Prelude to Love Page 13

  "I did not trust him completely. It is only that he chanced along at Raffertys in such an innocent-seeming manner ..."

  "We'll talk in the curricle. Come on."

  "I don't have any shoes," she said, lifting up the long, loose-hanging gown to display her bare toes.

  "They even took your shoes?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said with a worried look, wondering whether to tell him all. He regarded her fixedly.

  For a moment, there was some consciousness of constraint between them. "I see," he said, in a meaningful voice. "When you have come to trust me completely, you will of course tell me why that disturbs you, when the gown's being destroyed does not. If you had the letter in your shoe, I don't see why they would not just pull it out and leave the shoes behind. Maybe they did. Let's have a look."

  They both began looking around the room, but Vanessa went to the clothes press for a pair of Mrs. Euston's shoes. She knew her own were gone, their secret discovered.

  "Ha, just as I said. Here they are," Landon exclaimed, pulling one out from under the bed. Its toe just protruded from the covers. "The other must be here somewhere," he said, handing the one up to her. She looked, to determine it was the innocent one she held.

  "The other won't be there," she said flatly.

  "Wrong. Here it is," he announced triumphantly, reaching a long arm far under the bed to retrieve it.

  She gave a gasp of surprise and reached for it, staring to see if the sole had been torn loose. It had not. Somehow, in their haste and probably because they thought her too stupid to invent a good hiding place, they had tossed it aside. Landon too stared at the shoe, not passing it to her, but looking at it with a curious smile on his lips.

  "I believe I underestimated you, Vanessa," he said, ripping the sole back, while her carefully hammered tacks sprang out, revealing the well-worn, folded letter. A glowing smile alit on his face. He put his head back and laughed loud.

  "By God, and here I thought you had it in the top of your stocking! I knew it wasn't in your bodice at any rate. I do apologize for having to confirm it." He unfolded the letter as he spoke.

  She reached for it, while he pulled back. "Oh, no, this time I keep it."

  She was possessed by a strong desire to get it back, but as that was unlikely, she had to determine that Landon was absolutely to be trusted. There had to be some way she could discover it.

  "What's the matter?" he asked, still smiling. "Have I not absolved myself yet?"

  "Of course," she prevaricated, sensing that a genial approach would be her best chance of success. "I am just worried—about my father, along with all the rest. He was not well when I left, you know, which is why he sent me. How did he seem when you spoke to him?"

  "Not in very high gig, as a matter of fact, but not dangerously ill. Parkins, his batman, was tending him, and sending for the sawbones."

  "Was he in bed?"

  "No, but in his bedchamber, sitting at that great campaign desk he took as booty in the Netherlands. A handsome piece. He was taking Irish tea, and studying local maps."

  These details, given so easily, tended to confirm in her mind that Landon had at least been in her father's bedchamber. How else could he know the furniture, and her father's preferred drink?

  "We don't have to go after Carlisle now, do we? We can take the letter straight to Sir Giles. Or to London—I had decided it was easier to get it to London, and let them handle it." A worrisome thought came to her—Landon had not known in the beginning that she was headed to Ipswich.

  Even while this thought troubled her, he lifted the envelope, with a peculiar, anticipatory smile on his face. Then he tore it open and read the letter, as he had opened the other false message she gave him. He was not to be trusted after all. Despair washed over her in a wave; despair and remorse, shame at her incompetence, her failure.

  "That is marked private!" she said, reaching to grab at it.

  He caught her hand and held it tightly. He did no more than glance at the closely-written pages, then he went to the bed table, lit a kindling stick and held the letter to its flame. She made futile grabs at it, while he laughed and held her off. The precious letter, for which she had risked her life, and suffered so many indignities, was reduced to a wisp of ash that floated on the air.

  "Traitor!" she said, tears of frustration starting in her eyes. "I was right about you all along. You're as bad as Carlisle—worse!" Her hands curled into fists; she flailed against his chest. It was like beating a wall. He even seemed amused at her puny efforts at revenge.

