Eleven
In accordance with Trenville’s orders, key members of his household removed to London during his sojourn in France and Belgium. The caravan consisted of three carriages to convey four adults—Gabrielle, Madame Giroux, Huntington, and Elinor—plus three children, three female servants, his lordship’s French chef, and luggage. With coachmen and their assistants, including outriders for protection, the group numbered over twenty people. Overnight stays and changing horses en route had been arranged in advance. Elinor found the sheer logistics required to be mind-boggling.
Apprehensive about going back to the city, she forced herself into cautious optimism. True, there were many in the
ton
who would recognize and welcome Lady Elinor Richards, but she reasoned that most would never even notice a governess. Besides, it was unlikely there would be any occasion for her to be thrown into the company of anyone she had known previously. Having satisfied herself on this score, she sat back in the carriage to enjoy the countryside as her companions anticipated the marvels of returning to the city.
The Marquis of Trenville’s town house operated with the same relaxed efficiency as the Abbey. As soon as they had rested from the journey, the travelers transferred their routine to the metropolis. Lessons for the children were to be enhanced by outings to the Tower and museums. The beloved ponies had been left in the country, but trips to the park to feed the birds and sail toy boats in the Serpentine were welcomed.
Somehow Geoffrey had learned that the menagerie at the Tower of London included a real live “ephalent.”
“Please, Miss Palmer, please, may we go see it?” he begged.
“I want to see the efl’nt, too,” Bess said.
“The animal is an
elephant
,” Anne said in a precise schoolmistress tone to the twins, then added her plea to theirs. “ ’Tis quite an exotic beast and I should like to see it, too, Miss Palmer, if we may.”
“All right.” Elinor laughed. “We shall see the elephant, but first we must know something about such an animal and the others we may see there.” She was pleased with herself for thus steering them into a science lesson.
On the day of the excursion, the children were in the entry awaiting Miss Palmer’s arrival and excitedly discussing the strange sights they would see. Just as Elinor came down the stairs, Melton, the London butler, was admitting a guest.
“Lady Barbara Harrington to see the marchioness,” the woman intoned in a dignified voice.
Elinor froze, momentarily in shock. No. Not now. Please. Lady Barbara had attended Miss Pritchard’s Select School for Girls with Lady Elinor Richards.
If she recognizes me
,
it is all over
, Elinor thought. She continued down the stairs and avoided looking directly at the visitor.
Lady Barbara looked up and seemed to pause a moment, then looking through Elinor, she ascended the stairs behind the butler.
There. You see? Elinor congratulated herself. Dowdy clothes, a plain bonnet, and spectacles had done the trick. She quickly turned her back on her former classmate and herded her charges away. She breathed a sigh of relief as the door clicked shut behind them.
Another occasion was much more frightening. This time she had taken the children for an outing in the park. Since it was far too early in the day for the fashionable
ton
to be parading themselves along the bridle paths, she felt relatively safe.
When the three youngsters had expended some of their energy, and much of hers, in a lively game of tag, Elinor sat on a bench to watch as they fed bread crumbs to the ducks and geese at the edge of the pond. She was relaxed and amused at the giggles and squeals coming from Geoffrey, Bess, and Anne. It occurred to her that Anne seemed of late to have lost some of her officiousness and was enjoying her childhood more than she had previously.
A footpath lay between the bench and the narrow strip of grass near the pond. Out of the corner of her eye, Elinor perceived movement on the path and she glanced that way to see two gentlemen approaching in earnest conversation. Sheer terror tore at her, for strolling casually in her direction were her uncle and Baron Pennington. She sat very still, trying to look at ease, and kept her head down.
“Don’t worry,” her uncle was saying as they neared the bench. “She will turn up soon. I’m sure of it.”
“You could set the Runners to looking for her,” Pennington suggested.
“No. Not yet, anyway. There’s already too much talk about her. No need to stir up more.”
