'll be damned," Tristan said slowly, anger dripping from his voice. "These are the lists. Englishmen with sympathies for Napoleon. It's a shame we can't hang onto these for a few days and make a few visits."

Robert barely glanced up as he dug through the trunk. "They can sympathize with whomever they want, as long as they don't do anything about it."

His fingers touched a rolled parchment, lodged in the deepest corner and covered by Geoffrey's dress sword. He pulled it free, opening it across the top of the trunk. St. Helena Island spread out before him, with notations of elevation and distance, and detailed blueprints of the fortress there.

"The maps," Tristan said, gripping Robert's shoulder. "You did it."

"And now let's get out of here, if you don't mind," Bradshaw suggested. "I would enjoy being a hero, but I could do without being arrested for burglary and doing something nefarious with the household staff."

"They're locked in the storage closet," Tristan supplied, stacking the papers and tucking them under his arm.

They headed down the stairs and out the front door. No sign of Geoffrey yet, but he wasn't going to be happy when he arrived. They'd left Tolley and the other horses around the corner, but Robert stopped Tristan before he could mount.

"I need those papers," he said, holding out his hand.

"I'll get them to the Horse Guards," the viscount said, frowning. "Don't worry about that. I want you somewhere safe."

"They aren't going to the Horse Guards."

Wycliffe went very still. "Beg pardon?"

"Lord Geoffrey got these by going through General Barrett. The general's career could be destroyed if we go straight to his headquarters and announce that his prospective son-in-law is the traitor everyone's been looking for."

"Urn, Bit, I was under the impression that you weren't overly fond of General Barrett."

"I'm not," he answered, taking the papers from Tristan and folding them into his worn livestock handler's jacket. "I
am
fond of his daughter." Hurting Barrett would hurt her, and he wouldn't allow that to happen. In addition, the animosity he felt toward the general was entirely personal; he'd begun to realize that he had no real wish to ruin a man who in everyone else's estimation was honorable and honest.

"So we're going to Barrett House?"

He swung up on Tolley. "No,
I'm
going to Barrett House. You're going to Carroway House and be prepared to either tell the authorities I left for America or attest to the fact that we found these things in Geoffrey's uniform trunk."

"This is your play, Bit," Tristan said reluctantly. "But for God's sake, be careful."

"I will be," Robert answered, clucking to Tolley. Of course his health would depend on how General Barrett received the news, but he was willing to take the risk. The stakes were much higher than Geoffrey's future, or his own, anyway. The stakes were Lucinda's future, and her happiness.

Lucinda could tell from the looks on the sentries' faces that they were none too happy to see Evie calling at the Horse Guards, even in the company of General Barrett's daughter. Having St. Aubyn there had to make them even more nervous, and truth be told, she was somewhat relieved that her father had been there and gone already. He certainly wouldn't have been pleased to see her in the company she was keeping, either.

"He must be home, then," she said, as Saint handed her back into his curricle. "That's probably better, anyway. I can talk to him and try to make him see reason. If we all jump in at once, he'll just become defensive."

"You shouldn't confront him alone," Evie said, the worried lines of her face deepening.

"It's not so much confronting him as making certain he keeps an open mind," she returned, hoping that in this grand scheme of Robert's, someone had been assigned to let her know that he'd found the papers and gotten away from Geoffrey's house safely.

"You're taking quite a risk, Lucinda," Saint said, his gaze on the street ahead. "Once you level an accusation at Geoffrey, you can't go back. And Robert… isn't the most likely man in the world to stand by anyone. Are you sure you—"

"Michael, she knows," Evie interrupted, putting a hand over his.

Lucinda was thankful for the vote of confidence. She did know what accusing Geoffrey would mean. It was Robert who left her feeling uncertain—not about whether he could stop Geoffrey, but about whether he would vanish back into the shadows, back into himself, when he'd finished.

"Are you certain you don't want us to stay here with you?" Evie asked.

Blinking, Lucinda looked up. The carriage rolled to a stop in front of her home. "I'm certain."

"If the others find what they're looking for," Saint added, "they're likely to run them straight to the Horse Guards. Your father will be called there to see the evidence."

Lucinda nodded as she and Helena stepped to the ground. "Perhaps I can prepare him a little for it."

"Good luck, then. We'll head to Carroway House. The rest of the excitement's likely to happen there." With a cluck, Saint sent the team back down the drive.

