All three people are somewhere in Brighton. You are to alert as many people as possible— children too
—that anyone who brings me news of where any of these people are will receive ten guineas.”
The maid and groom came to sharp attention. The lad gaped. That was probably his yearly wage.
“What’s more, if any of these people are found by anyone, you three will each receive ten guineas for yourself. Mind, though, everyone is to be careful. We only want to know where she is. We do not want her disturbed. Do you understand?”
All three nodded, though “dazzled” might have better described their state than “comprehending.”
“Do you have any questions?”
The lad said, “Ten guineas, sir?”
“Yes.”
The three servants backed out, but then Clarissa heard one set of running footsteps. She was sure they were the boy’s.
“I do hope no one will get hurt,” she said.
“You wouldn’t make a general, love.”
It slipped out and they looked at one another.
“I have this constant urge,” said Nicholas, pacing the room, “to go and search the streets. It’s irrational.”
“But perfectly reasonable,” Hawk said. “Waiting—and watching—are always the hardest parts.”
Clarissa guessed that he referred to his army career.
“What about Madame Mystique’s house?” she asked.
“She might try to hide in open view?” Hawk asked. “I doubt it. It would be a trap. But it certainly should be checked. Who’s best at housebreaking?”
“I’ve done it,” said Nicholas with a wry smile, “but I wouldn’t say it’s a skill of mine.”
“I’ll do it, then,” said Hawk, picking up a satchel he’d brought and taking out a ring of strange-looking keys.
“You must have had an interesting war,” Nicholas remarked.
“That’s one way of looking at it. As I pointed out recently, however, it was nothing so dramatic as chasing down spies. More a question of checking out warehouses.”
Clarissa remembered, and knew he’d said it deliberately, as a kind of connection.
He took Nicholas with him, as a kindness, she was sure, and Jetta by necessity, but they were soon back to say that the house was deserted and no clue could be found there. “Except traces of opium,” Hawk said. “So she probably does have Lord Darius and the children drugged.”
“It can be so dangerous,” Eleanor whispered. “I’ve never given her it. Not even for teething.”
The door suddenly opened and Miss Hurstman stood there. “Ha!” she exclaimed, fixing Clarissa with a dragon’s eye. “Maria, I told you to tell me if she turned up.” But then she looked around. “What’s the matter?”
Nicholas went and took her hands. “Therese Bellaire has kidnapped Arabel.”
Miss Hurstman, who Clarissa had thought was made of pure steel, went sickly sallow and sat down with a thump. “Oh, heaven help the poor angel!”
Clarissa thought the woman might cry, but then she stiffened. “I assume you men are dealing with it?”
“As best we can,” said Hawk dryly.
A knock on the door brought the maidservant who’d been sent out to search. “I found the carter, sir!”
she declared, flushed with excitement as if this was a treasure hunt. For her, Clarissa supposed, it was. “
At Mrs. Purbeck’s lodging house, sir, but dead drunk. Really drunk. She thinks he’s drunk uncut brandy, sir, for there was a half-anker nearby.”
Maria gave the woman her ten guineas and told her to go and find a way to bring the unconscious man here.
“Uncut brandy?” she asked when the maid was gone.
“Smugglers ship it double strength in small casks,” Susan said. “It saves space. Then it’s watered to the right proof over here. There’s many a man drunk himself to death sneaking a bit from a smuggler’s cask.”
Clarissa had learned that Susan was from the coast of Devon. Did all people there know such details?
After that, it was merely a question of waiting. Old Matt was trundled over in a handcart and put to bed in the kitchen, but it was clear he would not wake soon— and perhaps not at all.
The Delaneys left to go up to the room prepared for them.
Clarissa realized that she would have to return to Broad Street. Foolishly, she didn’t want to leave Hawk, and she didn’t want to leave the center of the action in case some miracle should occur.
But then, after a short interval, the other two servants straggled in to say that no one seemed to have seen a trace of the Frenchwoman, or the invalid officer. Hawk gave the lad and the man their ten guineas anyway, and rubbed a hand over his face.
“She can’t have hidden that thoroughly. It’s not possible.”
“Unless it’s a blind,” Con said, “and she’s not in Brighton at all.”
