Authors: Samantha Saxon
Falcon. Would Falcon believe him? Yes, given the evidence the old man would come to the same, inevitable conclusion, no matter how painful.
‘I have already written the emperor. I leave for Amsterdam Friday’
.
Aidan’s memories propelled his feet forward. He pushed aside the pain and searched for a hackney, but the explosion at the docks left the streets empty the further he traveled away from the inferno.
Celeste had been using him. Aidan laughed aloud. She was very good at her profession; always had been, from the first moment he had set eyes on her in that interrogation room until now. How many other men had she convinced of her affection? How many other men had made an offer for her hand, an offer to spend the rest of his days loving her?
He lifted his head against the pain that was threatening to bring him to his knees. He spotted a hackney down the road, and his jaw clenched with determination and anger. He needed to see her, needed to unleash his pain on her.
"Hyde Park." The driver eyed him suspiciously until Aidan tossed him some coin. "The remainder when we arrive."
"Yes, my lord," the man said, having decided that, despite his appearance, he was a member of the quality.
Aidan stared out the window but saw nothing. The hackney bounced with every irregularity in the road, but he welcomed the violent jarring. He needed a distraction, needed to slow this simmering anger that was threatening to boil over, for he feared what he would do to her when it did.
The conveyance reached the park, and Aidan gave the driver the directions to Lady Rivenhall’s home. "Stop here," he said, not wanting to wait while the driver turned the hackney about.
He paid the coachman and walked across the street and up the steps, banging on Lady Rivenhall’s door with his fist rather than using the brass knocker. The butler appeared and was startled to see the familiar Earl of Wessex in such a state of dishevelment.
"My lord?"
"Lady Rivenhall, where is she?" he asked, pushing his way into the house.
"I’m afraid her ladyship is out, my lord. Perhaps--"
Aidan looked through the man as he brushed passed. "Celeste. Celeste!" he shouted.
Madame Arnott came down the stairs with alarm in her faded blue eyes. "She is not in residence, my lord, so kindly refrain from shouting."
"Where is she?" he asked, with such ferocity that he surprised not only Madame Arnott but himself.
Marie glanced at the butler and then guided Aidan into the parlor, closing the door. She eyed him skeptically.
"Why should I tell you, Lord Wessex? You are obviously overwrought."
Aidan caught sight of himself reflected in the mirror over the fireplace. The upper portion of his face was black with soot that ended in a line where his now filthy cravat had been. He removed the white silk from around his neck and began cleaning his face as he gave the only answer that would convince Madame Arnott to reveal the lady’s location.
"She is in danger, Marie."
The older woman’s eyes grew wide with alarm. She turned toward the fireplace and twisted her handkerchief in her hands. "I thought she might be. I told her not to go."
Aidan paused. He could not move as a sense of dread ripped through him. "Where is she, Marie?"
Indecision contorted her features, and then with a rush, the woman said, "The ruins of Holborn. She is meeting him at eight."
‘I leave for Amsterdam Friday’
. He glanced at the clock, six forty-seven.
"Who is she meeting?"
"I don’t know," Marie shook her head. "I swear I do not. Please, do not let anything happen to her, my lord."
Aidan turned and was running out into the street as he searched for a conveyance, any conveyance. He hailed a hackney and pulled out his watch when the black lacquered coach rolled to a stopped.
"The Foreign Office," he shouted. He would have just enough time to speak with Falcon and obtain a pistol before heading for the ruins.
He headed down the empty halls, arriving at Falcon’s office. Lord Cunningham sat pouring over documents and looked up the moment Aidan entered.
"I need to speak with him."
"I’m afraid he is not in at the moment." The man laughed. "He rarely is."
"Damnation!"
"Perhaps, I could be of assistance?"
Aidan considered his options as he stared at the large man, stared at the jagged scar that had been earned, like so many others, on the continent.
"I have reason to believe that Lady Rivenhall is working for the French."
The assistant looked stunned.
"She cannot be trusted and should no longer be considered one of our operatives. The lady is at this very moment meeting with a man to exchange information vital to the British war effort."
"My God!"
"I require the use of a horse and a pistol."
The man nodded, saying, "I’ll have two horses brought ‘round immediately."
"Two?"
"I’m going with you. Just let me send a messenger to the old man," he said, withdrawing a pistol from his desk.
Lord Cunningham left the room and returned not five minutes later. "It’s all arranged. The horses are being brought around."
"It’s not necessary for you to accompany me."
"Yes, I realize that, my lord, but the fact remains that there will be two of them to your one. And I should never forgive myself if something were to befall you."
Aidan nodded as images of those under his command flashed in his mind’s eye. "Very well."
The men mounted and started in the direction of Holborn. Aidan wondered what he would feel when he saw Celeste, for at the moment he felt nothing. He had been forced to choose between the woman he loved and his country, and the choice had been too difficult, leaving him hollow and very, very cold.
***
Falcon returned to his office annoyed with the prime minister for insisting that a written report of Lady Rivenhall’s operation be sent to Wellesley. Being forced to reveal Lady Rivenhall’s operation was dangerous enough, but to put the information in writing, where anyone could read it, was completely negligent.
He opened the door to his outer office thinking how much easier his job would be if not for the interference of government officials who would not know a French agent from their backsides.
Falcon puffed his exasperation. Still it was the prime minister who had made the request. He would satisfy the man’s dictate by sending a communication to Wellesley requesting a meeting. He smiled. One or two vague pages, he decided. And if Wellesley was too busy to receive his report…Well, he could hardly be blamed. Yes, a meeting would be better. A meeting to be scheduled
after
Lady Rivenhall had trapped the elusive Lion.
