Trapped by Scandal (25 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

N
othing more was said until they reached the center of town. William knocked on the roof, and the hackney drew to a halt at the top of Piccadilly. “He'll take you home. You'll hear from me later today. If you can manage to do it, would you please stay within doors until you get my instructions?” His voice was flat. Without a word of farewell, he opened the door and jumped down, closing it firmly behind him.

Hero heard him talking to the jarvey, then the carriage lurched forward again, and when she looked through the window, she saw William walking away, his stride long, in the direction of Half Moon Street. She let the leather curtain drop again and sat back, cold and shivering a little, although the day was mild enough. It was as if something inside her was broken, a snapped string that made her nerves jangle. The world was unharmonious, and she seemed to have lost the ability to make it play in tune again. Once upon a time, their quarrels would end in a different kind of passionate encounter, but this time, there had been only a vast, icy chasm between them, not a spark of fire to be felt.

The hackney drew up at Grosvenor Square, and she flung open the door, jumping unceremoniously to the ground, almost losing her step. She turned to pay the jarvey, but he merely touched his forelock and drove off. Presumably, William had paid him. She paused on the pavement, looking around her, her senses alert for some sign of a watcher, but everything seemed normal. The sounds of children playing in the square garden, a maid scrubbing the steps of a house, an errand boy whistling as he went past. But if there was anyone there, Hero wasn't going to know about it, she reflected grimly. All her confidence seemed to have been leached from her.

She hurried up the steps as the door opened, and Jackson greeted her with a solemn bow. Hero murmured a response and hastened to the solitude of her own chamber, closing the door and leaning against it, breathless, her heart beating rapidly in her throat as if she'd run a marathon.

Everard Dubois sat back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his booted foot swinging casually. He looked reflectively into the contents of his wineglass. “So I wonder who or what took Lady Hero to Knightsbridge? She gave you no clue?”

“No, sir. I went to the inn as she'd instructed. I didn't want to arouse her suspicions by making inquiries at the inn, in case she accidentally heard of my interest when she came back.”

“And you said there was another hackney waiting at the inn?”

“Aye. The jarvey said he was waiting for a gentleman who was paying him generously for a morning's work. Pleased as punch, he was. Said he'd picked up the gentleman in Half Moon Street. It could have been Ducasse.”

“Given what we know of the connection between the lady and that gentleman, that seems a reasonable assumption. So first, we need to know who lives in Knightsbridge and then what connection they have with our friend. I want you to stay on Lady Hero. I'll send someone else to Knightsbridge. Go to Grosvenor Square and debrief Alain. Find out if she's back yet, and if so, when and how, then send Alain back here.”

Gilles nodded and left at once.

Everard sipped his wine, a slight smile on his thin lips. He was getting closer, and his old enemy's seemingly impervious existence was beginning to hint at vulnerabilites. If he could insert a fingernail in one, then he could split it wide open. He debated putting a closer watch on his quarry and then decided against it. The less Ducasse felt himself under surveillance, the easier he would be to trap when the time came.

But he could, however, see for himself what had taken Ducasse to Knightsbridge. He stood up abruptly. He didn't usually do his own dirty work, but he had a sudden imperative need to investigate the mystery of Knightsbridge immediately and with his own eyes. He shouted for his servant and when the man appeared sent him to the mews to fetch the closed carriage to the front door. Everard's London operation was well equipped, with the hackney, a closed carriage, and both riding and carriage
horses. The Directory in Paris was not short of funds when it came to supplying the needs of its outposts abroad.

The door to the house on Half Moon Street closed with a slam, and André jumped, the blacking cloth he was using to polish his master's riding boots smearing his leather apron. Hastily, he put aside the boots and cloth and went out of the kitchen into the hall.

William was taking off his cloak, his beaver hat tossed carelessly onto a stool. He turned as André came through the baize door from the kitchen. “Bring me sherry, in the parlor,” he demanded, swinging aside into the square salon beside the front door.

André frowned. He had worked closely with Viscount St. Aubery for many years, both as a personal servant and, when required, as a courier or in whatever role his master's clandestine business needed. It was not the Viscount's habit to be so peremptory with those who worked for him, but something had seriously put him out of countenance. His expression had been hard and tight, his jaw clenched, all most unusual for a man who rarely lost his composure. It was not unheard of for the Viscount to respond to an urgent summons at whatever hour of the day or night, but something about today's dawn errand must have gone wrong. André was not in the Viscount's confidence about everything, and the situation in Knightsbridge was one area where he knew almost nothing. Messages arrived occasionally via the courier service through the posting inn, and André knew it was vital to deliver them as im
mediately as he could, but who sent them remained his master's secret.