Hawk considered it, but then shook his head. “She wants her money, and this is the place she appointed.
I’m missing something. We all need sleep.”
Clarissa couldn’t imagine how anyone could sleep, but Miss Hurstman rose, a very subdued Miss Hurstman. Clarissa realized that there hadn’t been a word about her elopement. It was a very minor thing.
She turned to Hawk. Minor or not, it seemed strange to leave without something meaningful between them. “Can you sleep?” she asked. Good heavens, it had been only last night that they’d slept together.
It was Lord Vandeimen who answered. “He can sleep through anything when he decides he needs it. We thought it would be a nice nostalgic touch to share quarters before Waterloo. We didn’t realize then what kind of work Hawk really did. Con, Dare, and I couldn’t get a moment’s rest for the coming and going.
Hawk, on the other hand, would suddenly stop, lie down, and go to sleep, telling whoever was there to take messages.”
Hawk winced. “Was it as bad as that?”
“Yes.” But then Lord Vandeimen added, “We wouldn’t have missed it, all the same. I hope to God it is Dare, and we can save him.”
Hawk picked up a pen from the table, turning it restlessly in his fingers. “He came to speak to me that last night. He was leaving for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. You two had already gone to your regiments, and I was busy, but Wellington wanted as many officers as possible there to keep up appearances.
“He came into my room and said he wanted to thank me. I asked what for, of course. Probably rather shortly. I was busy, and his gadfly antics in the past weeks hadn’t endeared him to me. He gestured at all the papers in that way he had that made it seem that he took nothing seriously. ‘Oh, for all this, I suppose,’ he said. ‘An excellent education in the complexities of military affairs.’ Then he said that if he lived, he planned to take a seat in Parliament and work to improve army administration.
“I suddenly took him more seriously, and I worried. Men do get a premonition of death. I asked him, but he shrugged and said something about it being reasonable to consider death on the eve of battle.
Flippantly, in his usual way. Then he asked me to take care of you, Con, and I realized that most of his gadfly japes had been a deliberate attempt to carry you through the waiting time.”
Con’s mouth was tight with suppressed tears. “But he’s alive. And we’ll find him and make him well again.”
“Yes, we will. I didn’t look after you, Con, but we’ll get Dare back, so he can berate me about it.”
Clarissa couldn’t be cautious or discreet. She went over to Hawk and pulled his head down for a gentle kiss. “Tomorrow is the battle, but I will be by your side.”
He cradled her head for a moment, his eyes telling her what she knew, that there was a great deal to be said but that this was not the time. Then he kissed her back and said, “Sleep well.”
She nodded and left with Miss Hurstman.
She arrived back at Broad Street exhausted from an astonishing few days, but not ready for sleep. She wandered into the front parlor.
To find Althea in the arms of a dashing gentleman.
“Althea!” Clarissa gasped, absurdly shocked.
Althea and the man broke apart, both red-faced and appalled.
Miss Hurstman let out a crack of laughter. “It’s as well I don’t plan a career as a chaperone. I’m clearly a total loss at it. You, sir—who are you, and what are you doing? Oh, forget that. It’s clear what you’re doing.”
The man had struggled to his feet and was pulling his waistcoat down. He was not a young gallant, but he was a fine figure of a man, with short, curly hair, a handsome face, and good broad shoulders. Althea leaped up and stood beside him in a protective posture that Clarissa recognized.
How on earth had Althea got to this point with this man with her none the wiser? She’d never seen him before.
The man tugged on his cravat, then said, “I am extremely sorry. Carried away, you see. But Miss Trist and I have just agreed to marry.”
“Very nice,” said Miss Hurstman. “But who are you?”
“The name’s Verrall,” he said, swallowing. “I do have Miss Trist’s father’s permission.”
Clarissa gaped. This was Althea’s hoary widower?
He stood straighter, chin set. “I thought I was prepared to wait while Althea had her holiday here, but her letters began to worry me.” He turned to Althea. “I hope you don’t mind your father sharing them with me, my dear?”
Althea shook her head, blushing beautifully.
“I did not like to push my suit too strongly, but I became convinced that it would be folly to delay with so many handsome gallants around. So here I am.”