  "Those are harsh words, my dear," he said with a gloating, satisfied smile. "Put on your shoes; we're leaving."

  Chapter Fourteen

  It hardly mattered that the sole of her shoe was flapping. It matched the rest of her ludicrous ensemble. She did not bother to ask where they were going. Her mission was lost. If she were to be killed, it was no more than she deserved. Her father had trusted her, for the first time in her life she had a chance to accomplish something worthwhile, and she had failed.

  "Can we not find a bonnet to do justice to your haut couture?" he asked, the French phrase falling easily from his tongue. Of course it would—French conversations would be no mystery to him, nor French newspapers. His complexion too was dark, swarthy, like a Latin. While he spoke, he directed a laughing gaze on her mutinous face.

  "A French bonnet would suit your taste best, would it not?"

  "Let us give credit where credit is due. They do create the most elegant bonnets."

  "I did not realize it was yourself you were exculpating when you spoke so highly of French spies working for France. How did you manage to get into my father's bedroom?"

  "By the door," he answered facetiously.

  "If you've harmed him, Kiley ..."

  "Landon, ma'am, s'il vous plait."

  "More likely Ladonnée, I suspect."

  "Try this, Nessie," he suggested, picking up her bonnet and batting it against his leg to shake off the balls of dust. "You take me for a Frenchie? Should I be flattered, I wonder? They do have the reputation for a certain flair for style I have never been accused of before. Truth to tell, I hardly speak the bongjaw at all. I can read it, but my pronunciation is execrable."

  "You write your reports back home, do you?"

  "Now, really!" he said, shaking his head at her.

  She tried to think of any possible revenge she could take on this hateful, deceitful man. Her eyes went around the room, while his followed them. He was still smiling. "Pity Mrs. Euston does not keep a traveling clock on her dresser," he said, rubbing his temple. "That was a nasty blow, Vanessa. Fortunate for my vanity my hair conceals the bump. A regular goose egg. Would you like to examine the damage you have done me?"

  "No, sir, I would like to add to it."

  "Don't be a ninny. Come along, and put on your shoes like a good girl."

  She stood firm, refusing to budge. "We are still in a hurry, you know," he pointed out, dragging her by the arm to the bed, where he shoved her down quite roughly. "I am no Prince Charming, to put them on for you and have my brains bashed in while I am literally at your feet. Put them on at once, or you'll go barefoot to London."

  The shoes were shoved into her hands. There was an urgency in his speech, but of more interest was the reference to London. If he did plan to take her there, it was a better spot to find help than here, in an isolated cottage in the wilds.

  She put on the shoes, stood up, glaring at him, lifted up the long skirt of Mrs. Euston's gown and went to the door, with Kiley right behind her. They went downstairs in silence; Kiley took a quick, fairly disinterested look at a man who was tied up on the parlor floor, said, "au revoir, mon ami," with a pleasant smile, then turned to the front door to open it for her. Just before he did so, he stepped back and regarded her toilette.

  "I think, just a trifle this way," he said, tilting her bonnet over her right eye. "We want to appear in the highest style on our first outing together."

  She sniffed
and jerked her head away. "Careful, my pet," he warned, turning her head back by putting one finger under her chin. "You are in supreme danger of being kissed. I am beginning to find your pouts nearly as stimulating as danger."

  She wrenched open the door and hurried out, while a little trail of laughter followed her. The boy, Bobbie, sat in the seat of Kiley's curricle, which hardly surprised her. She was coming to think nothing could surprise her now. If she was told Carlisle and Kiley were bosom bows, working together, she would have believed it.

  "Why are you wearing Grandma's dress?" he asked her.

  "Because Grandma tore hers," Kiley answered for her.

  "Finished tearing it to shreds, after you were kind enough to begin the job," she told him.

  Bobbie jumped down, throwing the reins to Kiley.

