Inevitably a Duchess Page 6

  “I see then,” she said, “You’ll do best not to tell other’s of his secret, or all the enemies will try to figure out ways to get around it.”

  Nathan nodded, his eyes still huge with wonder. She felt Alec still looking at her and bent her head once more to see him more clearly.

  “You’re making that up,” he said, just as plainly as he had explained what skin armor is.

  Jane tried to look aghast even though she was certain Alec could not know what aghast meant. Although, perhaps he did if his use of repel meant anything.

  “I do beg your pardon, Master Black, but you should never question a lady,” she said.

  Nathan tried to point an accusing finger at Alec, but he needed both hands to hold up his chestnut roaster and when he tried, he upset the entire enterprise. He got it righted in time without the finger pointing but still managed to shake his head at his brother.

  “See, I told you it was true,” he settled on saying, but Jane could see it was not as satisfying as a good finger-pointing would have been.

  “Gentlemen, I believe it’s time to sample the fruits of our labor,” Jane said, taking the chestnut roaster from Alec’s hands and scooting him to the floor so she could get a better grip on the hot implement.

  “Fruit?” Alec whined, “But I thought we were having nuts!”

  Nathan sighed his exasperation.

  “It’s just something grown ups say, Alec. We are having nuts.”

  Jane took Nathan’s chestnut roaster as well and laid them both on the stones of the hearth, shooing at the boys to back up from the hot metal. She carefully unlatched the smaller one that Nathan had been holding and held up the lid for the boys to lean over and see the roasted nuts, their skins popped and slightly charred from roasting, their delicious centers exposed.

  “It looks like a turd,” Alec said.

  Jane moved only her eyes to look down at the smaller boy.

  “I agree,” Nathan said, and Jane knew he only agreed because his brother was talking about a bodily function, which to all young boys was terribly fascinating.

  “And I suppose Nathan taught you what a turd was as well?” Jane asked Alec.

  Alec shook his head.

  “I heard Father say that one day.”

  “Very well then,” Jane said, lying the lid back down on the smaller roaster as she gathered her skirts to stand. “To your seats at the table, gentlemen. Young boys do not eat on floors like heathens.”

  The boys stood in one hurried motion, nearly knocking Jane into the fire in their dash to kneel behind the small table in front of the sofa of the closest seating area. The room was rather delicately furnished for a man’s quarters, and Jane wondered not for the first time how much influence Emily had had on Richard’s home.

  This thought brought again the marriage proposal she had not had time to think on. But when she saw the two boys eagerly kneeling at the table, waiting for a roasted chestnut, it did not seem like she had had long enough to think on such a big decision. For marriage to Richard would come with these two lads, children who had been mothered by other women. This drove a twinge through her heart, and she touched her chest as if to stop the physical pain.

  She loved the boys dearly, but she had so hoped to be a mother to her own children. It seemed nature and fate and perhaps God himself had decided differently for her. Nathan elbowed Alec to gain more access to the table, but small Alec shoved back, toppling Nathan onto his rear end.

  “Enough, you two,” Jane said automatically, and the words brought a smile to her face.

  She may not have birthed them, but she could mother them.

  Jane bent and retrieved Nathan’s roaster from the hearth, removing the lid as she did so to leave it on the stones of the fireplace so as to avoid burning anyone accidentally. The boys were rowdy from a day spent inside, and she wanted to avoid danger at all costs. It was enough that they were confined to the library because of what she had done. It would be unfair of her to cause them greater injury.

  “Who would like the first chestnut?” Jane asked.

  Both Nathan and Alec shot their hands into the air with a cacophony of me firsts. But Jane had stopped in her steps to the low table, the chestnut roaster forgotten in her hands. Above the boys animated shouts came another noise, and it stopped Jane’s heart in her chest.

  Someone knocked at the front door.

  ~

  “This may come as a surprise to you,” Richard said as he sat in the chair across from the other agent at the War Office, “But you’re a girl.”

  The girl in question smiled, the movement showing a row of straight white teeth even as her smile rippled the freckles across her noise.

  “Indeed, I am, sir. It’s kind of you to notice.”

  Richard looked over at the agent in command, one Lord Crawley, an older and crankier member of the peerage who had taken up duty at the War Office when his old hag of a wife had become unbearable. Rumors had it that the poor man slept on a cot in his office to avoid the woman. In this instance, Crawley was of no help. He continued to insist that the young girl was the agent in charge of watching Lady Straughton. He did not so much as change his tone with each successive question from Richard. It was always the same response in the affirmative. And so Richard was left to have an intelligent conversation with an eight year old girl.

  “It is not possible for you to be an agent for the War Office,” Richard told her, even though she was in fact sitting in the office of an agent in command, who had apparently summoned her. “My oldest son isn’t much younger than you.”

  The girl shrugged.

  “I don’t have another answer, Your Grace. I only have what I have.”

