Twice Tempted (24 page)

“Of course not.”

He took the third seat. “Along with these messages, we’ve intercepted items that had phrases engraved in them. A flask. An embrolio cabochon carnelian. Both carrying a line of an obscure poem.”

“You think the key is in those phrases.”

He looked up, his eyeglasses flashing in the candlelight. “Exactly.” He handed her the book. “In the poem. Underlined. It’s an awful poem. Sorry you have to read it.”

Fiona saw the title of the book and couldn’t help laughing. “
Virtue’s Grave: Worshipping at the Altar of Hymen
by William Marshall Hilliard. Oh, dear.”

Chuffy blushed like a first-former. “It gets worse.”

She opened the book and agreed.

Isn’t the first fruit sweet, my love,

When plucked by own hande?

Does not the berry blushes bring to

Every honeybee in the lande.

“Do I have to go on?” she asked, barely able to contain her laughter. A quick skim showed a poet of far more enthusiasm than wit.

“Not out loud,” Chuffy assured her, pushing forward his own notebook. “Problem is, the engraved phrases are just a bit different than the poem. ‘Is not the fruit sweet, my first love?’ See? And another. Poem says ‘Not a bit of me shall dye.’ The engraving is ‘Not all of me shall die.’ Means something. Has to.”

Well, as she’d said, it was better than pacing the house waiting for the sound of approaching horses. Pulling out the poem, she set to work with Mae and Chuffy.

“My God,” she said after a while, smiling on her scribbles. “The devils.”

Chuffy was up off his seat. “What?”

“I have a feeling I don’t need to tell you about frequency theory, Chuffy. But, see,
E
s should make up eight percent of the letters. We should see the repetition.”

“I don’t.”

She grinned. “That’s because they’ve simply left out all the
E
s. I don’t think they took out the
T
s, since it’s harder to re-create words from them. But nothing in any of these equals the number of
E
s we should be seeing.”

Chuffy looked down at all the ciphers and actually cursed. Then he scratched his forehead with the wrong end of the pencil and left a mark.

Mairead began rocking again.

“What do you see, Mae?” Fiona asked.

“Different patterns,” her sister said, jabbing at a couple of papers. “Except here and…here.”

“So those are from the same key.”

Mairead nodded and Chuffy separated those two. But Mae began rocking again. Fiona lifted a hand to Chuffy, hoping he would understand and simply wait. This was how Mairead worked best.

“There is a pattern here,” she mused, skimming her hand over the papers. “A definite pattern. We just have to name it.”

Chuffy smiled as if he had made the discovery himself. “Should have come to you sooner.”

“You didn’t know us sooner,” Fiona retorted, pencil once again in hand.

“I know I would have liked to.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” she instinctively responded, her attention already on the pattern Mairead was beginning to unweave. “We didn’t always frequent the most salubrious of environs.”

*  *  *

“A whorehouse, milord,” the runner said.

Alex sat down. “A what?”

The runner looked up from his incident book, his wide Irish face wind-chapped and as sorrowful as a hound. “A whorehouse. I had to ask the marquess, ya understand, before I could share the information, like. He didn’t consider it so bad the girls found work in an oculist shop, but a whorehouse is a different thing altogether. The marquess said”—here he consulted the page again—“serve the scoundrel right to tie himself to such as her.”

Alex’s headache was getting worse. If he had ever thought to question the runner’s veracity, that would have settled it. He could hear the marquess saying that very thing.

“You’re certain,” he said, resisting the urge to rub again at his head. “They worked in a bordello.”

The runner grinned past a few missing teeth. “Not so fancy as that, sor. Betty the Badger offered basics, that’s all. In and out, if you will.”

Now his stomach revolted. “How old were the girls at the time?”

“Girl, sor. Just the oldest, Lady Fiona. Or Red Fee, as they called her, on account o’ there bein’ another Fiona already workin’ there. Dark Fee. Not sure exactly when she started. She’d been there at least a year when the witness remembers a great, swearing soldier come lookin’ for her, and she never come back. Didn’t talk to Betty, o’ course. Died o’ the pox years ago, all right. But her daughter remembers. Girl came twice a week like clockwork, Monday and Thursday.”