He went back to the kitchen to discard his apron and fetch the sherry decanter, and carried the tray into the parlor. William turned from the fire, where he had been gazing into the flames. For a moment, he seemed surprised to see André, then gave a little shake of his head as if bringing his mind back to the present. “Oh, thank you, André.”

André felt a twitch of relief at this return to ordinary courtesy. He set down the tray and poured a glass of the pale liquid, asking tentatively, “How was your morning, sir?”

“Could have been better.” William took the glass. “I need you to carry some messages for me, André. Bring me paper and refill the inkstand, will you? It's dry as a bone.”

André took the inkstand and went off, returning with the refilled inkstand and paper within a few minutes. William was sitting now by the fire, legs crossed at the ankle, lifting his newly refreshed glass to his lips. He nodded his thanks at André, who arranged the secretaire neatly, lighting a candle and setting sealing wax ready beside it. “Will that be all, sir?”

“For the moment. I'll call when I need you.”

The door closed softly behind André, and William, remaining where he was, pondered his various options. Hero had to go somewhere where she would be safe and he could keep an eye on her. It seemed to him there was only one real answer. The only possible way he could be certain she was safe and not rushing headlong into more trouble would be to keep her under his own roof, where he could watch her until he had finally taken care of the Lizard.

But how could he do that, have her so close to him and yet still manage to keep the necessary distance between them? Their liaison was over; it had to be. He had tried once to bring it to a close, and he still regretted the brutality of that parting in Yarmouth, but he hadn't known how else to make it happen when every ounce of his being revolted at the prospect of never seeing her again, of losing her once and for all. If he had hesitated, tried for the slightest softness, his resolve would have weakened, melted like butter in the sun.

And then he had the stunning thought that it was quite possible that Hero herself had no interest in continuing their affair after this morning's revelations. Somehow that had not occurred to him, but it would be perfectly reasonable for her to decide she couldn't stay in an intimate relationship with a man who had concealed his own daughter's existence from her. It could certainly be seen as a betrayal of trust, and loyalty and trust were as deeply ingrained in Hero's character as they were in her twin's. She had followed him because she had made a mistake and, quite rightly, she believed he needed to know it. If underneath that primary motive had lurked her need to understand what lay behind the distance he maintained between them, then he could force himself to face that knowledge. William knew he lived too much in his own self-controlled world. He chose to ignore the past that had made him as he was. And he understood now, as he had understood only distantly in the past, that Hero could not accept that about him.

The idea that with this betrayal he had killed all her
feelings for him distressed him more than he could ever have imagined, and yet, he told himself, it would be a relief if it were so. Once the immediate crisis was over, Hero would be free to find her own path to love and happiness on a conventional track. She would be so much happier when she was able to have straightforward feelings towards a man . . . a lover . . . a husband.

But no, such reflections were like rubbing salt into a wound. And they muddled the clarity of mind he needed to deal with the various strands of the present situation. His first task was to arrange a guard for Jeanne and Marguerite. He would much prefer to move them again, but Jeanne was right about the disruption for the child. Marguerite had been moved from pillar to post most of her short life because of her father, the man responsible for her mother's death. It was his duty at the very least to ensure her stability and safety.

For as long as only he and Jeanne knew the truth about Marguerite, he had felt confident that he could keep her safe, but now someone else knew. Hero knew Marguerite was his child, and the first crack had appeared in the seamless shell encasing his secret history. He hadn't been able to deny it when she'd challenged him; it would have been futile. Hero had seen what she had seen. Her eyes were too sharp, her mind too acute, not to have drawn the obvious conclusion once she had penetrated his private world. She would not deliberately betray him, he was certain of that, but she was not invincible, not proof against the kind of pressure the Lizard could bring to bear.

He sighed heavily and drank down the contents of his
glass. Why did everyone associated with him have to suffer for it? It was a pointless question, he knew. He had made his choices long since and accepted with cold clarity that there would be collateral damage as he fought the wider battle. Now, as he was getting closer to the end, was not the moment to have second thoughts, to back away from the front line.

He had to change his focus. Instead of being merely content to evade the Lizard and his cohorts while he raised support for the émigré Army of Condé, he must take the fight to Dubois. He and everyone associated with him would not be secure until he had got rid of the Lizard. Once he was out of the picture, he could complete his work and rejoin the army, and they would take back France. Maybe then . . . then he could step back and imagine a quiet life where he could have friends and family without putting them in harm's way.