“Look here, Brompton. I am a patient man, but this situation is beginning to pall.”
The two paused directly in front of Elinor and she felt her heart give a heavy lurch. She raised her eyes in a quick glance. They stood with their backs to her, looking out over the pond. She wanted to jump up and run, but forced herself to remain seated.
“It should not be too much longer,” her uncle said in a placating tone. “I’m working on a new lead now. Her brother will be home for a school holiday soon. She will probably try to contact the brat—or he will contact her. We will have him here in Town where he can be watched carefully.”
“You’ll not have another farthing from me until you’ve handled this, Brompton. Enough is enough.”
“Never mind,” Brompton said with hearty bravado that Elinor hated. “You will have the chit in your bed by midsummer—or sooner.” He laughed and the two started to walk on.
“You just see that I do.”
When they had gone, Elinor sat there shaking. Dear God. What if they had really looked at her? Two narrow escapes in only a few days. How on earth was she going to keep up this charade for several more months?
Shaken, and with a tremulous note in her voice, she called the children and they left the park rather more hurriedly than usual.
On the sloop from Ostend to Dover, the Marquis of Trenville paced the deck, often stopping at the rail to gaze unseeing out to sea. On the coach journey from Dover to London, he fidgeted, unable to find a comfortable position. He thought long and hard about the deception the woman calling herself Elinor Palmer had perpetrated on him. His first impulse was to call the governess into the library, give her a proper dressing down, and send her packing.
The nerve of the woman—inveigling her way into his home to create a base for treason! And not just into his home. Geoffrey and Bess, even Anne in her reluctant way, were inordinately fond of their Miss Palmer. The children would be devastated when she left. She was equally fond of them, he was sure. Something more than mere duty had been involved in her care of Bess during the Christmas season and of Geoffrey later. So why would she betray that affection by spying for a foreign power? What strange hold did someone have on her?
He had absolutely no doubt about trusting her with the children. No. He just could not trust her to keep her nose out of his government business. Had he not caught her red-handed going through papers on his desk? And he had been so ready—eager, even—to believe that taradiddle about the wind.
Hell. Bloody hell! Admit it, Whitson. Not only had she made a place for herself in his home and the children’s hearts, she had also begun to break through those iron bands around his own heart. Almost. For the first time since before his marriage he had given himself up to the sheer pleasure of a woman’s company—this woman’s company.
Elinor had none of the practiced charm and fashionable mannerisms that had deluded the new marquis several years ago. Beatrice had set her cap for the most eligible prospect on the marriage mart, using every trick in the book to win her prize—including his mother’s not-so-subtle aid. Besotted with her pretty face and winsome airs, Adrian was anxious to bed her, to carry her off to the Abbey to claim her as his own.
Within weeks, the charm that had captivated in London drawing rooms seemed trivial and foolish. The musical voice now seemed whiny. The harshest blow had been his discovery that behind those blue eyes, sparkling gaily in flirtation, there was not a serious thought to be had. The lovely Beatrice, charming and accomplished as befitted the season’s Incomparable, was totally unsuited to be his wife.
Oh, yes. Adrian Whitson’s judgment of a woman had been profoundly wrong in the past. And now it appeared it was wrong again. This time, however, his mistake would have wider ramifications.
This time it hurt more, too. He had himself misread his wife’s character. Beatrice was what she was, not what he had wanted her to be. Elinor, however, had deliberately deceived him for some deep and dark reason of her own—or someone else’s.
Someone else. Discovering that someone else was vital to the security of the English negotiations in Vienna. There was an accomplice, in fact, there had to be several involved. Eliminating Miss Palmer as a source of English secrets would slow the spies temporarily. Catching the lot of them was a far better goal.
He decided to say nothing to her about her treachery, but shortly after his return, two new employees were added to the staff in the London town house of the Marquis of Trenville. If they were less adept at their domestic duties than others in that efficient group, only those belowstairs were aware of it.