  Richard looked her over from her clean white smock to the tips of her polished black boots. She was a well kept lass with a fine upbringing from what he could tell of her manners and the distance between the back of her chair and her ramrod straight spine. But there was something about her that wasn’t quite right. When she spoke, it was not with the careless cadence of a child. It was with the banal tone of an over taxed adult. It was as if this eight year old child had lived an entire lifetime before even being given the chance to make her adolescence. The entire notion was unsettling, and Richard adjusted in his seat.

  “If you are, indeed, the agent observing Lady Straughton, what can you tell me of her actions?”

  The young girl blinked.

  “Would you care to know my name first, Your Grace? I know yours.”

  Now Richard blinked. He hadn’t thought it necessary to know this girl’s name, but perhaps he was being rude by not asking. He was finding the entire situation impossible to believe, and the fewer irrelevant questions he needed to ask the more it would please him. But it was only fair to learn the girl’s name he supposed if she were to provide him with valuable information.

  “I do beg your pardon, miss. But what is your name, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

  The girl gave another of her odd smiles, teeth perfectly white and perfectly straight, before answering.

  “It’s lady, not miss. Lady Margaret Bethany Ariella Folton,” she said, each syllable of each name more pronounced than the one before it.

  “Very good,” Richard began, but Lady Margaret Bethany Ariella Folton cut him off.

  “You may know my parents, the Earl and Countess of Beckenshire.”

  A cold shiver passed over Richard, sending an uneasy jolt of awareness through his very center.

  Beckenshire.

  The Earl and Countess of Beckenshire were famous and not for reasons anyone would wish. They were positioned within Paris before the storming of the Bastille and when the revolution happened, they were used as examples of what the rebel forces were capable of should anyone dare to cross them. They were tortured, repeatedly, until the guillotine had finally ended their misery.

  And if the rumors were true, their young daughter was forced to watch.

  A rescue mission had ensued that retrieved the young girl fr
om France, but the damage had already been done. And its scars were clearly obvious in the odd mannerisms of Lady Margaret Bethany Ariella Folton.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady. I did not realize.”

  Lady Folton shook her head, and it was the first natural movement Richard had seen her make since entering the office of Lord Crawley.

  “No, you did not. It is a common enough misconception, but it would be wise if you did not make it again.”

  Richard nodded once in agreement.

  “Now then, you have cause for concern about the activities of Lady Straughton. Why?” she asked.

  “I have reason to believe she is the mastermind behind a ring of ressurectionists, and she is using the monetary gains for her pursuit of nefarious purposes.”

  Lady Folton made no outward sign that she had heard him. Her back remained straight and her face unmoving. Even the straight line of brown bangs across her forehead did not ripple with the exhalation of breath. She was utterly still until she spoke.

  “I could support that observation with my own findings,” Lady Folton finally said.

  Richard held up a hand.

  “If I may, my lady, how is it that you are in a position to observe Lady Straughton?”

  Lady Folton refolded her hands in her lap then, the movement brief but startling. Richard found his eyes darting about her person looking for signs of life.

  “That is an excellent question, Your Grace. As for my methods, the War Office has placed me in the care of Lord Straughton. Lord Straughton is a distant cousin of my father’s, and the relationship was convenient.”

  Richard’s stomach churned at the word convenient. Although the relationship may have been convenient, it may not have been wise or ethical to place the orphaned child of spies killed in the line of duty into a position that would allow the War Office to leverage the situation. The entire situation left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he turned abruptly to Lord Crawley, who appeared to be asleep in his chair with his eyes open, his bushy, white eyebrows covering what little was visible of his pupils.

  “Lord Crawley, is it common practice for the War Office to carry out such immoral actions?”

  “Immoral?” Lady Folton was the one to answer. “What is immoral about it? I asked to be placed in service.”

  Richard’s head swung around to face Lady Folton. He knew his eyes had grown wide with astonishment, but there was no help for it. Her statement sent his mind into a blank. This eight year old child had requested to be put into service? But why?

  “It is my duty,” Lady Folton said, as if she could hear his thoughts, “There are certain things that I must see done.”

  Richard didn’t know what such a cryptic statement meant, but its relevance had no bearing on his current case. And he needed to return to Jane and the boys. He needed to know they were safe.

  “I see,” he said, “Please continue.”

  Lady Folton did not stop to acknowledge his statement but instead moved right into explanation.

  “Lady Straughton is indeed participating in suspect activities, Your Grace. Are you aware of her origins?”

  Richard crossed one leg to rest on the opposite knee, leaning back in his chair as if to get ready for a very long and very good story. Only the twitch of his foot belied his anxious state.

  “I am aware that she is recently married to Lord Straughton and that she hails from France.”

  Lady Folton nodded.

  “Indeed, she does. However, she is spectacularly stupid.”

  Richard blinked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Lady Straughton is of substandard intelligence. Are you aware of the talk in the coffee houses, Your Grace?”

  Richard nodded. “Thomas Paine’s Rights of Man has been causing quite a stir from what I’ve heard. What does that have to do with Lady Straughton?”

  “Lady Straughton has taken it upon herself to fund a revolution.”

  Richard sat up, both feet landing squarely on the floor.

  “She’s what?” he asked plainly.