"Cunningham." Where was the damn boy? "Cunningham!" he growled, walking to his office, sure his assistant was there. He opened the door and saw that the room was vacant. Sighing, he sank into his chair and pulled open his desk drawer.
Empty. Not a single sheet of paper.
"Damn this embargo." He paused, summoning the energy to lift himself from the comfortable leather. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair, blue veins bulging near his enlarged knuckles. With a grunt, he rose then waited a moment to be sure of his balance before walking back into the outer office.
But just as he reached his assistant’s desk there was a knock at the door. He considered not responding, but as he pulled the right drawer open the scraping of wood announced his presence.
"Enter."
The door opened so slowly the Falcon stopped his search out of mere curiosity. His brows furrowed as he waited, but when Wellesley’s diminutive clerk entered the room, he smiled in greeting.
"Woodson, just the man I need." His eyes fell to the desk drawer and he pulled out several sheets of parchment.
"Yes, my lord, but--"
"I need to arrange a meeting with the admiral first thing in the morning." He closed the drawer.
"I would be happy to arrange the appointment, my lord, but first I must speak with you."
"Oh, damn!" Falcon cursed himself.
He opened the drawer and pulled out the sealing wax then began rummaging through the official brass seals use by the Foreign Office. The others, the more discreet seals, were under lock and key in a very secret compartment in his desk. However, today he needed his official seal to prove that he had attempted to contact Wellesley.
"Admiral Wellesley sent me to inform you, well suggest really, that I believe I know who--"
Falcon listened half-heartedly as he placed a seal on the desk and reached into the draw for a second try. "You know what?" he asked pulling out another seal.
He glanced down at the flamboyant image of the Lion just as Woodson said in a rush, "I believe I know who the traitor is."
Falcon felt a flash of heat that he was old enough to recognize as rage.
Cunningham had been the one to identify the five suspected traitors. Men with sensitive positions in the Foreign office, men that the Lion knew would have privileged information. Men whose homes would be searched and the information brought back to his office, to Cunningham’s hands.
The bastard had Falcon doing his work for him, retrieving information that he could then sell to France. Lion even had the impudence to place his traitorous seal ten feet away from him.
"Cunningham," he mumbled through clenched teeth.
"Yes, but how did you--"
"Where is he?"
But then he remembered. He pulled out his gold watch from his waistcoat. Dear God!
Celeste.
He had kept her file hidden with the others, had burned her dossier months ago. And if Cunningham had found the files, he would not have gone to this meeting. He would have known that it was a trap.
Still, he could not be sure.
"Find Wellesley. Have him dispatch ten soldiers to the Holborn ruins immediately. They are to protect Lady Rivenhall at all costs. Kill Cunningham if needs be, but be sure the lady is unharmed. Go!"
The clerk turned and he could hear him running down the corridor. Falcon sat down in the traitor’s chair, praying that his stupidity had not cost Celeste her life.
***
As the busy streets of London faded, replaced by the gentle hills of the countryside, Aidan began to have doubts. Perhaps he could take her to Wessex, keep her isolated until the war was over, keep her by his side so she would not be unable to gather information to sell to his enemies.
But she had made her choice, the night of their betrothal ball. And while Lady Rivenhall might be attracted to him, might even harbor some affection for him, it clearly had not been enough.
He had not been enough.
"There it is," Lord Cunningham said.
Aidan looked up and saw the withered chapel with the sun setting behind it. It stood alone, a mere remnant of what it once had been, much like himself. His soul had been all but destroyed by war, only to be resurrected for the briefest of moments by his love for a woman. And, he had envisioned, her love for him.
As they approached, he saw her horse grazing beside the ruins, verification of her betrayal. Aidan clenched his jaw and let the numbness take over. They dismounted some distance away and moved stealthily through the underbrush and outer walls. Candles flickered in the uppermost room, and he knew she was there. He could feel her presence.
"I’ll go first," Cunningham offered, his pistol drawn.
Aidan nodded, not bothering to pull his firearm and wondering if she would try to shoot him. He stared at the large man’s back as they made their way up the winding staircase, avoiding decades of debris while they ascended.
When they entered the uppermost room, they could see that she was alone. Lady Rivenhall turned from what had once been a window and stared at him with her forehead draw together as she tried to work out how he had known of her treachery. The fading sunlight lit her hair to a breathtaking gold. Aidan reached for the support of the wall behind him as Lord Cunningham lifted his pistol toward her.
"Lady Rivenhall, we have come to place you under arrest for treason."
The lady tore her eyes from Aidan and turned to Lord Cunningham. "What are you saying? I am no traitor."
Aidan could bear her lies no longer.
"We know, Celeste. Your associates killed Lord Cantor this afternoon when his munitions warehouse was set alight. Only three of us knew of that facility, and I’m relatively sure that I did not pass along the information," he sneered, his eyes awash with resentment and pain.
"Aidan, I--"
"Save your breath, Lady Rivenhall." The sun reflected the tears streaming down her face, and the sight clawed at his heart, making his bitterness grow. "You have played me for a fool one too many times."
She swiped at her tears as if she could stop them. "If you think after Albuera, after I assisted you in escaping, after everything we have…If you have so little faith in me, my lord, than I am well rid of you."
Lord Cunningham stood beside her now and laughed, saying, "Well, you must admit, Lady Rivenhall, that you are rather good. I myself was quite convinced you were a French collaborator when we danced at Lord Humphrey’s ball."