  "I'll buy you a new one," he offered, his good humor unimpaired; then he turned back to the boy. "Your friend and I are playing a little game. I'm the constable and he's a crook. You'll find him tied up in the parlor. Maybe he'll give you some tea if you free him."

  "Millie ran away," he said. "Tompkins doesn't make my tea. Millie makes it."

  "Any idea where she ran to?" he asked.

  "Yes, she ran home. Shall I go after her? I'm very hungry. She doesn't live far away."

  "Sure, you go after her. We'll let Tompkins stay tied up."

  "Maybe I better untie Tompkins first," he decided. He went into the house, while Kiley turned back to Vanessa.

  "Poor little beggar." He handed her into a curricle. "Like it?" he asked, admiring the handsome yellow rig. "I had to steal it from the stable yard at Colchester. I left in a bit of a hurry, and had only an old jade with me."

  "You managed to kill the constable, did you?"

  "Constable? I don't understand your meaning. Being hit on the head by a clock is not against the law."

  "I refer to the constable Carlisle sent for to have you arrested after you beat him up."

  "He must have forgotten to do it. There was no constable to contend with."

  "He did not forget. I was there when he sent the inn boy after him. Are you a constitutional liar? There can be no point in denying it."

  "Carlisle did not stick around to press any charges. When I came to, after a merciless blow to the head, Carlisle was gone. Checked out. Of equal importance, Mrs. Euston had left. As she had just arrived a short while before with a very weary team of nags, which were still at the inn's stable, I took the brilliant notion of going to the other hostelry in town, where I spotted her just leaving. I learned her direction by watching her carriage till it had turned on to the main road."

  "You knew I was with her, then?"

  "But of course, my dear. Would I be likely to let you and your precious letter out of my sight for long?" he asked in a mock-sympathetic way.

  "I can't imagine how Carlisle and Mrs. Euston got out of the inn without my seeing them. I watched the front door from a shop across the street."

  "Inns do have back doors."

  "You took your time in following me."

  "True, a regrettable lapse on my part, but I did have to make arrangements to steal this rig, you see. It wasn't done in a minute. First I had to discover who owned it, then tell the stable hands to have Mr. Brown's rig brought around, then there was a demmed pesky groom who came with it, and he had to be disposed of. He took the peculiar idea Mr. Brown might dislike my borrowing it."

  "Did you kill him, the groom?"

  "I am not so violent. A taste of the home-brewed was sufficient to convince him of Mr. Brown's wishes in the matter."

  "I don't find this a subject for levity, Mr. Kiley."

  "You use the name on purpose to vex me. Landon—Colonel Landon. As we are such close friends and conspirators, however, you may call me Stan. That is short for Stanier, not Stanley, by the by. Would you like me to call you Vanessa, or Nessie, as your aunt does?"

  "My name is Miss Bradford."

  "That is so very formal, and Brad is not at all euphonious, is it? Missie, perhaps," he said as they trotted briskly down the sheepwalk to the main road. She waited with some curiosity to see if he did indeed turn toward London, or whether that too was a lie.

  "We actually are going toward London, are we?" she asked when he executed the proper turn.

  “They will be interested to hear where and when Boney plans to pop in for his long-awaited visit."

  "Is that what was in the letter?" she asked, so startled she forgot to be ironic.

  "You mean you didn't know!"

  "I had no idea. Papa didn't tell me anything. When is he coming?"

  "Probably not in the near future now, since they know we got hold of the news."

  "How do they know?"

  "Carlisle knows he failed to intercept the letter. I daresay he had some inkling what it contained. He must be the man who met the French spies to inform them of local preparations near Hastings. His eagerness was to learn if the letter actually told the correct time and date. If so, the invasion date would have to be changed. He must have followed you from home, and if he hung out there, he would know your father's habit of walking the beach at night. Forrester, the idiot, had no more wits than to broadcast it as a famous joke. Nepotism is the curse of England. If he weren't nephew to … But that is quite a different hobbyhorse of mine. If there was the slightest chance your father had stumbled upon this news, it had to be confirmed. If the letter dealt with some other matter, then the invasion could go forward as planned. That is not why I burned it, however."