  “She’s taken it upon herself to fund a revolution, Your Grace,” Lady Folton repeated as if Richard were simple minded. “Your observations have confirmed my suspicions, and I thank you for making such strides in the case.”

  Richard nodded, although he still wasn’t clear on how or where Lady Folton had drawn such conclusions.

  “I had had my suspicions based on Lady Straughton’s normal routine. She visits the coffee house on Oxford Street on a near daily basis. In the establishment she meets with a certain gentleman always and frequently visits with a group of suspicious looking characters.”

  “Define suspicious looking characters,” Richard said.

  “They appear to be middle class,” Lady Folton said, her voice inflecting just the smallest amount at the end of it.

  Richard made a confirming sound while he mentally shook his head at her young naiveté.

  “Continue,” he said, gesturing she should do so.

  “This group of suspicious characters discusses radical literature, including Mr. Paine’s text. This sort of discussion has been fine until recently. With talk of war with France imminent, the group has been gathering outsiders to speak to the ensemble.”

  “Who are the speakers?”

  “Some of the organizers of the riots in Edinburgh this summer,” she said, and Richard leaned forward on his elbows, feeling the weight of the case shift in an unfriendly direction.

  “And Lady Straughton?”

  “The silly twit is unnecessarily influenced by all the rhetoric.”

  “You speak poorly of Lady Straughton, but she is masterminding a ressurectionist ring,” Richard noted, but Lady Folton brushed this off as if it were inconsequential.

  “She may be adept at organizing such things, but her motivation is inaccurate.”

  “How do you mean?” Richard asked.

  Lady Folton refolded her hands, the gesture somehow implying impatience with Richard’s apparent obtuseness.

  “Lady Straughton fails to realize that she has married into wealth and property, the very things the radicals despise. However, in some apparent misunderstanding, Lady Straughton has thrown her lot in with them.”

  Richard waited, but Lady Folton had appeared to have finished with that statement.

  “So Lady Straughton’s efforts are misguided?”

  Lady Folton shrugged, the movement uncharacteristically inefficient, perhaps lending itself to her disdain of Lady Straughton.

  “Misaligned more like. I believe Lady Straughton feels she is doing what her countrymen would expect of her.”

  “Bloody French,” Richard murmured before he could catch himself.

  “Indeed,” Lady Folton murmured in kind, and Richard looked up at her in time to see her wink at him.

  Richard blinked thinking he was seeing things and turned to Lord Crawley, who was now snoring lightly. He quickly turned back to Lady Folton, but her smiling, polite facade was once more in place, denying the very existence of any notions of frivolity.

  “So Lady Straughton is meeting with radicals at the coffee house on Oxford Street under a misguided assumption that she is making her countrymen proud by fueling revolution in her new country?”

  Lady Folton nodded once.

  “Indeed, Your Grace, and the part that you have provided so nicely is the matter of funding.”

  “Funding?”

  “I check Lord Straughton’s ledgers every night, of course,” she continued, “But there was no indication that Lady Straughton was requesting more pin money than usual.”

  “You checked his ledgers?” Richard felt the need to ask.

  “Of course,” Lady Folton replied, “Standard procedure, is it not?”

  Richard nodded in affirmation.

  “However, Lady Straughton indicated in her sessions at the coffee house that she would fund such a radical measure as revolution.”

  “Indicated?” Richard asked, “Are you able to h
ear her conversations in the coffee house?”

  Richard did not think himself a stodgy gentleman, but he did not believe that coffee houses were suitable places for children.

  “Yes, of course,” Lady Folton said, but she did not elaborate forcing Richard to ask the obvious.

  “How?”

  “I play acted as a street urchin in front of the coffee house and begged for a cup of tea. Enough fell for it that I not only had several delectable treats, but I was also able to obtain valuable information.”

  “Except where the money was coming from.”

  Lady Folton smiled that eerie, full smile once again without any sign of life reaching her eyes.

  “Yes, which you provided nicely as I mentioned before.”

  Richard nodded, but as he stared at the young girl, he felt a profound sense of loss. Richard stood, adjusting his jacket and picking up his greatcoat from the back of his chair.

  “I suppose from here we must convene with the other agents in command to determine the apprehension strategy.”

  Lady Folton stood as well.

  “Yes, it appears we must. A confession must also be secured.”

  Richard stopped momentarily in his movements, letting this sink in. Lady Folton was right. Although they had evidence against Straughton, there was nothing conclusive. Observation was not evidence until something treasonous was confirmed.

  “You said Lady Straughton meets with a gentleman. Who is he?”

  Lady Folton did not hesitate.

  “His name is Morris, profession unknown. He appears to be a radical as well. Man for hire. Dodgy sort that is best avoided.”

  Richard wanted to grimace, but he thought the expression would not be well received by someone as unresponsive as Lady Folton and continued to don his great coat.

  “Well done, Your Grace, on acquiring the information to connect our cases for a firm resolution.”

  Richard stopped again as he shrugged into his coat, momentarily looking at Lady Folton as she, too, stood, adjusting the smock over her dress.

  “It wasn’t me that did, actually,” he said, finding the words came slowly from his mouth. “It was someone else.”