“And this witness saw Lady Fiona take clients.”

The runner scowled. “Was but a babe then, Miss Trixie was. Sat in the kitchen with the cook. Saw the girl come and go by the kitchen door. Left with coins janglin’.”

Alex fought a wave of pain. He had known that Fee had lived a hard life; Ian had told him. Fiona had told him. But
this
. It was inconceivable that that bright, brave child should have suffered such soul-killing indignities.

“There’s…uh, worse, milord,” the runner said quietly.

Alex almost shook his head, full to the brim with revelations. “What?”

“It was well known that the two misses used to meet with a group of full-grown men of the evenin’s. Fierce anxious to go, they were. A clerk at Mr. McMurray’s remembers that specifically. Mr. McMurray only said that the girls ground good glass…whatever that means, now.”

It was no longer a surprise that the marquess had treated his granddaughters with such disdain. No matter how Fiona’s life went from here, the marquess wouldn’t have cared. Her early years would have condemned her in his eyes.

Alex had to get back to her. He had to keep her safe until they could get to the bottom of this. He had to decide how to help her after. If he could help her at all.

“I’m sorry, son,” Alex heard, and looked up to see his father.

He almost cried out with shock. Sir Joseph was almost ashen, and he seemed to be out of breath. No wonder Sweet had been protective.

“Sit here, sir,” he said, guiding him to the chair. “Mr. Reilly was just about to leave.”

Sitting, his father nodded. “I heard. I am so sorry. Poor child.”

Alex pulled the bell and asked Soames to show the runner out. Then he held out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Reilly. You have been most thorough.”

“It’s sorry I am as well, y’r lordship. Seems a lovely girl and all. It goes no further, o’ course.”

When the surprisingly agile little man was gone, Alex turned back to his father. “Sir, what are you doing down here? You should be resting.”

Sir Joseph smiled. “It bores me. I am fine. Just tired.”

“Loath though I am to disagree, sir, you are not.” Alex stood, decided. “The government has had enough of you for now. I’ll have Sweet pack for you, and you will join us in the country.”

“Alex.” Sir Joseph was on his feet as well. Alex knew that frown. “I am weary. Not weak-minded. I have told you that I will not succumb to bath chairs and spas. I have commissions to execute here.”

Alex straightened, hands on hips. “Well, I hope one of them is to write a letter to your wife that will explain why you preferred to work yourself to death rather than return to her.”

For long, tense moments, the two men squared off, each absolutely certain of his position. In the end, though, it came down to who had more stamina.

With a sigh of frustration, Sir Joseph eased himself back into his chair. “Do not think this is a precedent, boy. I am merely thinking of your mother’s anxiety.”

Alex managed to keep a straight face. “You’re thinking of the peel she’ll ring over your head if she finds out how you’ve been ignoring doctor’s orders. I’ll notify Sweet.” He checked his watch again and fought a fresh wave of urgency. He wanted to leave now. Jump on his horse and ride it to death. But if he left now, his father would find a way to back out of the trip, and Alex knew without a doubt it would kill him before the answers to that letter did.

“What say we leave after dinner?” He snapped his watch closed and considered his father’s color. “May I ask, for my own peace of mind, that I have a friend stop by, Michael O’Roarke? Michael is a friend of Lady Kate Lidge’s. Brilliant man. Edinburgh and the Peninsula.”

“Well, if I’m shot, I’m sure he’ll be the first man I’ll call.”

“Sir,” Alex said very quietly. “Please.”

His father met his gaze and must have seen how afraid Alex was because his own features relaxed a bit. “Oh, all right. If it will keep you from driving me to distraction. Call him in.”

It turned out not to be that easy. O’Roarke was out of town and not due back for another day. Probably better that way, Alex decided. He had a strong suspicion that if Michael took one look at Sir Joseph, he would confine him to the Grosvenor Square house. And Alex needed to get his father someplace safer. So Alex sent Michael a note. Sweet supervised packing, and Alex encouraged his father to rest on the leather sofa in the library with pillows to raise his head as he instructed Alex on what papers to bring.