Ballow opened the door as she reached it. "The general is in his office," he stated as she handed over her shawl. "Something seems to be… amiss."

Oh, dear
. Nothing should have happened yet—it was too soon. Gathering her skirts, she hurried to his office, only to find his door locked. "Papa?" she called, knocking. "Papa, I need to speak to you."

His heavy tread approached, and the door rattled and opened. The expression on his face—hard, set, and angry—stopped her for a moment. "I need to speak to you, as well," he grated, stepping aside so she could enter.

"What's wrong?" she asked, and then her breath caught. Lord Geoffrey leaned in the window sill, gazing at her. "Geoffrey?" she asked, faltering for something to say. "Why did you abandon me at Tattersall's? And why are you here? Papa, what's going on?"

"I was just leaving," Geoffrey said, giving her a stiff nod as he passed her on the way to the door.

The first thing that occurred to her was that if he was here, then Robert would have a few more minutes to finish searching his home. "Did I say something to offend you?"

In the doorway he faced her. "I am disappointed," he murmured. "I had thought better of you."

Frowning, she watched him make his way down the hall and out the front door. When she turned back, her father's gaze was on her. "You went behind my back," he said quietly. "After you asked for my patience, you used that time to attempt to hurt someone else—someone I consider a friend. Someone I had hoped you would see as more than a friend."

"What in the world has he been telling you?"

Geoffrey couldn't know everything; if he did, he would have headed straight home instead of detouring to carry tales to her father. A thought turned her heart cold. He would have headed home unless he didn't have the papers there, or had them hidden so well that no one would ever find them—unless he had figured them out and had already taken steps to protect himself.

"What he told me," the general returned, raising his voice and not bothering to close the office door, "is that you've been conspiring with your so-called friends in an attempt to put the blame for the Horse Guards theft away from Robert Carroway. And that you and your friends have settled on him as your scapegoat."

"Geoffrey even told me he's discovered that Carroway has made plans to plant the evidence, since by now he's realized that obviously he can't get rid of it without us knowing."

If there was one thing Geoffrey didn't lack, it was nerves. And his tale had enough of a flavor of the truth to make repudiating it extremely difficult. "Papa, there's more to this than you may realize."

"Than
I
may realize? Yes, I suppose thirty years serving in His Majesty's Army and three years as a senior member of the Horse Guards counts for nothing compared to the games of you and your cronies."

"That is not—"

"I beg your pardon, sir, but you may not enter this house!" Ballow's voice came, pitched high with distress.

Lucinda whipped around, just in time to see Robert shove the butler against the door and stride into the foyer. She could tell, just from the light glinting in his eyes, that he'd been successful. Her heart leapt. Less than a second later, though, tension and dread strangled through her again. If he'd found the papers, he should have gone straight to the Horse Guards. "Robert," she said shakily, "what are you doing here? You don't have—"

"Lucinda," he said, stopping at her side. His gaze, though, was on her father. "I require a word with General Barrett. In private."

"I want you out of my house, you damned rogue. Don't mistake my patience for leniency."

"Luce," Robert murmured, leaning closer, "please wait for us in the library."

She nodded. "Is everything all right?" she whispered, touching his sleeve.

"It will be."

Robert waited until she'd gone, then faced her father again. "Shall we do this in your office, or here in the hallway?"

"We won't do it at all," the general retorted. "Don't make me throw you bodily out of here, Carroway. Have the dignity to leave on your own."

"I will. In a few minutes." Robert gestured at the office, doing his best to conceal his own anger and frustration. "Inside, sir."

General Barrett gave him an assessing look, obviously calculating the three inches in height and twenty-five years in age difference between them. Looking as though he'd rather chew glass, Barrett nodded. "Two minutes," he snapped.

It would probably take longer than that. Robert followed him in, closing and locking the door behind him. "Sit, sir," he instructed.

"Nothing you say will convince me that you are anything but a traitor, Carroway. So unless you intend to kill me—which I don't suggest, given the number of witnesses in this house—you need to leave. Not just my home, but the country. That is the only favor I will do for you, and that is for Lucinda's sake."

"In April of 1814," Robert began, sitting in one of the desk's facing chairs and keeping his gaze on the cluttered desk surface, "you were in charge of one of the Army divisions surrounding Bayonne."

"I was there," the general snapped. "You don't need to tell me."

"Yes, I do. Bonaparte was finished; both sides had called a ceasefire."