“So here you are,” Miss Hurstman said. “Excellent, but there’s no bed for you here, Mr. Verrall, so off you go. You can return in the morning.”
Mr. Verrall took his leave, not even daring to take a final kiss under Miss Hurstman’s eye. Despite everything that had happened, Clarissa felt like giggling, and she was truly delighted for her friend’s happiness. Incidentals like age didn’t matter. Only trust and love.
But then Althea obviously gathered her wits. “But you, Clarissa. We heard… Maria Vandeimen said…”
Clarissa made a decision. “Oh, that was all a misunderstanding.” She used the excuse Hawk had apparently spread around. “I went to attend Beth Arden’s lying-in.”
“You, an unmarried lady!” Althea gasped.
“I was always somewhat rash, Althea, you know that. Come up to bed.”
She glanced at Miss Hurstman and saw that the woman understood. There was no point in disturbing Althea’s happiness with a crisis she could not help with.
It was dark in the small space, and windowless, but a tight grille in the door let in glimmers from a lamp some distance away. A swaying lamp.
Lord Darius Debenham lay propped up on the narrow bed, watching the two older children play with their food. Exactly that. There was bread here. They’d eaten some, then molded bits into little animals with practiced skill. So few proper toys they’d had.
They spoke in whispers. They always spoke in whispers, probably because Therese Bellaire had punished them if they didn’t.
Therese Bellaire. The whore who had tormented Nicholas for fun. She would have no sweet ending planned. They were to die here, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it except pray.
And keep the children at peace as long as he could.
He gently touched the hair of the one cuddled against him. Therese had said she was Arabel, Nicholas’s child. He’d last seen her as a baby, but in the uncertain light he thought she had Nicholas’s eyes. Dear God, what he must be suffering.
And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to help.
Little Arabel had awakened crying and had called for her mama and papa, but she’d calmed. Lord knows why. He couldn’t think he was a sight to soothe a child. Perhaps it was Delphie and Pierre, who’d hovered, whispering their comforts and their admonitions to be quiet.
So she was quiet, but she stayed close by his side, and the trust pierced him when it was so misplaced.
The child might well be stronger than he was. He’d made himself eat some of the food left here, but when had he eaten before that? Food had no savor for him, no importance.
His recent life seemed like pictures glimpsed in darkness. She’d said it had been a year. A year! That he’
d been close to death.
He remembered the battle, but not whatever disaster had ended it for him. A bullet in the side and a hoof in the head, she’d said. Certainly he had headaches. He could remember the pain so fierce that he’d welcomed the drug, begged for it.
But had it been a year?
And had he really believed he was another man? He couldn’t think clearly about it all, but he remembered a time when everything had been blank. He’d welcomed the facts she put in his memory, meaningless though they had been. When he’d begun to doubt, there had been the children. If he wasn’t Rowland, they weren’t his. So they weren’t his.
How could he save them?
Did he want to be saved?
He looked at his bony, quivering hand.
He thought of his parents, his friends. He thought of them finding him like this, a weak husk of a man, already shaking with the need of the stuff in the bottle she’d left.
Perhaps he’d be better dead. But he had to stay alive to take care of the children.
He ached for the laudanum, but she’d left only a spoonful, maybe less. A calculated torment. He didn’t need it badly enough yet. She’d given him a lot before she moved him here. Enough for deep dreams, enough for thought. But all he had was in that bottle. Once that was gone, it was gone, and the need would tear him apart. He couldn’t let the children see that.
He would kill himself first. It would be kinder.
If he had the strength.
He looked at the bottle again, could almost smell the bitter liquid through the glass. He started to sweat, belly aching.
No. Not yet.
They needed to escape.
He would have laughed if he’d had the energy. He could hardly walk. He’d checked the space, crawling, sweating, and aching every inch of the way. When he’d tried to stand, his legs had buckled under him.
Delphie and Pierre had helped him back to the bed.
The door was solid and locked. If he could smash out the tiny grille, not even Delphie could escape through it. And he’d be hard-pressed to gather the strength to pick up the damn bottle and pull out the stopper!
Delphie scrambled to her feet and came over to him, holding the rough doll he’d made for her one day. It was just sticks and rags, but it had been the best he could do. It was their secret, always carefully hidden.