Alex was snapping his father’s satchel when Soames and Sweet returned from their tasks. “I have one more bit of business to take care of before we leave,” he told them, ushering them back toward the doorway. “We’ll need the traveling coach ready by the time we eat. Is Lennie still in the kitchen eating through our winter’s stores?”

Soames begrudged him a rare smile. “All lads are hungry, sir. He’ll be fine there. Don’t you worry.”

“Well, pack him a roast or something for the road. I do not wish to stop.”

Alex turned to speak with his father, only to find him sound asleep. He looked relaxed for the first time since he’d been home.

Alex shooed everyone out and swung the door almost closed. “I know you and Sweet will watch over Sir Joseph ’til I get back, Soames.” Accepting his overcoat from the butler, he shrugged into it. “Don’t forget. If anyone asks, I have taken my father to Bath for the waters. And I mean
anyone
. The only exception is Dr. O’Roarke.”

Soames handed off Alex’s beaver and cane. “Your father will not be pleased to disappoint His Majesty, Master Alex.”

Alex smiled. “I will present my head for washing when he is feeling better. Right now our priority is to get him better.”

And safe. All of them safe.

Safe from him.

Chapter 15

F
ive hours later, Fiona was glad to have something to do. At least it kept Mae from going mad until the sky cleared for the night. If it did. There were pages of notes cluttering the entire table and empty dishes stacked to the sides as they worked to break the code.

“Maybe if you brought down the codes your grandfather gave you, they would help us figure this out,” Chuffy suggested, from where he stood with his jacket off and his hair fingered back into uneven peaks.

Fiona glared at him. Mairead began rocking again. “It’s not the same. It’s not the same at all.”

“It isn’t,” Fiona assured him. She wanted to tell him that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Mairead if he pushed. She wanted to tell him that those puzzles were long lost, but even that might set Mairead off.

So she counted repeated letters and matched them with
T
s,
A
s, and
O
s, the next most frequently used letters after the now missing
E
. There were patterns emerging, except that each message followed a different pattern. In one, the letter that matched the usual frequency for
A
s was an
I
. In another, it was an
L
. In a third, an
M
. But there was something to the pattern. Something that was teasing at her. If only she could get Mae to concentrate, they might recognize the relationship between the different codes.

But Chuffy was right. None of the patterns matched any of the words in the poem. It was more complicated than that.

She had just scratched out the latest possible key word when she heard the rattle of coaches out front. Fiona stopped cold. Alex had ridden away on a horse. Who could this be?

The sound galvanized the house. Chuffy jumped up and gathered all the paperwork. Several large men with shotguns ran from the back of the house, and in the hallway Fiona saw Chilton toss a gun to a footman.

“Kitchen,” Chuffy barked, giving Mairead a little push. “With Mrs. Chilton.”

“Lady Bea,” Fiona protested, running the other way.

She was halfway to the small salon when the front door burst open and she heard the most welcome words she thought she ever could.

“Easy, all, it’s only the prodigal son returning.”

Alex.

“You almost got yourself shot, old lad,” Chuffy said, sounding brusque.

Fiona took a moment to calm her racing heart and shore up her knees before turning around.

“Couldn’t exactly sneak up on horseback,” Alex said, pushing the door wide. “I have a bit of a surprise.”

Fiona reached the front hallway in time to see Alex help his father in the door. She stifled a gasp. His father was so pale and sweaty, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. She ran forward, as if she could help.

“Here, lads,” Alex called as if he were entering a party. “Form a seat for Sir Joseph, if you will. He’ll insist on climbing the stairs, else, and I’ll end up throwing him over my shoulder.”

“Impertinent…pup,” his father growled.

Alex was smiling and stood easy as the two brutes bent as gently as if they were lifting a child and formed a seat for the panting Sir Joseph to get him upstairs. Fiona could see the terrible strain in Alex’s shoulders, though, in the eagle eye he kept on his father, the flicker of the muscle at his jaw. She didn’t waste her time with prudence or proprieties. Stepping past Chuffy, she clasped Alex’s hand.

“I am glad you brought your father,” she said. “I think he will rest better here.”

She almost cried out herself at the raw anguish in Alex’s eyes. “He’s too stubborn for his own good,” he said, turning his attention back up the stairs.