  She sat silent, digesting all this, and wondering how much of it, if any, to believe.

  "Are you not at all curious to learn why I did?" he prodded.

  "Of course."

  "It wasn't because of the time and place of Bonaparte's invasion, really. Your father was indiscreet enough to have outlined in some detail his plans for the defense of the coast. Better plans than presently exist, and ones I would like to employ. One likes to keep the enemy as much in the dark as possible in these matters, you know. Oh, their spies will know the locations where the armies are massing, but certain routes and movements and plans, at least, we can keep from them."

  "You would like to employ?" she asked.

  "I am replacing the dashing Colonel Forrester. It is why I was on the coast at that appropriate moment. A few hours later than was appropriate, actually."

  "Why did you burn Papa's plans? We should take them to London."

  "We are taking them, in my head. It is safer than on paper."

  "You hardly looked at them."

  "I should tell you what a rapid reader I am, to impress you, but the truth is, I had a long talk with your father. I know what the papers said. Also, I remember the time and place where Bonaparte was to strike."

  "Where are we going then? To the Foreign Office?"

  "To Whitehall, where the news should have been sent in the first place, but as your father is retired, he feared his news would not receive the attention it deserved. General Harkman, an old friend and superior from India, he felt would have a better ear in London. And time, while of course important, was not desperately short. It is an age-old problem, the mutual distrust between politicians and the military. As Harkman straddled the fence, with one boot in each camp, he hit on him as the man for the job."

  "You don't think we ought to go to Harkman?"

  "I don't think it is necessary. I will be listened to," he said with unbecoming arrogance of which he was not even aware. "I cannot approve of Bradford's sending two ladies to do a man's job, but on the other hand, if the ladies had not stopped off to examine the ballroom, they would not have fallen into a hobble, I fancy. You would have had a good enough head start on Carlisle that he would never have overtaken you. Or perhaps he would, who knows? He would have driven all night, if necessary. In any case, your father thought sending you was the most inconspicuous manner in which to deliver the news, since he could not make the trip himself. Little did he realize the furor caused amongst the officers when it was l
earned Miss Bradford was not to attend the ball. The place was buzzing with it. You must be a famous flirt, Nessie."

  "It was Aunt Elleri's vinaigrette that caused it," she said, realizing the triviality of the excuse. "The chemist's shop is so close to the assembly hall, that naturally we stopped in to see the decorations. They had silk tents ..."

  "Naturally," he agreed, with a disparaging eye. "Had you never seen Carlisle lurking around town?"

  "No, but he would not have been wearing a scarlet tunic and shako, so ..." She stopped short, aware again of how unconscionably flighty her words were, and how true.

  "I can change as soon as we get to London," he said, biting back a grin. "You had better ingratiate me while you have the chance. I'll be top dog at the camp, commanding officer."

  "Then Papa is bound to bar the door to you at Levenhurst."

  "I don't think so. I do not handle matters in Forrester's dilatory fashion. We see more or less eye-to-eye on what should be done, Colonel Bradford and myself. Once a man has actually been in battle, he views war differently than an armchair soldier like Forrester. Balls and routs will not be my top priority."

  "Your scarlet tunic will not do you much good with the girls, in that case, Colonel."

  "Girls? Who said anything about girls? It is only one I am interested in. I almost hesitate to use the term 'girl.' You look more like a dowager, in that rig."

  Glancing down at Mrs. Euston's gown, she found it hard to disagree. Clothes were an irrelevance at that moment, however. She was safe, and the message was safe. If the colonel was forward with his unwanted attentions, she could endure it. She leaned back against the seat, stretched in the sunlight, feeling luxuriously alive.

  "It's hard to believe it is over, the awful nightmare of the past few days," she said.