Adrian had arrived home in the late afternoon. Their lessons finished for the day, the children were playing in their quarters under the supervision of a nursery maid. They had exciting tales to tell of sailing paper boats on the Serpentine and seeing strange animals at the Tower.
That evening the woman calling herself Miss Palmer did not seem surprised to see him—someone had probably told her of his arrival—but she did seem genuinely pleased. She flashed him a brilliant smile when he joined the others in the drawing room before dinner. For a single moment there were only the two of them in the room. Then he tore his gaze from hers and greeted his sister-in-law.
Elinor had been overjoyed to hear one of the maids speak of his lordship’s return. Later, when he entered the drawing room, she could not suppress her pleasure at seeing him. He greeted her with the same friendly deference as before, but she sensed some reluctance, some indefinable hesitancy in him.
In the days following, he was coolly polite, conversing easily on topics of general interest. However, he held himself somewhat aloof There were no shared morning rides here in the city. His interest in the children’s lessons continued unabated, but he no longer branched out into political observations, court affairs, or opinions about books or art. Elinor decided the high-ranking marquis had reconsidered his dalliance with a mere governess. Well, so be it. She knew her place.
The evenings sometimes weighed heavily on Elinor. Often when the children were abed and their parents engaged in social affairs, the governess would avail herself of the offerings in his lordship’s library. Infrequently, she encountered Huntington there completing some task of the day, though in general the secretary was often engaged of an evening with his own social affairs.
On one occasion, she found Huntington seated at Adrian’s desk, muttering darkly to himself.
“Anything I can help you with?” she offered.
“What? Oh. No. It’s just that Trenville wanted several copies of a certain document—said it was in the desk. But he’s gone and locked every drawer in the infernal thing. Most unusual.”
“Well, he can hardly hold you responsible when he himself made the task impossible.”
“No. He would not do that. But why in blazes did he suddenly take to locking up everything in here? He keeps sensitive material locked in his own chamber in this house.”
“Perhaps it was an oversight.”
“Perhaps. Well, it leaves me free for the evening. Could I interest you in a game of piquet, Miss Palmer?”
“Imaginary stakes only.”
“As you wish.”
When Trenville returned around midnight, he found the two of them still happily engaged in winning and losing thousands of imaginary pounds. Drawn by their laughter, he entered the drawing room quietly, but with no attempt at stealth or slyness.
Elinor and Huntington sat at a small table enthusiastically tossing their cards down. Bending over a tally sheet, she made a quick calculation and gave a carefree laugh.
“You win this one, Thomas, but you still owe me two thousand three hundred forty-two pounds. Oh! Good evening, my lord,” she said, catching sight of Adrian in the doorway.
“You two seem in high spirits.” He noted her use of Huntington’s first name and the comfortable atmosphere between them. His immediate reaction was suspicious resentment, but he refused to allow it to show.
“Miss Palmer has a wicked way with the cards,” Huntington said genially. “She has just won a fortune from me.”
“I am sure you meant to say ‘won her fortune back,’ ” Elinor said. “You do remember that I lost for the entire first hour of play.”
So, the two of them had been playing for some time. Was there more between them than harmlessly passing time? Had the secretary had access to those sweet lips? He mentally shook himself.
What was this? Jealous of the favors of an unscrupulous spy?
You cannot be sure she is guilty. There may be an innocent explanation for what she did.
Hah! And maybe pigs fly.
“Well, carry on,” he said aloud, turning reluctantly to leave the room. He paused. “Did you copy those things I wanted, Thomas?”
“No, sir. They were not on the desk as you said and the drawers were locked.”
“Blast!” Adrian pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Sorry. I forgot. They must be done first thing in the morning, though.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Adrian proceeded down the hall to the library, he heard Elinor bid a good night first to her fellow player, and then to the footman in the hall as she ascended the stairs. He waited until he was sure she could not hear, then ordered the footman into the library.