"I know—"

"But you knew that General Thouvenot was still holding onto Bayonne, and that he wouldn't let go. And you also had word from French deserters that Thouvenot intended to attack you."

"That information was unreliable."

"Ah. So that's why you sent a patrol out in the middle of the night to take a survey of French entrenchments—because you knew no one was going to be changing positions."

"That is correct. What—"

"That was my patrol, General Barrett," Robert forced out, having to clench his fists to keep his voice low and steady. "A thousand French soldiers against fifteen English troops. Most of my men were dead before they could raise their weapons. Me they beat into unconsciousness, because their command wanted British officers for questioning."

The general's face had gone very still, gray tinging his usually ruddy countenance. "We had word," he said after a moment. "Everyone in the scouting patrol was killed."

"All but one. And then, twenty days after you beat him back into Bayonne, Thouvenot finally accepted that Bonaparte had abdicated, and the war ended." He leaned forward, lifting his gaze to meet the general's steel gray eyes. "But not for me. Chateau Pagnon never surrendered. The British Army never tried to take it. Their network stayed active, planning and plotting for Bonaparte's escape. They asked me about you, about your family, because you were my division commander and they were looking for ways to either assassinate British leaders or blackmail them."

"You—"

"I didn't say a word, General. And then finally, after seven months, when I realized I wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer, after I'd seen… things I won't ever be able to forget, I tricked them into killing me. Or into making a good try at it, anyway. Deciding I was dead, they tossed me over the wall. The Spanish resistance found me two days later and threw on enough bandages to hold me together." It had been worse than that, but telling it didn't serve any purpose. All he needed to do was convince General Barrett that he wasn't a traitor. The rest was for him, and he had no intention of sharing it.

"So… you blame me for what happened to you," the general said slowly, his voice rasping, as though his mouth had gone dry. "Is this why you—"

"Yes, I did blame you," Robert retorted. "But I don't want revenge. And I damned well don't want another war." He shuddered. "What happened to me, I would never wish on anyone else."

"Then—"

"Now, I need you to listen to me, very carefully. And not just for my sake or yours, but for Lucinda's. No interruptions, no contradictions, until I'm finished. Is that clear?"

The gruff look came into the general's face again. "If that's the only way to be rid of you," he growled, but his voice lacked conviction.

"It is. First, how long were those documents missing from the Horse Guards before the rumors about the theft started?"

Barrett narrowed his eyes. "One day," he finally said.

"And how long after you told Lord Geoffrey Newcombe that I'd been imprisoned at Chateau Pagnon did that news come out?"

"I don't—"

"Answer the bloody question."

The general thought about it; Robert could see the reluctant affirmation in his eyes. "Twelve hours. Perhaps less."

"I make a good scapegoat," Robert murmured, "but I didn't do it."

"And you think Geoffrey did."

"I
know
Geoffrey did." Taking a breath, Robert pulled the folded papers and blueprints from inside his coat and laid them on the general's desk. "I found them a few minutes ago, in Geoffrey's uniform trunk. The Duke of Wycliffe will attest to that fact, if it becomes necessary."

"You put them there. He told me you would attempt to put your theft onto his shoulders."

"Why? What would I have to gain from taking them in the first place?"

"I…" The general swore. "But what would Geoffrey have to gain?"

"Geoffrey wants a command in India. At the moment, he's a poor soldier with a good name. He can marry Lucinda and gain a promotion, but that's only if she agrees to it. In the meantime, he needs insurance. With those papers, he gains the money for selling them, and another war with Bonaparte, either or both of which would suffice to net him precisely what he wants."

"And what about your involvement?"

He shrugged. "I'm convenient, and not very popular, and a potential rival to Lucinda's affections. But the real question, General, is what about
your
involvement?"

The general lurched to his feet. "Are you accusing me of—"

"No, I'm not. But you're the reason Geoffrey had access to the Horse Guards, and he's made it clear to anyone who will listen that he considers you his mentor. This will probably have repercussions for you."

"He was just here," Barrett said, almost to himself. "Newcombe. Telling me that Lucinda and her friends had hatched a plot to save your reputation and discredit him. I was furious, but at the same time I remember thinking that Lucinda's friends had married an interesting assortment of rogues—Dare and St. Aubyn, to be exact—and I couldn't figure out why in the world they would have decided to dislike Geoffrey. Lucinda likes him, you know. Or she did."